Read Online When We Were Wolves by Jon Billman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jon Billman
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and a tail rudder. What seemed odd were so many grasshoppers in November; it didn’t seem at all odd for the Incident Commander, no incident in sight, to be talking to a maimed Little Brown bat.
He switched to a hare’s ear nymph and made a few more consolation casts before wiping his line clean with a Smokey Bear 50th Anniversary bandanna and wading to the bank for the long walk back to the ranger station, where whiskey and a card game would await him. He tried not to let the politics of his job enter his mind. “Yeah,” Horton could be telling them on the phone right now, “he knows it was a computer mistake. He’s out fishing on the clock right now. Tomorrow morning we’re gonna cook a big turkey.” Fuck ’em. He had what was important. He hoped that by now the NIFC Data General computer had disemboweled itself.
The walk back to the ranger station cleared his mind. He smelled wood smoke. It was cold enough so he could see his breath. Horton was messy, having dipped into the Wild Turkey, drinking it neat. Strain fried some potatoes and a couple of the rib-eyes. They ate, leaving the dishes on the counter, and played cards to KVOO-AM out of Tulsa. Horton hummed to the old bluegrass song “Atomic Power”; then came Merle Haggard’s “Workin’ Man Blues.” “Aw, keep workin’,” Horton sang as he dealt. Festus nosed his leg.
Two hours later Horton was asleep on an army cot in his office. Strain turned the heater to low and read some of the back editions of the
Rapid City Journal
and
Rocky Mountain News.
A good deal had happened without his noticing. At least the comics weren’t dated.
Waking, he could hear the unsteady ticking of the electric heater. After a candy bar and instant coffee, he stepped toward the door to walk back to the river. “Take Festus with you, will ya,” Horton said.
“He does love to fish. I’ll be drunk as ten Indians time you get back.”
From his fly box Strain selected a two-and-a-half-inch black egg-sucking leach. He fished heavy, using a sinking-tip line and a 2x leader. He liked the heavier six-weight line, even on trout, because he could fire the bigger flies he favored through most any wind. Guys who fished midges tended to be anal-retentive flatlanders. Bigger bugs, bigger fish.
He reached into his pack, pulled out a small bulb of garlic, and broke off a clove. With his jackknife he cut off the stem and peeled it. Then he cut the meat of the garlic against his thumb, letting the thin discs of meat fall into his palm. He placed the garlic on an MRE cracker and started working on the PROCESSED CHEESE SPREAD—“KNEAD WELL BEFORE OPENING ,” it said on the camo-green package. This was lunch; it would get him through to Thanksgiving dinner. With the garlic oil strong on his hands he balmed the maribou leach and first few feet of leader until it no longer smelled to a fish of epoxy and human glands.
He cast upstream and let the leach soak up the muddy water and sink slowly. The light current swept the rig downstream, past him, and into a hole along the cut bank. He stripped line out until the current took up the slack a hundred or so feet below him. He reeled in and cast upstream again, then again.
Fishing for catfish held the same import for him as casting for Wind River rainbows or blue marlin off Tampico. Technically, he was at work, getting paid. He could see the Custer National Forest to the northwest; his fire was cold. He felt the line slacken, then go taut. He set the hook hard, then dealt out slack line until he could play the fish with the drag on the reel. The pawl drag on the Ross reel buzzed like a chain saw. The catfish went as deep asshe could, into the hole, trying desperately to find a sunken tree or barbed-wire fence. Strain could see the water muddy on top of the wallowing cat. Slowly he played the fish out, bringing it to the gravel at the edge of the sandbar. Four pounds, he guessed. He wet his hand and reached under her barbed whiskers, and
He switched to a hare’s ear nymph and made a few more consolation casts before wiping his line clean with a Smokey Bear 50th Anniversary bandanna and wading to the bank for the long walk back to the ranger station, where whiskey and a card game would await him. He tried not to let the politics of his job enter his mind. “Yeah,” Horton could be telling them on the phone right now, “he knows it was a computer mistake. He’s out fishing on the clock right now. Tomorrow morning we’re gonna cook a big turkey.” Fuck ’em. He had what was important. He hoped that by now the NIFC Data General computer had disemboweled itself.
The walk back to the ranger station cleared his mind. He smelled wood smoke. It was cold enough so he could see his breath. Horton was messy, having dipped into the Wild Turkey, drinking it neat. Strain fried some potatoes and a couple of the rib-eyes. They ate, leaving the dishes on the counter, and played cards to KVOO-AM out of Tulsa. Horton hummed to the old bluegrass song “Atomic Power”; then came Merle Haggard’s “Workin’ Man Blues.” “Aw, keep workin’,” Horton sang as he dealt. Festus nosed his leg.
Two hours later Horton was asleep on an army cot in his office. Strain turned the heater to low and read some of the back editions of the
Rapid City Journal
and
Rocky Mountain News.
A good deal had happened without his noticing. At least the comics weren’t dated.
Waking, he could hear the unsteady ticking of the electric heater. After a candy bar and instant coffee, he stepped toward the door to walk back to the river. “Take Festus with you, will ya,” Horton said.
“He does love to fish. I’ll be drunk as ten Indians time you get back.”
From his fly box Strain selected a two-and-a-half-inch black egg-sucking leach. He fished heavy, using a sinking-tip line and a 2x leader. He liked the heavier six-weight line, even on trout, because he could fire the bigger flies he favored through most any wind. Guys who fished midges tended to be anal-retentive flatlanders. Bigger bugs, bigger fish.
He reached into his pack, pulled out a small bulb of garlic, and broke off a clove. With his jackknife he cut off the stem and peeled it. Then he cut the meat of the garlic against his thumb, letting the thin discs of meat fall into his palm. He placed the garlic on an MRE cracker and started working on the PROCESSED CHEESE SPREAD—“KNEAD WELL BEFORE OPENING ,” it said on the camo-green package. This was lunch; it would get him through to Thanksgiving dinner. With the garlic oil strong on his hands he balmed the maribou leach and first few feet of leader until it no longer smelled to a fish of epoxy and human glands.
He cast upstream and let the leach soak up the muddy water and sink slowly. The light current swept the rig downstream, past him, and into a hole along the cut bank. He stripped line out until the current took up the slack a hundred or so feet below him. He reeled in and cast upstream again, then again.
Fishing for catfish held the same import for him as casting for Wind River rainbows or blue marlin off Tampico. Technically, he was at work, getting paid. He could see the Custer National Forest to the northwest; his fire was cold. He felt the line slacken, then go taut. He set the hook hard, then dealt out slack line until he could play the fish with the drag on the reel. The pawl drag on the Ross reel buzzed like a chain saw. The catfish went as deep asshe could, into the hole, trying desperately to find a sunken tree or barbed-wire fence. Strain could see the water muddy on top of the wallowing cat. Slowly he played the fish out, bringing it to the gravel at the edge of the sandbar. Four pounds, he guessed. He wet his hand and reached under her barbed whiskers, and
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