Holding Lies by John Larison Read Free Book Online

on the bank or gorging on sand shrimp in the estuary, and the early returning summer fish first began appearing in the fly water. The fish were few and far between, but always aggressive. This period was known as the “long and far” time, meaning if you wanted to catch fish, you had to throw your flies long and oar your boat far.
    Then came the summer routine, fresh fish trickling in with every freshet just as the older fish slipped up their natal tributaries, the number of steelhead in the fly water remaining more or less constant; this was also the steady sweating sprint of peak tourist season, when a reputable guide could work every day if he wanted. The fishing during “the sprint” tended to be best during the day’s tired shoulders, meaning guides got very little sleep unless they went to a four-and-foursleep schedule, four hours between 11:00 and 3:00 a.m. and p.m. Then came the fall cooling, when the last of the summer fish arrived, usually in a big wave, and the chilly nights and warming days ensured the fish remained aggressive all day. These were the “glory days,” when the scenery was perfect, the fishing easy, and the clients perpetually in a tipping mood.
    The first blowout, usually within a week of Thanksgiving, marked a profound shift in the watershed, and began the “low and slow” period, as in to catch fish, you needed to fish deep in the water column and swing the fly as slowly as possible—a metaphor for winter life. With every freshet would come a new wave of fast-moving and large winter steelhead, their numbers few but predictably placed. Seven days from the freshet’s start to reach the fly water. Twelve days to reach the upper tributaries. Count the days, and fish accordingly.
    Last came the spawn, or the “holy days,” usually when the spring weather arrived and people donned their short sleeves for the first time since September. This was a favorite time for clients, and Hank probably could stay busy for two or three weeks straight if he had no scruples. But he, like all the river’s guides, left the fish during the holy days to their most essential business. Instead of running clients, they patrolled the spawning tributaries to ensure no dirtbags were snagging.
    Work time—what to joes and civilians would be the Monday through Friday workweek—was to Hank and the guides, a simple string of dates. Trips scheduled the fifth, seventh, eighth, ninth, tenth, twelfth, sixteenth. Whether these days were Mondays or Wednesdays or Sundays hardly mattered. What did matter was if one of these dates was a Saturday.
    Come 3:00 p.m. on Friday and continuing more or less through dark on Saturday, the highways along the river slowed with honking traffic. During the summer, they were river enthusiasts mostly, anglers and rafters and those bizarre and largely aimless people in khaki who called themselves “bird watchers.” During the fall, they were blaze orange deer and elk hunters and tie-dye mushroomers. And duringthe winter, they were skiers and boarders and snowmobilers on their way to the resort in the headwaters. It seemed the whole world decided to spend their Saturday on the Ipsyniho. If Hank had a client scheduled, as he did tomorrow, the crowds would force him to change his routine, to run a different pattern. Walter had taught him a few tricks for beating the crowds when he was young, though what constituted a crowd then would constitute a Tuesday lull now. Hank had learned a few more of his own, and had, in turn, passed those onto Danny.
    Fairview, his home run, was empty, and he considered spending last light there, but instead turned right up his driveway and climbed the ridge to his cabin. He was too exhausted to back the boat under the carport and so parked the rig in the turnaround.
    Given the trip tomorrow, he needed to restock his fly boxes, lace up some new leaders, order lunch, call his sport—an hour’s worth of