âMostly,â Hank called, wading into position, âIâm afraid Iâll fall in and youâll tell everybody at the shop about it.â
âI will too,â Danny said, âyou know it.â
Hank had known Danny since Danny was too small for waders. He could still remember the little red-haired kid chasing all the girls at those summer parties some thirty years back, pulling at his wanker and hopping around like an overcaffeinated jackrabbit: boy in itsessential form. Dannyâs older brother, Joel, who had passed away as a teenager, was at those parties too, typically roaming the periphery with a small band of pranksters. Now Danny was definitively grown-up, a couple years older than Annie, his face seasoned by decades outside. Hank had known from the first time he took Danny in the boat that the kid would end up a guide. No doubt. Children divided themselves into two categories when in a drift boatâthose who couldnât peel their nervous eyes from the shore and those who were all but climbing over the gunwales to swim in the water. Danny had taken the latter to a new level of enthusiasm. Three times, Hank had lifted that sopping boy out of a rapid. Dannyâs own father had little interest in anything but the bottle. Something else Danny and Hank had in common.
As a teenager, Danny became a fixture on the river. He would hitch rides between runs and often linger at boat ramps hoping to score an empty seat. Hank remembered one trip in particular, a dawn he had only one client and Danny was waiting with his bike at the ramp. The client said he didnât mind if this kid took the empty seatâprobably because he figured no pimply-faced youth could outfish an experienced angler like himself. But at the end of the day, Danny had risen six or eight fish to the sportâs one. Angling ability was one thing, class was another, and Danny had both, even then. At the ramp as the client congratulated this kid on his fish, Danny shrugged and said, âI had to get lucky eventually.â
It had been Hank whoâd lent Danny the money for his first boat, whoâd called the marine board and helped him get legal as a registered guide. It had been Hank whoâd taught Danny to oar, to pick a line through a Class V, to rig the ropes and recover a stuck boat. Hank whoâd shown Danny the remaining spawning strongholds, the rearing areas, the staging pools. Danny didnât need Hank to teach him how to fish the runs, but he did need Hank to teach him the history of those runs, their customs, their particular etiquettes. All the things Walter had taught Hank those years before. That was how it was done on Ipsyniho, at least then.
Over the years, their relationship had evolved until the tutelage went both ways. They had for years traded secret lies, hidden seams and ledges that held fish but werenât fished. But now they traded strategies for spinning deer hair and splicing lines and chucking heavy winter flies. Hank was an old dog these days, but Danny was just coming into form. He was known throughout steelhead country as an innovator, and had become an esteemed gear designer for the biggest name manufacturersâDanny was the cutting edge of the sport. Most recently, heâd refined and shortened Skagit lines, and designed a special series of rods meant to tip-cast these short heads in tight casting conditionsâ something other guides had for years considered impossible. If Hank had a question about tackle or boats, he came to Danny. If Danny had a question about the fish or river history, he came to Hank.
In a world of secrets, they were one anotherâs trusted confidants. It was an intimacy as deep and permanent as any Hank had known. He felt it with Walter, and he felt it with Danny. That was the magic of mentorship, Hank realized now. Each person received more than he gave.
Of course, they both kept some secrets for themselves, a long-established custom among
âI will too,â Danny said, âyou know it.â
Hank had known Danny since Danny was too small for waders. He could still remember the little red-haired kid chasing all the girls at those summer parties some thirty years back, pulling at his wanker and hopping around like an overcaffeinated jackrabbit: boy in itsessential form. Dannyâs older brother, Joel, who had passed away as a teenager, was at those parties too, typically roaming the periphery with a small band of pranksters. Now Danny was definitively grown-up, a couple years older than Annie, his face seasoned by decades outside. Hank had known from the first time he took Danny in the boat that the kid would end up a guide. No doubt. Children divided themselves into two categories when in a drift boatâthose who couldnât peel their nervous eyes from the shore and those who were all but climbing over the gunwales to swim in the water. Danny had taken the latter to a new level of enthusiasm. Three times, Hank had lifted that sopping boy out of a rapid. Dannyâs own father had little interest in anything but the bottle. Something else Danny and Hank had in common.
As a teenager, Danny became a fixture on the river. He would hitch rides between runs and often linger at boat ramps hoping to score an empty seat. Hank remembered one trip in particular, a dawn he had only one client and Danny was waiting with his bike at the ramp. The client said he didnât mind if this kid took the empty seatâprobably because he figured no pimply-faced youth could outfish an experienced angler like himself. But at the end of the day, Danny had risen six or eight fish to the sportâs one. Angling ability was one thing, class was another, and Danny had both, even then. At the ramp as the client congratulated this kid on his fish, Danny shrugged and said, âI had to get lucky eventually.â
It had been Hank whoâd lent Danny the money for his first boat, whoâd called the marine board and helped him get legal as a registered guide. It had been Hank whoâd taught Danny to oar, to pick a line through a Class V, to rig the ropes and recover a stuck boat. Hank whoâd shown Danny the remaining spawning strongholds, the rearing areas, the staging pools. Danny didnât need Hank to teach him how to fish the runs, but he did need Hank to teach him the history of those runs, their customs, their particular etiquettes. All the things Walter had taught Hank those years before. That was how it was done on Ipsyniho, at least then.
Over the years, their relationship had evolved until the tutelage went both ways. They had for years traded secret lies, hidden seams and ledges that held fish but werenât fished. But now they traded strategies for spinning deer hair and splicing lines and chucking heavy winter flies. Hank was an old dog these days, but Danny was just coming into form. He was known throughout steelhead country as an innovator, and had become an esteemed gear designer for the biggest name manufacturersâDanny was the cutting edge of the sport. Most recently, heâd refined and shortened Skagit lines, and designed a special series of rods meant to tip-cast these short heads in tight casting conditionsâ something other guides had for years considered impossible. If Hank had a question about tackle or boats, he came to Danny. If Danny had a question about the fish or river history, he came to Hank.
In a world of secrets, they were one anotherâs trusted confidants. It was an intimacy as deep and permanent as any Hank had known. He felt it with Walter, and he felt it with Danny. That was the magic of mentorship, Hank realized now. Each person received more than he gave.
Of course, they both kept some secrets for themselves, a long-established custom among
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