{"id":81542,"date":"2025-02-11T08:30:37","date_gmt":"2025-02-11T08:30:37","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/peraltafinancing.com\/entertainment\/books\/the-last-trout-close-to-the-bone-publishing\/"},"modified":"2025-02-11T08:30:37","modified_gmt":"2025-02-11T08:30:37","slug":"the-last-trout-close-to-the-bone-publishing","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/fivemor.com\/?p=81542","title":{"rendered":"The Last Trout | Close To The Bone Publishing"},"content":{"rendered":"


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Wind is a four-letter word. It\u2019s a noun and a swear word all in one. It is the bane of every man, woman and child on an Idaho river. Here I stand in waders with a cork-handle rod, watching my line sweep through the air to unintended places. As soon as the nymph touches the water, I pop it back and recast. I change tactics, hoping to outmaneuver the enemy. My efforts improve but not as well as my brother\u2019s.
+++++<\/span>Ryal is twenty feet upriver, the picture of grace. Where he looks, his fly lights. Maybe he is in a vacuum. It wouldn\u2019t be the first occurrence of this phenomenon. He is exempt from Murphy\u2019s law. He didn\u2019t come with that installed. As the years go by, I think the manufacturer gave me his dose.
+++++<\/span>\u201cWhat are you using?\u201d I holler upstream.
+++++<\/span>He doesn\u2019t seem to hear me. Or rather he knows it\u2019s not the answer I seek. I\u2019m frustrated and want to blame something other than the whims of nature. The river rewards only patience and maybe a little skill. That\u2019s what our uncle taught us since we were old enough to be trusted to hang onto a rod and not wander off looking for rocks \u2013 Ryal still goes looking for them. It\u2019s an obsession of his. I can\u2019t afford to have an obsession when, after more than sixty years, he\u2019s still the better fisherman.
+++++<\/span>The water flows, I recast. The wind blows, I recast. The day goes on. The sun crosses the sky. The clouds roll in, big and threatening. I\u2019ve watched them coming for the better part of the afternoon and have calculated the time before the rain reaches us. We are down to minutes. Ryal has packed it in and stands behind me now. His hand is on my shoulder and his other is behind his back. His eyes are grinning, the only part of his face I can see since he still wears a gator pulled up over his nose. I wait. I try not to roll my eyes because it won\u2019t be a fish he is most proud to show me. He holds up a baseball size agate.
+++++<\/span>\u201cWow,\u201d I say, mocking him. This isn\u2019t the biggest rock he\u2019s found. This is just another to add to the bucketfuls around his house. \u201cSemi-precious stones will not make you rich,\u201d I remind him. He doesn\u2019t even scoff. He has heard it all. For years, I\u2019ve bullied him. I\u2019m older, it\u2019s my job. That\u2019s what I tell myself when I feel guilty about it.
+++++<\/span>\u201cLet\u2019s pack it out,\u201d Ryal says, serious again. \u201cStorm\u2019s almost here.\u201d He nods his head toward the dark clouds.
+++++<\/span>\u201cOne more cast,\u201d I say. It\u2019s the last full day of my trip. The last cast. I want to make it count. I fiddle with the line before I\u2019m confident. I whip it back \u2013 one, two and then cast. It\u2019s not the most proficient, but it gets within the two-foot diameter I have now expanded as my precision circle. In comparison, Ryal\u2019s is a few inches.
+++++<\/span>\u201cNice,\u201d my brother whispers as he stands to my right. I can sense him holding his breath. He wants me to catch a big one more than my own ardent desire.
+++++<\/span>The line catches. My heart leaps. Then sinks, it\u2019s just a snag \u2013 wait, I test the reel, scared to hope. Yes! My fingers remember what to do faster than my head. They perform the necessary tasks at the correct rhythm. The line, taut. The rod, bending gracefully. I hold it low to play the line, gently, just in case it\u2019s a trout.
+++++<\/span>Ryal is muttering our uncle\u2019s old proverb. \u201cHonor the fish, son. Honor the fish.\u201d His words are soothing, mirroring what my soul feels.
+++++<\/span>The water swells. The fish breaks the surface. Brown. Massive. The beauty of the river. Eight pounds, easily. \u201cHonor the fish,\u201d I whisper, adding my voice to the flow. The trout dives. I pray he won\u2019t spit out the hook. I reel. The tension reestablished. He is there. Big. Heavy. I\u2019ve seen him now. I can visualize him swimming as I coax him closer, careful not to tear his mouth. Gentle, ever gentle,<\/i> I think again.
+++++<\/span>Ryal\u2019s at the ready, net in hand. The seconds tick with the reel\u2019s rotation. I don\u2019t breathe until the fish is netted and Ryal nods at me. He\u2019s grinning. I\u2019m grinning. I fumble with the rod as I wade over the rocky riverbed.
+++++<\/span>\u201cWe gotta get your picture,\u201d he insists. Modern technology. All I need is to hold the trout, to know him for just a moment. That will be enough. I placate my brother because the picture is for him and no one else.
+++++<\/span>I reach into the water to coat my hands.
+++++<\/span>\u201cTen \u2013 maybe twelve pounds, easy,\u201d Ryal says as I lift it up. He is pulling out his phone for the picture.
+++++<\/span>I feel the weight shift fully into my possession as I bring the trout from the river. He\u2019s not quite ten pounds, but he\u2019s the last brown trout, the last trout I\u2019ll ever behold. And just as I have pulled him clear, it contorts. His slippery, powerful body is no match for my feeble fingers. With an insulting splash, the river reclaims him. I stare at the water. Gone. Nothing. Disappeared. I\u2019ve been robbed of a fly fisherman\u2019s purest pleasure \u2013 watching a beauty swim away.
+++++<\/span>\u201cButter fingers,\u201d Ryal says. He\u2019s trying to make light of it. I laugh because it helps. He laughs and pats me on the back. \u201cIt\u2019ll be that way sometimes.\u201d
+++++<\/span>Thunderclaps remind us of our own insignificance. The rains have started, and we stumble out of the river and up the bank. We\u2019re getting old, don\u2019t move as fast as we figure. Ryal would say speak for yourself and I suppose I should. I have a few years on him. And a few of those years were rougher than all his combined. But I don\u2019t say that. I didn\u2019t choose those.
+++++<\/span>Drenched, we stash our gear in his truck bed and climb inside to wait it out. The rain is too heavy to drive in. Not at our age. Not in this beat up truck.
+++++<\/span>\u201cYou ought to stay longer than a week,\u201d Ryal says.
+++++<\/span>\u201cI oughta,\u201d I say. And I really should. I\u2019m retired. It used to be justifiable \u2013 the one week. For years, the excuse was work and family. I only had so many days off the wife would let me spend on myself. The rest were saved for family vacations \u2013 If I never step foot inside Disney or a zoo or a cruise ship again, I\u2019ll die a little bit happier. But now, the kids are grown, gone. The wife, divorced. The job, a pension check. I could. I could even move back.
+++++<\/span>The raindrops pound the windshield. The sound reminds me. Everything reminds me when I\u2019m here. The loss of my innocence. I left when I was just a boy. Correction: dragged. I was dragged from this haven of harmonic rivers. My na\u00efvet\u00e9 destroyed by shrapnel, and it hurts to be reminded. This is one of the reasons I cannot return, not permanently, not for longer than a week. It\u2019s the reason it takes Ryal twisting my arm to get me out here to fish once a year. After a whole lifetime, a guy should be over it.
+++++<\/span>Ryal looks at me. His face softens even though he doesn\u2019t understand, not really.
+++++<\/span>I stare out at the river. It\u2019s barely visible from the sheets of rain. The storm is on top of us now. The lightening show is overhead. The claps, deafening. I can feel it in my chest and the booms remind me too. But especially the rain because it\u2019s not dissimilar. The drenching rain. The miserable, drenching, deadly rain. There\u2019s less mud here, that\u2019s a difference, I remind myself. Less mud. Less violence. Correction: no violence. Just fly fishing and a rock obsessed brother.
+++++<\/span>\u201cIsa divorced me,\u201d I say. Ryal knows this. This is old news. It took her a while, but a good woman is hard to get rid of. I told her after the last kid packed up for college, that she should go too or me. She just shook her head, smiled at me and said no. Finally, after enough neglect, she found a better man and with my blessing she started her happy ending. I shouldn\u2019t have ever got hitched. I knew I wasn\u2019t any good. That was a cruel thing to do to a woman. I was nothing, but I didn\u2019t want to believe that then. I wanted redemption. Isa believed in it. Ryal still believes in it. The doctors don\u2019t.
+++++<\/span>\u201cIt\u2019s time to come home, Sean,\u201d my brother says. I think he has been waiting decades to say those words.
+++++<\/span>\u201cShe didn\u2019t know about the diagnosis. Not everything,\u201d I continue, ignoring him. \u201cIf she had, she wouldn\u2019t have gone. But I couldn\u2019t chain her with that knowledge. Now, it\u2019s not little enough to keep secret anymore.\u201d
+++++<\/span>Ryal doesn\u2019t turn to look at me. He is waiting. Just like he waits for the brown trout to bite, he waits on me to drop the news. But that news isn\u2019t the one that will hurt. I have something else to say.
+++++<\/span>The rain starts to subside. I can think again. I can think without remembering it so vividly now. I turn towards him, able to focus. \u201cI\u2019m not coming back, Ryal.\u201d I never came back. I can\u2019t shake it. Not even after an entire lifetime. And this \u2013 I look out at the river that\u2019s now visible again, swollen from the rain and flowing faster \u2013 this is too much of a reminder of what I lost.
+++++<\/span>Ryal swats at a tear that escaped his eye. He knew. He knew I never came back from that place. He tried. Every time, every effort he made to get me back out here to fish was an effort to bring me back from those depths. But not Ryal, not even the rivers and trout of Idaho were formidable against my demons. A loving wife and children weren\u2019t enough. Though I tried for years, I am still<\/i> in that jungle.
+++++<\/span>\u201cWhat did the doctors say this time?\u201d he asks as we drive back to his place.
+++++<\/span>\u201cThey say the cancer\u2019s back. End stage.\u201d
+++++<\/span>Ryal lets this sink in. The heaviness of reality between us. \u201cI\u2019ve read about that stuff they sprayed over there,\u201d he says, almost to himself.
+++++<\/span>I nod. Most likely is what the studies have shown. It\u2019s inescapable. It nearly killed me then and it\u2019s about to kill me now.
+++++<\/span>The morning wind whips as we walk across the airport lot, insisting on the last word. This is it. This is goodbye. I didn\u2019t expect to be so emotional. I didn\u2019t expect to not to want to leave.
+++++<\/span>\u201cWe have doctors in Idaho, too,\u201d Ryal reminded me last night.
+++++<\/span>I had laughed at him. At the obvious. I suppose I could die just as well in a hospital here as in Chicago, but my plane is about to board and my treatment schedule starts the day after next.
+++++<\/span>\u201cI\u2019ll be seeing ya, Ryal,\u201d I say. The words are inaccurate, but I don\u2019t fix them. He pulls me in for a hug. \u201cThanks for all the years you dragged me back out here. I remember every trout, every beer.\u201d I blubber into his shoulder. I cannot say goodbye. Not yet. If I\u2019m lucky, I\u2019ll get one last call.<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/p>\n

[Image Credit : Photo by Brandon<\/a> on Unsplash<\/a>]<\/p>\n

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Abby Morales’ work has appeared in The Petigru Review and was a finalist for the Coker Fellowship. Her latest work, a novel about the return of American sailors from the Pacific theater after VJ Day in World War II, is nearing completion. She resides in Winnsboro, SC USA with her family and beloved dogs.<\/p>\n<\/p><\/div>\n<\/p><\/div>\n

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