A Good High Place

Chapter 38

c H A P T e R T H i R T Y - e i G H T Trout don’t like to feed in the middle of a drought. i’ve never understood that. Who has it better in the middle of a drought than a fish? if there wasn’t so much as a damned olive hatching, you’d think the trout would be so hungry they’d take a chance, visible or not. But i’m not expecting to see flies coming off the water and i’m sure not expecting to see a fish. in the fall of 1917 Keane and i fish together for the last time. Keane wants to go to our favorite fishing spot on the westerly end of Yuba creek. it’s dusk, unseasonably hot, with a bit of a breeze coming from the west. it’s a long walk, and i’m thinking i’d rather swim than fish, and Shadow probably agrees with me, but Keane is ready. dry flies, he says then. That’s what we need today. Something midsize. The mayflies are coming off like no tomorrow. look at ’em. He’s right. i hadn’t noticed, but that’s what they are all right. A big fly for so late in the year, though not so large as a giant mayfly or even abrowndrake.icanfeelKeane’sexcitementbecausetheyprovide a change from the tiny flies of late summer or the monotonous blue-winged olives that hatch several times throughout the season, starting in early spring. A GOOD HIGH PLACE 195 The white mayfly has a white thorax during the dun stage then turns slightly darker, more gray, a couple days later in the spinner stage. it has three tails, like a tiny white fairy. All at once i’m envious of the gossamer-winged creatures, so virginal and colorless. So light. So directed. one purpose: mate and die. You’re right, i say. i search my box lunch container for a mediumsize fly, a couple light-colored ones, and one a bit darker in case they’re preferring the spinners. i hook several to my blouse pocket, tie the net to my belt loop and the wicker creel around my shoulder. i take off my shoes, roll up my pant legs and follow Keane, who has been making similar preparations, into the river. We can see jagged heat lightning several miles to the west, over the bay, and it reminds me of a newspaper article about several people who had been hit by lightning and killed at Sleeping Bear dunes on a bright sunny day, which seemed to me to be a case of God really speaking to you. We fish close together that night, which isn’t usual. We make a few short side casts upriver to see how eager they’re feeling. The water is cold. our shoulders bump a few times as we negotiate toeholds. i notice Keane’s face is filling out. There’s something peaceful, but i see regret there as well. There aren’t many people like Kachina, i say to him. People who do what’s necessary and never waste a moment with regret. He nods. There’s much in that space that surrounds Kachina, he says, but regret isn’t one of them. it was Keane who got me thinking about space. Space as Place. over the years i’ve come to realize that space is not empty. People spend their whole lives trying to figure out what lies within it or trying desperately to fill it. But i’ve come to realize that certain amounts of space are necessary. Kachina believes people are responsible for their own pain, Keane says, but with a question in his voice, as though he thinks she might be wrong, too. Was she? i thought she was wrong at the time, and there was more i couldn’t articulate. Finally i got hold of one thought. don’t you think it helps to understand why? i ask him. in order to plan? What difference does it make? he answers. That makes me angry, and we don’t talk for a long time. Keane catches a fifteen-inch brookie and then maybe a thirteen-incher in spite of his halfhearted fishing. He fills his creel with wet grass and leaves before he puts the fish in, while i do nothing but move my line around...