The glowing red letters on the digital clock read 6:15. Harold had seen a lot of changes in his eighty-one years, and this was a good one. He didn’t need the tick of an old alarm clock to mark the passage of time. There were more pleasant reminders: the change of the colours in the Kispiox Valley was one, the return of the steelhead another.
He pulled the chain on the lamp. Yellow light flooded the table, illuminating his well-chewed briar, his glasses, and a box of flies.
The temperature had fallen again, his joints told him so. Gingerly he pushed himself up.
In the first few seasons of the thirty-three on the river, he cursed the fall rains and the inevitable cold snap following them, but now he welcomed both even though they made his along the river more difficult.
The growing scarcity of wild steelhead had brought more and more fisherman to the valley each year – able young fishermen with dirt bikes, drift boats rubber rafts, and the last innovations in fishing gear. Quickly they found the Lower Patch, the Dundas, and the Root Cellar, and the fish holding in them.
Forced from the best reaches, Harold started fishing lesser lies, but soon the youngsters were in them too. Finally even the edge given him his intimate knowledge of the river was not enough. For the last two seasons he hadn’t wet a line in September. This year he’d already passed up most of October.
The rains and the spate following them were his salvation. A week of highwater had the kids leaving in droves. The skies cleared, the temperature fell, and with it the river. The fish would be older and slower now, but so was he, and at least he would have a chance at them.
His clothes were only an arm’s length away. He’d put them there in anticipation of the stiffness he was feeling now.
Wool pants, flannel shirt, wool shirt, on suspender then the other, all pulled on with awkward deliberation: thin socks, wool socks, and finally – with a dull ache in his lower back – the damn boots. He rested, then laced them up. Harold looked at the clock again: 6:25. He sat on thee bed to recover some strength and to let the throbbing in his back subside. One brandy and coffee to many the night before, and the anticipation of seeing the river clean the next morning, had crippled his sleep.
Harold pushed himself up, off the bed. He tested his feet before shuffling out of the door. The air stung his face. The cottonwoods were black, geometric shapes. Harold could hear the rush of the river behind them.
Thankfully, there were only three steps from the porch to the ground. He navigated them carefully, then set out across the path to the lodge and stopped before the stairway leading up to it. Six steps this time, six steps on a steeper incline.
Stairways, he thought as he clasped the cold wooden handrail, are designed and built by young men.
PLEASE LEAVE WADERS OUTSIDE.
Harold always found that damn sign offensive. The bell jangled as he waled in. He shuffled to his table and lit his pipe.
Morning Harold, chirped the waitress. Two eggs over easy and some toast?” Harold nodded.
Going fishing today? She always asked him that.
Going to try, he answered, punctuating the sentence with a wisp of blue smoke.
The waitress turned toward the kitchen. Marty was in yesterday. He said the river was clear, she called out over her shoulder.
Good, said Harold, as he picked up a copy of the local newspaper somebody had left on the counter.
When he left the lodge, Harold could make out the mailboxes along the road. The sky has a bluish cast.
He walked to the car as quickly as he could and climbed in. The engine wouldn’t fire. He turned his key again. A rasping metallic sound came from somewhere under his feet before the engine turned over.
Arthritis, he thought as he looked into the backseat to take inventory.
Waders, rod, vest, staff, he said out loud as if doing so gave him more reassurance that he had everything.
The energy required to go back for some forgotten piece of tackle was more than he could afford today. Satisfied the he had everything, he turned onto the road.
….continued next week….
