Chapter 6

Chapter 6

            The two months leading up to the draft were two of longest months of Trick’s life. Although he was overwhelmed and thought there just wasn’t enough time in the day to get everything done to prepare himself, he also felt the paradox of the snail’s pace of those days. The one thing he looked forward to was the fishing get-away with Mike and Bret and some of his former teammates.

            Mike had planned the entire trip with the help of Sara. They reached out to a number of full-service lodges in the Craig area on the Missouri River. They settled on the Fly Fisher Inn, which was just downstream from Craig across from Mountain Palace off of Old Highway 15, which the locals now call the Rec Road. They chose the lodge for its location and modest amenities, and for its price since most of Trick’s buddies that would be celebrating with them were also just graduating college and yet to find jobs. The Fly Fisher was really more like a travel motel with decent accommodations for 8 dudes to sleep and converge in a shared dining area with a kitchen but certainly not anything to brag home about.

            Out of the eight men going, three of them had drift boats or rafts they would tow to the Missouri with them. That would allow for three guys per boat with an extra spot open. Some of them had some rowing skills and some didn’t. Some of them could fly fish. Some could not. Mike planned to split them up so that nobody would get stuck rowing the entire time and everyone would have to do their share of the work. This wasn’t going to be a guided trip; just eight dudes hanging out on one of the most prolific trout streams in the U.S. trying to figure it out.

            Food was also a logistical challenge Sara and Mike planned for. They put together menus for three dinners, breakfast foods, and lunches. They were so well planned out; all each friend would have to do is show up with a check to cover their portion of the cost and all was good. The plan was to cook the dinners and breakfasts in the kitchen at the lodge and lunches would be done on the river. Beer and alcohol were left up to each individual.

            The plan was for everyone to arrive to the Fly Fisher Inn Friday evening on the 11^th of April, fishing Saturday and Sunday and leaving Monday morning. Everyone with the exception of Bret, would be driving over from Missoula. Bret would fly into Helena late Friday night, stay in a hotel and be picked up early Saturday morning by either Mike or Trick or one of the other guys.

            The plan was set. Mike and Sara sent out multiple emails to all the guys keeping in constant contact with them to make sure it would all go off seamlessly. This was an incredibly important trip for Mike. He wanted so much to give this gift to Trick as a symbol of how proud he was for the work Trick put into marching steady towards his goal of playing for the NFL one day.

            Most of the guys showed up that Friday evening loaded up with layers of fleece, raingear and waders and fishing rods. A few bottles of whiskey circled around in the group and lots of beer filled coolers were being handled as they unloaded supplies and brought them into the dining area of the lodge. Mike had originally planned to drive over with Trick but because someone had to pick up Bret Saturday morning, Trick decided he would take his Nissan Frontier so that Mike didn’t have to mess with unhooking his boat and leaving it somewhere while they ran into to town. They also figured they could use Trick’s truck as a shuttle rig to transport drivers back to their rigs at the end of their floats.

            Mike rolled into the parking area at the lodge at around 4pm. After getting out of his F-150, with boat in tow, he greeted the group; introducing himself to those he had not met yet. Most of the guys were familiar to Mike as many had been invited to Mike and Sara’s for those Sunday lunches during the college football season. A couple were not however, and Mike took a few minutes to exchange pleasantries before getting things set up in the lodge.

            “Beer?” one of the players asked Mike.

            “No thanks,” Mike replied. “I gave that up a while back. Don’t let me stop you from getting your drunk on though. Anyone hear from Trick?”

            “He was right behind us when we left Missoula.” One of the players responded. “I think he said he had to run back to his house for something. I’m sure he’s close.”

            Trick did have to run back for something. He was incredibly grateful for all the work Mike had put in to help him meet his goals and he wanted to show it. He didn’t run back to his house. Instead, he stopped at the Grizzly Hackle, a fly-shop in Missoula, to pick up a gift for Mike.

            At around 5:30pm, Trick’s Frontier turned off the Rec Road across from the Mountain Palace Fishing Access Site into the parking area at the Fly Fisher Inn. The temperatures were starting to drop so the group had moved into the dining area of the lodge. Mike had been in the kitchen area putting things away and getting ready to start cooking. Trick stepped through the doors of the lodge, ducking his head as to avoid smacking the door jam, with hands behind his back.

            “Trick!” reverberated throughout the lodge as Trick’s teammates jumped up from their recliners and couches to greet him.

            Mike busted out from the kitchen to give Trick a proper hug. He picked Trick up and shook him so hard he almost dropped the package he was hiding behind his back.

            “What you got there, Tricky, Trick?” Mike asked with a big grin on his face.

            “I got this for you,” Trick replied as he pulled the rod tube from behind his back and extended it towards Mike.

            Not being that much of a gearhead, Mike never had a really nice rod. He made do with what had been passed down from his dad, occasionally picking up an old fiberglass rod or a cheap graphite rod from second-hand stores and pawn shops. He was of the school of, “it ain’t the bow, it’s the Indian.” In fact, he often say those same words as he plucked the fly out of another trout’s lip, looking back at Trick with a shit-eaten grin as Trick looked on with a little bit of jealousy but mostly in awe of how successful he was at catching fish.

            Mike took the rod tube from Trick’s hand. “What’s this?”

            The rod was a brand-new 4-piece, 9-foot, 5weight Winston Boron made in the good ‘ole USA. In fact, it was actually assembled and wrapped in Twin Bridges, Montana, almost in their back yard. It was the classic dark green blank with deep red thread wraps on the guides and the signature, handwritten insignia on the butt section and furrows of the rod. It was absolutely gorgeous.

            Chuckling, head cocked to the side and grinning ear to ear Mike lets out a, “you ‘ole dog, Tricky, Trick. What’s this for?”

            “Your gear sucks, Mike and if I’m going to keep borrowing shit from you, I think you ought step up your game a bit.”

            Trick continues, “Dude, there is absolutely no way I could have gotten to this place without you. This rod? This is the least I could do. I just want you to know how much I appreciate you and what you’ve done for me.”

            “You did all the work, man.” Mike replies. “I didn’t do anything.”

            “You made me believe in myself,” Trick confesses. “Thanks.”

            Mike wraps one arm around Trick’s neck and pulls him into a one-armed headlock and says. “Let’s get this party started. Thanks, Trick.”

            Mike took on the cooking details with a couple of the players helping out. He cooked his special spaghetti using elk burger. It was a sweet and hot sauce, where he unabashedly starts with your plain old Ragu as the base but then ads a little brown sugar, crushed red pepper, cloves, onion, garlic and fennel.

            Trick walks into the kitchen, “Holy crap, what’s that smell?”

            The fennel and cloves give off a licorice essence that filled the entire lodge. That with the garlic, onion and tomato base brings out the more traditional spaghetti aroma. As the smells drifted out into the dining area of the lodge, the players unconsciously started feeling hungry, moving towards the chip bowls and veggie trays.

            “Secret recipe, Trick,” Mike declares. “It’s just about done, grab the guys and let’s do this.”

            What was becoming a louder and louder roar with the guys drinking beer and telling stories about their time as Grizzly football players, quieted down to clanking of silverware onto porcelain plates and the occasional, “holy shit this is some good pasta,” as they all dove into dinner. The dinner was amazing. The guys were happy and the weekend was well on its way down the path towards everything Mike was hoping for.

            Bret called at around 8pm. He had landed at Helena Regional Airport and was on his way to his hotel. He was taking a short shuttle ride to the hotel as they didn’t feel it was necessary to rent a car. Trick decided he would run into Helena on his own in the morning while the others got their gear ready for the day.

            By 9pm, the dishes were done, the kitchen was cleaned up by a few of the other players that hadn’t pitched in to help with dinner and now everyone was chilling either at the table or the bar or draped over the reclining chairs next to the fire that was crackling in full force. They were still drinking beer but a bottle of whiskey had made it out into the group and was being passed around. Mike was declining as the bottle passed him. Trick took a pull off the bottle as he had done everything he could up until now to impress the NFL scouts and general managers and now it was pretty much out of his hands. He might as well celebrate.

            By midnight, the bottle of whiskey was cashed as well as a case and half of some local beers that were brought over from Missoula along with some cheap alternatives. Moose Drool and Cold Smoke were the predominate beers for the Missoula locals. If you couldn’t handle the hard stuff, Coors and Coors light with a few Rainiers were thrown into the mix.

            “If you want to drink cheap beer, it might as well be Rainier!” One of the players shouted out as he rose his can for another toast.

            The first casualty hit the floor right in front of the fireplace at around 12:30am. He was the quarterback so not very big and definitely not able to hang with the rest of the guys that comprised of mostly linemen and a fullback. It wasn’t really a fair fight as most of the guys outweighed the starting QB by anywhere from 40 to 100 pounds.  

            As a couple of the offensive linemen lifted their quarterback up off the floor Mike piped in, “Huh, looks a lot like what was happening all day against Wofford.”

            A sarcastic, “Fuck you,” came out of one of the players. That game still stung a bit to these seniors.

            “I’m sorry, man.” Mike consoled. “Too soon?”

            “It’s all good,” came the response. “It’s all good.”

            The two players picked their QB up and carried him to an empty room. They didn’t undress him. They didn’t even take his shoes off or pull the blankets over him but they did make sure he was fully on the bed.

            By 1am, the party was winding down. The guys were heading to their rooms and saying their goodnights. Mike and Trick were the last to go to bed.

            “You picking Bret up in the morning?” Mike asked.

            “I am. I should get going early. I’m thinking around six.” Trick answered. “I can just meet you guys at the shop in Craig. We’ll take care of Bret’s gear when we get off the river.”

            “Sounds good.” Mike responded. “Time to get some sleep.”

            “Hey man,” Trick added. “I really do appreciate everything you’ve done for me these past few years. I don’t think I would have had the chances I’m getting without you…you and Sara”

            “Well,” Mike responded. “I appreciate that. Sara and I love you. We are both really proud of you. Now let’s get to sleep.”

            The alarm on Trick’s phone went off at 5:30 am. Confused, not know where he was and questioning how he got there; he reached for the phone to snooze the alarm. Becoming aware of the throbbing in his he, Trick realized how much beer he drank the night before and the pieces of the puzzle were slowing coming into focus. The room was dark and smelled of the musk that infiltrates the various fabrics in the motels rooms at the Fly Fisher Inn such as bedding, and chair covers, and drapes hanging over the windows from a winter of stagnant, damp storage.

            Trick picks up his phone and turns on the flashlight function, pointing it into the darkness. He scans the room. His roommate is still a lifeless lump on the adjacent bed. Trick locates his closes in a pile at the end of his bed and fights off the temptation; going against the voice in the back of his head to just go back to sleep. He makes a move towards his clothes and as quietly as he can as to not wake up the other player, he pulls on his pants, drapes his flannel over his shoulders and heads out the door.

            It’s still very dark outside and to say brisk, would be a bit of romantic understatement. It was cold. A streetlamp hanging outside the dinning area gave just enough light for Trick to navigate the broken sidewalk from the motel. He quickly scurries down the path to the front door of the lodge and glides in.

            The kitchen light is on and he smells the comforting aroma of rich, dark coffee. He hears it percolating and can’t think of anything he wants more than a cup of this lifeline with some cream and sugar. Trick loves the smell of coffee but isn’t sold on the taste so he does everything he can to make it resemble hot cocoa.

            Mike steps out from the kitchen. He doesn’t have the handicap of a hangover so he was already up starting coffee and prepping for breakfast.

            “How you feelin?” Mike asks Trick.

            “I think a dog snuck into my room and shit in my mouth,” Trick answers. “That was cheap-ass whiskey. Between that and the Cold Smokes, I guess I’m doing as well as can be expected.”

            “There’s a solution to that,” Mike states with a hint of condescension.

            “Yeah, yeah, I know,” Trick says. “Sometimes ya just gotta let loose.”

            “You won’t have time to eat what I’m cooking but grab a muffin and some coffee.” Mike instructs.

            “Oh, you better believe it.”

            Trick grabs a travel mug sitting on the bar and fills it up. He wolfs down a muffin and heads towards the front door.

            He yells back into the kitchen, “Hey dude, I’m heading into town. I’ll meet you guys in about an hour and a half at the shop. Do I need to pick up anything?”

            “Nah, we’re good,” Mike yells back. “Sara made sure we had everything we needed. See you at the shop.”

            Trick jumps in his truck and fires it up, waits for a few seconds to let the engine warm up and throws the shifter into drive. The Frontier has a snappy little engine. Trick spins the tires as he goes from the gravel of the parking area to the asphalt of the Rec Road. He turns left, back upstream along the Missouri River, finds the right lane and accelerates.

            The sun was just starting to show itself over the canyon walls of the Mighty Mo. Trick elected to drive the Rec Road to Wolf Creek before getting onto I-15 to head south. He had time. He had coffee and he just wanted to take in the sites of this amazing place and this amazing time.

            He sped past the Canyon Access point where he could have jumped onto the freeway. He traveled the Rec Road back upstream, which is actually heading south. It was difficult to wrap his head around the idea that he was, indeed, heading south and upstream. It’s just not the way his brain works. He’s been in Montana for a few years now and realizes water flows downhill, which doesn’t always mean it flows south but assumptions and habits are hard to break even in an individual only 22 years old.

            He passes the Mid-Canon Fishing Access Site, then the confluence of the Dearborn River, Spite Hill, and Stickney Creek. He takes a mental note of where these access points are since he knows it will be important information for when they are actually floating the river. He sees the turnoff to Craig and decides to keep heading upstream on the Rec Road to Wolf Creek.

            As Trick speeds pass the Craig turnoff, he looks down at the clock on the radio of his truck. It’s taken a little longer than he thought to navigate the winding Rec Road and he knows he’s cutting it close on time. Bret will be waiting for him at the hotel. Trick steps a little harder on the gas and speeds on.

            A mile upstream from Craig the road banks left as to follow the contour of the river. There’s a cliff wall that rises up off the river creating a bluff looking out over the river. A crude parking area had been created by locals years ago. Fish Wildlife and Parks has recently designed the parking area as a fishing access site naming it “Lone Pine FAS.” The locals refer to it as Cell Phone Bluff because it’s the only place that’s high enough near Craig to get an adequate cellphone signal to do business. Many of the outfitters and guides stop off at the parking area regularly to check their messages and to respond to trip requests.

            A few hundred yards from the bluff, Trick’s phone dings. He looks down and sees he has a text message from Bret. He picks up his phone to look at the message. His eyes are down for only a second or two. He looks back up and sees a vehicle pulling out from Cellphone Bluff. It’s too late.

            Trick locks up the breaks. His truck goes into a skid and turns sideways. He’s going too fast to avoid contact with the vehicle that seems to have stalled in front of him. He can’t steer to the right due to the cliff wall falling off into the river. Huge boulders on the left side of the road prevents him from using the opposite ditch. Time slows. His heart stops for a moment. Trick grips the steering wheel and as if he was taking on a defender trying to rip his head off, he braces for contact and actually lowers a shoulder in order to deflect the blow.  

            Trick doesn’t hit head-on. In fact, it’s more of a glancing blow that sends him into a spin and a roll. The Frontier slides across the bottom end of the parking area, wipes out the fence protecting vehicles and people from the steep embankment dropping off into the river and rolls down towards the bed of the Mighty Mo.

            The metal of the truck buckles around him as it bounces off boulders on the way down. Each boulder he slams into rocks his body from one side of the truck to the other straining against the seatbelt he has secured over his chest and waste. His head slams against the door glass, shattering it.

            He keeps rolling and slamming into boulders and wonders how long this can last. It’s a ride of eternity he can’t stop. There’s no button or lever that can slow the ride. He keeps tumbling down until the truck flips up and he feels himself go airborne.

            The feeling of weightlessness only lasts for a split second though as the truck slams down onto the bed of the river bouncing up only to slam down again. The sound of the truck crashing down was horrific. Water sprayed up around the truck and fell back to the river in droplets creating ripples circling the carnage.

            Trick’s truck landed on its passenger’s side with the nose of the vehicle facing upstream. It rocked as if it wanted to roll upside down but fortunately, lost the momentum to carry it all the way over and came to rest in that position. The windshield was shattered but not busted out, which protected the cab from the rushing water, creating a pocket of air. The depth of the river where the truck came to rest was only a couple feet deep.

            Trick was unconscious and hanging lifeless from the seatbelt that had not failed. His body was contorted with his head supported just high enough to keep his mouth and nose out of the water that had filled the cab about a third of the way up.

            Rod, a local mechanic and volunteer fire-fighter was heading down the Rec Road towards Craig from Wolf Creek.  He lived just outside Wolf Creek but his shop was in Craig. He was on his way to work when the crash happened. From his vantage point on the bend of the river where he was traveling, he saw the truck roll down the embankment and go airborne. He saw the water spray.

            “Holy fuck!” He said out loud although there was no one else to hear.

            Having been a volunteer for 30+ years, Rod had seen a lot of accidents in the area. Because of how far Craig is from any hospitals or ambulance services, the volunteers are usually the first ones onto the scene. Rod is usually the first one onto the scene but actually witnessing the accident was not something he was all that familiar with.

             The first thing Rod did was pulled over and radioed for help. It was obvious this accident was severe with at least one serious injury but potentially more. He knew he would need help immediately so putting first things first, he made the call.

            Rod pulled back onto the Rec Road. He could feel the adrenaline rush. That wasn’t new. Anytime he would get called out there was that element of nervousness and sense of urgency that he learned early on to use as a resource for action. Seeing the accident happen, or at least watching the tail end of it, ramped up this adrenaline rush to a heightened level and Rod knew he needed to get ahold of it. He backed off the accelerator of the old Chevy pickup and told himself to take a breath and calm down.