Читать книгу Risking the Rapids - Irene O'Garden - Страница 17

Montana, Day Two: Practice

We hang out in the woods by the lake next day, getting used to walking five minutes to the RV campground for water, still gratefully in restroom range, regularly eyeing that slice in the mountain, knowing pain and challenge, along with beauty, await on that trail in the morning.

While Mike goes into town, Jim offers me a fly fishing lesson. The guy just loves to fish. I remember him barely taller than the minnow bucket he fished in.

“Let’s practice in the parking lot. It’ll narrow your focus.”

He’s a clear and patient teacher.

“First pay out your line.” He lays out twenty feet. “Here’s the grip—thumb on top, in line with your forearm. Keep it steady. Now here’s what you’re after.”

He demonstrates the swooping grace of the classic fly-cast. My heart lifts. Such fluid freedom, as though he flicks away arthritis through the dancing line.

He sets me up.

“Think of a clock arcing over you. Cast from ten to two. Ten-two, ten-two. Don’t break your wrist—keep it steady.”

I try the clockwork.

“Good. Feel it. Ten-two, ten-two. Better.”

Hm. I might get this.

“Aim for that clump of leaves.”

The idea of aiming freezes me. I want to be successful, but I really want Jim to feel successful as a teacher. What if I never catch on?

“You can do this. Just takes time. There you go.”

Before long, I make three good casts.

“You’ve got it. You’ve got it!”

“I get it!”

“You’re a natural!” We squeal and hop and hug each other. One of the best moments we’ve ever shared.

•••

That afternoon, Mike returns with a (hand) towel of my very own, a small first aid kit, and a mess of seafood.

“Can’t eat it on the trail, but we can tonight.” He hauls out the Papa Bear cast-iron cauldron and over the campfire concocts a rich, herby cioppinno. Lauren assists.

“I want to be a chef,” she declares. “But a pastry chef.”

As we fill our bowls, her dad rummages in his pack and produces a canister of “Slap Ya Mama” Cajun seasoning. Don thinks of everything. Cheers and subsequent slurps all around.

•••

After our steaming spicy bowls, another bottle of Scotch appears. Don stands and motions to Lauren.

“We have a present for you, Jim.”

I smile. I have a present for him, too. A very special bottle. But not until our last night.

“Lauren and I invented this a few trips ago.”

They lay a brand-new nylon tarp and Sharpies on the ground.

“It’s a Story Tarp. Every day, we each draw a pictograph of our most memorable moment. Then the whole story goes home with Jim.”

We all grab markers and scramble to record the day. I look up from drawing me fly-casting. Jim’s drawing the same thing.

Then Ro says softly, “I’ve written a song for the trip. Wanna hear it?” (Curiously, from her earliest days, Ro’s asked permission to sing.)

Of course we do. Firelight flickers over her notebook, gilds her gently knit brow. She sings a yearning ballad of “wild Montana,” of her hope to shed her fear and sorrow here. Closest to our late brother, his death and absence weigh on her, but fear and sorrow have slipped, admittedly or not, into everyone’s pack. Her last verse asks for laughter, “grand and holy.” Shining eyes ring the campfire as her last note fades.

Soft applause, congratulations and gratitude ripple from us all.

“Gotta call it a night,” says Mike at last. “We need to get up before dawn, break camp, wolf a bagel, and get to the outfitters.”

Heartened by her song, we peel away to our downy nests under the stars.