the only thing as good as wetting a line is talking about
it. No go.
“Fishing,” J.D. snorted. “What’s that? Heck, Leo…I don’t
even remember the last time I went fishing.” Behind him loomed the
forest primeval. North America’s only rain-forest. A
hundred-fifty-foot canopy of leaves and needles so deepgreen thick
that, in places, the sun never reaches the ground. Sodden and springy
underfoot, a serpentine maze of fallen limbs and eight-foot sword
ferns so thick and tangled you have to crawl. Perpetually wet and
smelling of decay. Everything covered with thick iridescent moss.
Everywhere the sound of moving water.
“Sorry about…in there,” he said.
“You ought to hear Rebecca and me on a bad day.”
He snorted again. “Lately, seems like that’s the only kind me
and Claudy have.”
He laughed at himself. “Listen to me…sound like I ought to be
on Oprah or something. Come on. I’ll show you around.”
I fell in beside him. We walked down the asphalt ramp. To my left,
directly beneath the guest cabins, a pair of spanking-new jet boats
sat beached on the rocky shore. Aluminum, twenty-footers. Probably
thirty grand apiece. Same Three Rivers logo painted on the sides. At
the bottom of the ramp, a gray Avon raft was pulled partway up onto
the pave ment. The wooden floor of the inflatable was littered with
pop cans, candy wrappers and orange life jackets. At the bottom, we
turned right, picking our way along the bank for sixty yards, until
we came to a rocky point. We stood at the crux of an inverted Y. A
genuine confluence. Over one shoulder was the Bogachiel, over the
other, the Hoh. In front was the two miles of tidal flow called the
Quileute River. Beyond that…Tokyo.
Yesterday’s rain had leached the red clay banks down into the
water, leaving both rivers murky and out of fishing shape.
“There’s the beauty of it,” he said emphatically, as if he
were trying to convince one of us of something. “You own this
property, you own the last seven miles of the river before it empties
into the ocean.”
He turned and pointed upriver. “You can see there…see how
steep the banks get?” I saw. No more that a half mile upstream, the
river was the better part of thirty feet below the forest. He pointed
out in front of us. “Half a mile downriver right at the end of this
property, it becomes a big tidal mudflat. No way to get anything in
there to pull a boat.”
He pointed out toward the ocean. “Between us and the ocean
there’s something like a thousand acres of private land with the
reservation on three sides and the ocean on the other. This was a
homestead. It was here before the reservation. Old guy I bought it
from, Ben Bendixon, his grandfather lost an arm to a Hoh musket
ball.”
“A lucky find,” I commented.
He looked up at the leaden sky. “Yeah…that’s what I
thought,” he said.
I didn’t figure him for the type who’d readily tell his
troubles to somebody he’d only met once before, and I sure as hell
wasn’t the type who particularly wanted to hear them, but something
inside of me had the urge to draw him out.
“How’s that?” I asked.
He picked up a stone and threw it out over the water, trying to
skip it. Sunk like…yeah, you guessed it.
“It’s the local yokels,” he said. He threw another rock. Two
skips. He slapped himself on top of the head. “Why am I boring you
with this? You don’t want to hear this stuff.”
I sat on a smooth black boulder. Watched him pitch rocks at the
river for a while. On the far side of the Hoh, two blacktail does
bent low over the water for a drink.
“What about the locals?” I pressed.
“It started with vandalism,” he said. “Had all the signs
torn down several times. Then somebody hooked a truck to the fence
and pulled out a couple of hundred feet. Left it just laying there in
the road. Threatening phone calls all hours of the day and night.
“Got the numbers on my caller ID. Took ’em down to the
sheriff.
it. No go.
“Fishing,” J.D. snorted. “What’s that? Heck, Leo…I don’t
even remember the last time I went fishing.” Behind him loomed the
forest primeval. North America’s only rain-forest. A
hundred-fifty-foot canopy of leaves and needles so deepgreen thick
that, in places, the sun never reaches the ground. Sodden and springy
underfoot, a serpentine maze of fallen limbs and eight-foot sword
ferns so thick and tangled you have to crawl. Perpetually wet and
smelling of decay. Everything covered with thick iridescent moss.
Everywhere the sound of moving water.
“Sorry about…in there,” he said.
“You ought to hear Rebecca and me on a bad day.”
He snorted again. “Lately, seems like that’s the only kind me
and Claudy have.”
He laughed at himself. “Listen to me…sound like I ought to be
on Oprah or something. Come on. I’ll show you around.”
I fell in beside him. We walked down the asphalt ramp. To my left,
directly beneath the guest cabins, a pair of spanking-new jet boats
sat beached on the rocky shore. Aluminum, twenty-footers. Probably
thirty grand apiece. Same Three Rivers logo painted on the sides. At
the bottom of the ramp, a gray Avon raft was pulled partway up onto
the pave ment. The wooden floor of the inflatable was littered with
pop cans, candy wrappers and orange life jackets. At the bottom, we
turned right, picking our way along the bank for sixty yards, until
we came to a rocky point. We stood at the crux of an inverted Y. A
genuine confluence. Over one shoulder was the Bogachiel, over the
other, the Hoh. In front was the two miles of tidal flow called the
Quileute River. Beyond that…Tokyo.
Yesterday’s rain had leached the red clay banks down into the
water, leaving both rivers murky and out of fishing shape.
“There’s the beauty of it,” he said emphatically, as if he
were trying to convince one of us of something. “You own this
property, you own the last seven miles of the river before it empties
into the ocean.”
He turned and pointed upriver. “You can see there…see how
steep the banks get?” I saw. No more that a half mile upstream, the
river was the better part of thirty feet below the forest. He pointed
out in front of us. “Half a mile downriver right at the end of this
property, it becomes a big tidal mudflat. No way to get anything in
there to pull a boat.”
He pointed out toward the ocean. “Between us and the ocean
there’s something like a thousand acres of private land with the
reservation on three sides and the ocean on the other. This was a
homestead. It was here before the reservation. Old guy I bought it
from, Ben Bendixon, his grandfather lost an arm to a Hoh musket
ball.”
“A lucky find,” I commented.
He looked up at the leaden sky. “Yeah…that’s what I
thought,” he said.
I didn’t figure him for the type who’d readily tell his
troubles to somebody he’d only met once before, and I sure as hell
wasn’t the type who particularly wanted to hear them, but something
inside of me had the urge to draw him out.
“How’s that?” I asked.
He picked up a stone and threw it out over the water, trying to
skip it. Sunk like…yeah, you guessed it.
“It’s the local yokels,” he said. He threw another rock. Two
skips. He slapped himself on top of the head. “Why am I boring you
with this? You don’t want to hear this stuff.”
I sat on a smooth black boulder. Watched him pitch rocks at the
river for a while. On the far side of the Hoh, two blacktail does
bent low over the water for a drink.
“What about the locals?” I pressed.
“It started with vandalism,” he said. “Had all the signs
torn down several times. Then somebody hooked a truck to the fence
and pulled out a couple of hundred feet. Left it just laying there in
the road. Threatening phone calls all hours of the day and night.
“Got the numbers on my caller ID. Took ’em down to the
sheriff.
Similar Books
