Now that morning had arrived, Bowen too was sound asleep. He was shacked up many miles away in a motel just outside Dillon, with a waitress named Amber, who had a pierced navel and worked at the Elkhorn Cafe.

The empty Herradura bottle lay on its side in the dirt near Louis's tent.

All was quiet, and then a shout rang out: "Whoooo-eeee, you got 'im! Reel on 'im, Just Ray!"

Just Ray lost his balance and fell into the river with an enormous splash. Earl grabbed him by the scruff of the neck before he was swept away, and together they wallowed and lurched toward shore as the giant trout bolted downstream, heading for the safety of deep water. As he dangled from Earl's grasp, the swift current pushed the boy from side to side on the surface, but he clung resolutely to the rod.

Earl and Just Ray hit the shore running. They scooted down the bank, the rod bucking in the boy's hands.

As the big trout continued to take line, Earl had a thought: "This here's the difference between having a monster trout mounted above the sofa and just another story to tell."The big trout just kept going, right over the top of the dam. Father and son ran out on the narrow structure. There was no easy way around it; the bank was steep and the brush was too dense. As the big trout continued to take line, Earl had a thought: "This here's the difference between having a monster trout mounted above the sofa and just another story to tell." Earl looked down at the seething water twenty-five feet below. "You hold on to him now, Just Ray," he said. "You hold on, no matter what." Earl ripped off his waders, held his nose, and jumped off the dam feetfirst. He landed with a massive splash, lurched to the shore, and took off downstream after the trout.

"Daddy!" Just Ray cried. "You git 'im, Daddy!"

 

Raul, having emerged from his tent, hunched over the propane stove, patiently waiting to depress the plunger in the French-style coffeemaker. It was positioned in a pot of simmering water, ensuring that the coffee — a special blend of North Slope Kenyan and Sumerian lowland beans, with just a touch of chicory, that Raul had settled on after years of careful experimentation — would remain hot. Later, the hot water would be used for washing dishes.

He again read the hand-scrawled note that Bowen had left on the windshield of the SUV. Bowen wrote that he had some unexpected business to attend to and wouldn't be able to make the float after all. The boat fished better with just two anyway, and he promised to be waiting at the downstream takeout at the end of the day to drive his friends back up to camp.

Raul was dressed in a navy zippered fleece that was sold in a catalog featuring heavily tanned, blue-eyed alpinists. Raul was dark-skinned, as befitting his Dominican roots. He was a superbly fit, handsome man who stood just over six feet tall, with glowing chestnut eyes, a full head of glossy black hair, and a neat Zapata mustache.
Although he appeared imperturbable, Raul was high-strung and prone to stuttering when he was nervous. Those who just met him often were surprised to learn that before Raul dedicated himself to a career in dental hygiene, he had been a highly touted major-league pitching prospect.

Presently, Raul's thoughts were far from baseball — or molars. He was troubled by Bowen's note. As Louis or any of Raul's three former wives could attest, Raul did not take well to sudden changes and frequently expressed his revulsion toward "flying by the seat of the pants."

As Louis or any of Raul's three former wives could attest, Raul did not take well to sudden changes and frequently expressed his revulsion toward "flying by the seat of the pants."As the years slipped by, Raul had become increasingly devoted to routine and lost his urge to see what lay beyond the next bend. He liked that he and Louis knew exactly which rivers they would fish and in what order. Indeed, they often knew whom, among their many friends in the fraternity of feather throwers, they might rendezvous with along the way. And they always returned to their favorite campsites.

Raul frowned and gently depressed the plunger in the coffeepot. As he waited to pour his first cup, his mind drifted back to the first day of their trip.

Louis's nonstop flight from New York to Seattle had arrived on time. As usual upon meeting, the men performed the Shoshone embrace — the greeting the Indians had taught Lewis and Clark. Face-to-face, each man flung his right arm over his friend's left shoulder and clasped the small of his back so firmly that their chests met and cheeks touched.

Then they returned to Raul's home, where the camping and fishing gear was all laid out in the garage, neatly sorted, stacked, and ready to load. That evening, they made their ritual visit to the local Home Grown supermarket to stock up on essentials that might not be readily found on the trail-aged Kobe beef, cornichons, macadamia nuts, kippered herring, and such.

In the produce department, they'd had an encounter that even in retrospect made Raul wince. They'd come upon the manager, a guy named Bud, reaming out a scrawny, longhaired kid for smoking in the employee break room. Caught unaware, the embarrassed manager tried to engage Louis and Raul in pleasant conversation, while the kid returned to stacking grapefruit.

Bud recommended some choice plums that had just come in from the Klamath River Valley in southern Oregon. On hearing the name of the Klamath, Louis stopped squeezing peaches and turned to Bud. "I beg your pardon, sir — did I hear you correctly? Did you say the Klamath River Valley?"

Bud looked quizzically at Louis, who continued: "Are you aware, sir, that thanks to the sweetheart irrigation deal the fruit growers have down there — not to mention abject consumer indifference and irresponsibility among retailers — one of the last remaining strains of wild chinook salmon in the Pacific Northwest is presently endangered?"

Louis went on, lecturing Bud on the Klamath ecosystem and the lobbying powers of the nefarious California Fruit Growers Association. Bud began to twitch and turned whole-body red. He finally stormed off, sputtering, "Go ahead then, eat the lousy California plums if you're so gol-darned smart."

"Wow," the scrawny youngster had said, as Bud vanished around a corner. "That was, like, trippy."

"He da-da-da-doesn't mean to offend anyone," said Raul.

Louis, remembering that they still needed some scented hand wipes, left Raul to guard the overflowing cart. Raul conversed pleasantly about fishing with the kid, who had the sleek black hair and high cheekbones of a Native American. His name tag said Phoenix. Raul felt a spiritual affinity with the boy, even though he smoked cigarettes and appeared to have some kind of a dragon tattooed on his back and lower neck. The kid liked fishing, and Raul gathered from the brief conversation that, like himself, he came from a broken home.

Raul extolled the joys of fly fishing, and Phoenix seemed interested in Louis and Raul's trip. By the time Louis returned with the hand wipes, Raul felt conflicted about breaking off the conversation. He'd connected with the kid, and that left him with a certain feeling of responsibility. That's how it was for all the men who, like Raul, belonged to the male empowerment group known as the Ironfeather Society of Warriors.