Chapter 8

Chapter 8

            It’s been a year and a month since Rose took her last drink. It hasn’t been lost on her how much better she feels physically in the mornings but emotionally, she’s still got a lot of work. She hits the snooze button one more time before she knows she has to force herself to get moving. Chase jumps up on the bed in the White House and the gradual waking of the day slowly progresses to sitting up, rubbing her eyes and then a realization that Chase needs to go out.

            Rose jumps to her feet and opens the front door out into the small fenced-in yard. Ross, Rose’s landlord, is making his was to one of the sheds in the back yard of the historic hotel. He’s wearing old ripped up Carhart bibs and looks like he’s about to tackle a dirty project. The sheds are filled with old tools and farming equipment; no-doubt left by the either the previous owners or even the owners before them. Every once in a while, Ross gets a wild hair and decides to rummage through the sheds in search for a pot of gold or just something he thinks might be useful. Rose guesses that he feels if he just keeps picking away, eventually he’ll have some usable space to store things that are actually worth something.

            “Morning Rose,” Ross greets her.

            “Morning Ross,” Rose answers back.

            Chase is lifting his leg, relieving himself on the fence. He then pushes the gate open with his nose and while wagging his tail, saunters off towards Ross to give his own greeting knowing it will elicit a scratching of his ears.

            “How you feeling, Rose?” Ross asks with a fatherly kind of empathetic voice.

            “Oh, I’m fine.” Rose replies.

            “How’s your back?” He asks.

            “A little stiff,” Rose replies. “Won’t keep me off the river, though. Yoga’s been helping.”

            “Gotta trip today?” He asks.

            “Yeah. It should be pretty lax. Taking out some recovery folks,” she answers. “They’re usually pretty chill. Take ‘em out, catch a couple fish…let’s ‘em take their minds off of things for a little while.”

            “How ‘bout you Rose?” Ross raises an eyebrow. “You able to take your mind off things?”

            “I’m fine,” she insists with a shortened tone. “Gotta go.”

            Rose calls Chase back and they retreat to the cottage together. She needs to get moving. She looks up over the canyon walls that surround Wolf Creek to notice clouds building and churning. It’s unusually a little more humid and a little more shaded in the canyon, which makes it feel cooler than it actually is. It looks like rain. That’s kind of a bummer to Rose as today is a meant to be pretty low-key.

            This is Rose’s third time working with Montana Healing Waters Project but won’t be her last. Judge Stanhope of the Lewis and Clark County Justice Court sentenced Rose to volunteering her time as a form of restitution and recommended MHWP as a relevant organization to work with as they provide guides to patients who have experienced head trauma or other brain injuries and conditions effecting their physical, mental and emotional health. Basically, MHWP provides an avenue in the form of fly fishing for recovery victims as they try to get back on their feet. Spending a day on the water helps build some confidence in victims as well as takes their minds off the rehabilitation process, which helps alleviate some of the frustration of a slow moving recovery as well as being able to break free from the grip of PTSD for a little while.  

Rose never even questioned the Judge’s ruling and saw this as a fair trade-off for placing a stay of execution on her sentence as long as she fulfills the volunteer obligation and stays out of trouble. Montana takes drinking and driving pretty serious. Given the circumstances, however, the judge showed quite a bit of sympathy and compassion. Stanhope isn’t known for leniency but he also doesn’t tolerate sexual abuse and understood how Rose’s state of mind contributed to the poor decision she made to get behind the wheel while still being intoxicated.

                 Ross and Karren, Rose’s Montana mom and dad, was who Rose called from the jail after her arrest. She opened up to them about what had happened with Jake. Ross took it much like a father would as he immediately went to the gun rack after pulling into the parking area in front of the historic hotel upon bringing Rose home. It took all Karen had to talk some sense into him. Rose was taken aback by this reaction from Ross and found herself even more endeared to him. That didn’t mean she didn’t get equally frustrated with Ross asking personal questions much like she would with her biological father.

              Today’s MPHW trip consisted of 6 anglers from across the state of Montana varying in levels of disabilities and places along their road to recovery. Along with the 6 anglers, there were 3 guides. They were all to meet at the Missouri River Angler at 8 am.

            Rose arrived in the parking lot of the fly shop a few minutes before eight. The anglers were there along with one of the other guides and the project coordinator, Tom Owen. She liked Tom. He was a little bit on the heavy side with a fluffy white beard and white hair. Although she had not yet confirmed this, she was certain Tom played Santa during the holidays. Tom had a heart of gold. This wasn’t his day job. He was actually a therapist with his own private practice. His role with MHWP, coordinating these trips, was purely a volunteering arrangement and Rose really respected that about him.

            “Hey Tom,” Rose announces herself as she bashfully makes her way to the group.

            “There’s my girl,” Tom proclaims as he wraps an arm around Rose and pulls her in tight. “How you doing this morning?”

            Tom had a way with making her feel like a little girl—not in a subordinate way but like she really was his little girl. It made her feel warm and valued. It’s something she’s had a hard time with ever since her dad became ill when she was a little girl. Where she kept everyone else at an arms-length, she felt comfortable with Tom showing affection and giving her compliments.

            “I’m good,” Rose replied with her head tilted down and a crooked smile emerging on her lips.

            “Hope you got a good night’s sleep. You might have your work cut out for you today,” he says right in front of the group, not even caring he might be offending the two anglers he was paring Rose up with. “This is Rose, she’s one of your guides.”

            “What, these guys?” Rose asks. “I’m sure they’ll be fine.”

            Rose scans the group. The two guys to the left of her in the circle they naturally formed as she approached, appeared to be in their late sixties—maybe early seventies. One of the gentlemen had a bit of the tremors going on as that of someone experiencing the early onset of Parkinson’s disease. He was leaning into a walker. They both had similar facial features, a similar build, and if Rose were going to bet; she would put her money on them somehow being related. Tom introduced them as Pat and Dave McDermott. They are brothers.

            The man to their left was much younger and dressed in a tattered Simms shirt, tattered Simms hat, and Simms waders stained with mud and mayo from guide sandwiches and whatever else may have dropped out of his long scruffy beard.  

            “You must be one of the other guides,” Rose assumed.

             “I’m Riggs,” came from her cohort.

            “Riggs?” she confirmed as she raised an eyebrow. “Well, Riggs, it’s nice to meet you.”

            She holds out a hand and Riggs reaches across the circle to shake it.

            “I’m John,” another participant says as he holds out a hand.

            “Randy,” comes from the next in line and another handshake.

            “Bob,” and a nod from the next gentleman.

            The last of the participants didn’t play along like the others. He had visibly pulled back from the group and is standing a little sideways as if he’s got something to hide. His head is down and he’s yet to engage. He’s younger than the rest of the participants and much taller and, quite good-looking Rose thinks if he would just lift his head up.

            As Rose trains her eyes on him, she asks, “So who are you?”

            He lifts his head and turns towards her. She notices the left sleeve of his button-down Columbia PFG shirt is hanging limp with the cuff tucked into his belt. Their eyes meet. His stare rips through her. She feels the pain and anguish of what must be an incredibly difficult road this last particular participant is traveling.

            “My name’s Trick.”

            “Hey, Rose,” Tom cuts in. “Have you seen Billy?”

            “Billy?’ she asked with a condescending tone she quickly reels in as she snaps her head to Tom. She knows two of these guys are going to be fishing with him. It would be unfair to reveal her disdain that would no doubt, cause a predetermined bias for what they could expect out of him.

            “I haven’t seen him,” she continues with a much softer delivery. “I’m sure he’ll be here soon.”

            Her eyes go back to Trick. They continue to stare into each other, which is becoming increasingly obvious to the rest of the group and even a little uncomfortable to at least a couple of the guys as their heads drift down and they start picking through the gravel of the parking lot with the toes of their boots. She reveals a little bit of a smile and cocks her head slightly; squinting as to give him an inquisitive look.  Just for a moment, he smiles back and then his eyes fall to the ground and he joins in, to shuffle gravel.   

            “All right!” Tom claps his hands together, shocking the group to attention. “Let’s get this party started. Rose, you’ve got Dan and Pat. Riggs, you’re with John and Bob and when Billy gets here, he’ll take you, Randy and Trick. The guides know the drill. They will take care of you guys. We’ll be back at the shop around, four?”

            Rose and Riggs both nod.

            “Sweet,” Tom finishes. “Let’s do this.”

            Rose gestures to Dave and Pat to come with her and the group disperses. She grabs Pat by the arm to help him cross the parking lot as the wheels on his walker catch the stones in the grave. Heading to Rose’s rig, Billy comes rolling into the parking lot in his truck. He’s late and in an obvious hurry. He’s driving fast enough to kick up dust and make the patrons of the shop turn to see who this deuce bag is, burning through the lot. He locks up the breaks, slams the transmission into reverse and backs his truck to the tongue of his boat trailer he has left in the yard of the shop.

            Billy flings his door open and jumps out. A dented in, Bud Light can tumbles out of the door with him and rolls across the gravel. Billy shoves his lit cigarette into his mouth and bends down to pick up the can and chucks it into the back of his truck. He waves towards Tom.

            “Dumbass,” Rose says to herself under her breath.

            She turns her attention to Dave and Pat. “So how you guys doing on this fine spring morning?”

            “Great,” Dave answers. “Looking forward to this. It’s been a while since Pat and I have been able to get out.”

            Pat struggles, “We used to fish together all the time.”

            His words are tired. Rose can tell he’s having trouble putting sentences together. It’s a sad thing to watch people who have lived their lives getting out, doing things like hunting and fishing on their own, now having to rely on others for those few moments they might relive the glory days. Pat isn’t the first client she’s had that has struggled with getting older and more profoundly, dealing with this nasty disease at a relatively young age.

            “Oh yeah?” Rose asked. “Ever fish the Mo?”

            “You know, it’s crazy,” Dave says. “We both live in Bozeman and have fished all over the State—the Yellowstone, Madison, Gallatin when we could get out and wade-fish, and even the Big Horn but we’ve never fished the Missouri.”

            Pat ads, “We used to take one trip a year out of the state. We fished in Alaska and Idaho…”

            Showing a little impatience, Dave continues for Pat, “Yeah, we’ve fished all over the country, really. It was kind of our thing up until a couple years ago.”

            “Nice,” Rose says. “So you might be teaching me some things today.”

            “Hey, Rose!” Riggs yells across the parking lot. “Where you heading?”

            “Oh, probably Lower Canyon. You?”

            “Wasn’t sure. Mind if I tag along?” Riggs asked.

            “Not at all. The more the merrier,” she fires back.

            The two guides and four participants gather their lunches, fill their coolers with ice, load up into their trucks and head down stream to the Mid-Canon Fishing Access Site, which is located just a few miles north of Craig. As they begin the ritual of getting their gear together and boats rigged up, Billy comes flying into the FAS. His truck bounces over potholes and rocks. His trailer lifts up off the road and slams back down. His crew rocks back and forth fighting the inertia from slamming their heads against the door window of the truck. The truck slides to a halt next to Rose’s rig.

            “What’s up Rose?” Billy announces his arrival as he jumps out of his truck.

            “You decided to join us,” Rose answers.

            She watches as Billy’s two participants climb out of the truck. As Trick straightens up, she notices him looking down and shaking his head, scratching the back of his neck with his right hand.

            “That poor boy,” she thinks to herself. “He’s going to have a long day.”

            Riggs and Rose quickly get their gear together and launch their drift boats into the Missouri River. The water is cold and the clouds have built. They all have raingear on and waders. Rose stands in the water next to her boat and helps Pat lift a leg over the gunnel and into the bow. All the extra layers of clothing make it even harder to move around. He grabs the casting brace and pulls his body into the boat while Rose pushes. He plops down into the front seat.

            Rose pushes the boat away from the bank with the anchor down, holding the boat from drifting away. With the boat floating, Dave climbs in and sits down in the back. Rose folds Pat’s walker and places it along the front seat. There’s just enough room in her boat for all the gear, the walker and the three of them to barely fit. She sits down in the rower’s chair in the middle of the boat. They are off.

             The easiest way to get people into fish on the Missouri is to nymph fish. Clients cast about 20 feet of line with flies that sink and drift with the current along the bottom of the river where the majority of the fish are. A strike indicator that floats along on the surface of the water will tell the angler when their fly either catches up on the bottom or a fish takes their fly. As soon as the indicator gets pulled under the water, the client sets the hook and hopefully hooks the fish. The quicker the client is, the more opportunities they get for hooking fish.

            As the boat drifts downstream, Rose watches Pat’s indicator for any movement or signal of a trout eating his fly. Each time the indicator moves, Rose yells, “Hit it, Pat!”

            Due to the Parkinson’s, his reaction time is slower than it used to be and by the time he lifts his rod to set the hook, the trout he would normally catch, spits out the imitation and Pat comes up empty. Meanwhile, Dave is hooking fish and landing them with little effort.

            “Hit it!” Rose yells but again, Pat is too slow and he comes up empty.

            At around noon, the three boats pulled over onto a gravel bar off of an inside bend in the river. They set up a table and chairs and served lunch to the MWHP participants. The guides grabbed a sandwich and huddled up together.

            “How’s it going for you?” asked Riggs.

            “Nymphing’s pretty good,” Rose responds. “Or at least it would be but Pat’s a little slow on the trigger. It’s kind of sad. I think his Parkinson’s really taken its toll.”

            “Dude,” Billy cuts in. “I bet we put thirty in the net this morning.”

            “Hey Billy,” Riggs steps up. “Shut the hell up, alright. Not everyone can be as awesome as you.”

            Billy looks at Riggs as though he’s going say something and then thinks better of it as Riggs give him a contemplative stare.

            “You got something to say, Billy?” Riggs asks.

            “What the fuck, dude?” Billy responds.

            “Let me tell you something, Billy,” Riggs continues. “Be a pro. Show some humility. This isn’t a dick swinging contest and if it was, I’m sure this little lady would make you piss yourself. Tighten it up, dude. Your truck is trashed, everyone smells like smoke that has to ride with you. You drive like a fucking maniac…you think these guys enjoy getting thrown around the cab of your piece of shit Tacoma on the wat to the river, scared shitless that you’re going to wrap it around the next telephone pole? Grow the fuck up.”

            Riggs walks back to the group to make sure they all have what they need.

            “What the fuck was that?” Billy asks Rose.

            She shrugs, “You tell me. I don’t even know the guy.”

            Rose turns and walks back to the group with a shit-eaten grin on her face.

            She turns her attention to Trick and notices his prosthetic for a left arm. It’s a synthetic arm with two hooked pinchers for a hand. He didn’t have it at the beginning of the day but must have put it on once they got in the boat.

            “Where do you put your wedding ring?” Rose asks Trick while nodding towards the prosthetic.

            He looks up at her and responds, “Fortunately, I don’t have to worry about that.”

            “How’s the fishing,” She asks.

            “Well, the drill sergeant over there has gotten us into a lot of fish.”

            Billy is off by himself, licking his wounds and smoking a cigarette.

            “He can be a little intense,” Rose offers. “We’re not all like that. How’s the prosthetic working out?”

            “Oh,” Trick begins to answer. “Rather have the real thing but it’s working out.”

            “Hey, Rose!” Riggs calls her. “Look at that pod of fish working.”

            The group looks out into the shallow flat along the inside bend they are eating lunch on. It’s about one o’clock and the blue wing olives have started popping. With the heavy cloud cover, their wings don’t dry very quickly, as they collect on the water in a blanket of bugs. About a dozen fish have worked their way up to the flat and are now porpoising in unison to gulp bugs down. Less than a second between each time their noses poke up through the film of the top layer of river, they eat bug after bug after bug. It’s beautiful how efficient and effortless they look; staying in one place in the river waiting for the bugs to come to them as they only move an inch or two, to rise again and eat the next bug.  

            “I bet Pat would like to stick one of those pricks,” he puts a hand on Pat’s shoulder and gives him a little shake. “What do you think, Pat?”

            The color drains from Rose’s face. “Um…yeah. Hey Pat, you want to give ‘em a try?”

            If only Riggs could hear her inner dialog right now as she curses him up and down the river to herself. “I’ve been working with Pat all morning and now I’m supposed to get him to be able to present a fucking dry fly to these fish? What the hell, Riggs?”

She’s doing all she can to not actually mouth the words she wants to say to. “How am I going to get Pat to catch one of these fuckers eating dries? He can’t even nymph fish! There’s no fricken way! And them I’m going to waste all the time to re-rig his rod and then have to change it back…”

            “Yeah,” Pat declares. “I would like to try.”

            “FUCK!” She suppresses.

            “Awesome,” she actually says. “Let me just rig this rod up and we’ll teach these pricks a lesson.”

            As Pat finishes his lunch, Rose grabs his rod, switches leaders out from the kinked up leader due to crimping sinkers and a strike indicator on, with a new leader. She ads tippet material and ties on a single, size 16 parachute Adams. Trick watches intently, admiring how efficient she is with the entire process from tying a surgeons not for adding tippet to the leader to the Davie’s knot to tie on the fly.

            “Ready, Pat?” She asked.

            “Go get ‘em Pat,” Riggs encourages.

            Rose gives Riggs a glare.

            As Pat gets up from his chair, he grabs his walker and heads towards the river and the pod of fish. With rod in hand, she grabs Pat by the arm and helps him push the walker through the river-stone lining the beach. They walk out into the water together. She positions Pat upstream from the pod and at an angle to make a good reach-cast and feed the fly down stream to the pod. Pat takes some line off the reel, throws about 10 feet of line into his back cast and lays out an almost perfect cast just up stream from the pod.

            The lunch group entirely stops what they are doing and watches on.

            “That was awesome, Pat.” Rose praises. “You were just a couple feet short.”

            Pat slowly strips in line and tries it again setting the fly down on the water like a feather touching down, int the perfect line to cover the closest trout rising. The trout porpoises up to eat the Adams.

            “Oh..” Rose grunts. “Get ‘em, Pat.”

            When a trout eats a dry fly, you don’t want too quick or too hard of a hookset. The flies are much more delicate and it takes a second for the trout to close its mouth on the fly. With Pat’s condition, his timing was perfect. He lifted his rod-tip and came tight on this trout. It was just a little guy and Pat was able to bring it in without much finesse or struggle but it was a win.

            “Nice work, Pat!” Rose proclaims with a big pat on the back.

            The entire lunch group erupts as Pat turns to give an, “I got this,” kind of look.

            Rose helps Pat back to his chair and as he sits down she asks, “You doin alright, Pat? You look a little cold.”

            “No, I’m ok.” Pat retorts.

            “What do you think, Dave?” Rose asks.

            “Well, I’m kind of over this bobber fishing,” he responds.

            “Sweet,” Rose confuses. “Me too. You want to chuck and duck?”

            “What’s that?” Dave asks.

            “Big ‘ole streamers.” Rose answers back with a smile and a nod.

            “I’m in.”

            “You want to just keep that dry fly rod rigged up, Pat?” Rose asks. “We can look for more heads?”

            “Yeah,” Pat answers. “Let’s just do that.”

            They all load up into their perspective boats. Trick walks by Rose. He’s starting to warm up.

            “That was pretty cool, Rose.” He tells her.

            “Well, it was Riggs’ idea.” She admits.

            As Rose and her sports float down the river, she notices Pat slumped over in the front seat, with his rod; butt section on the floor of the leaning up against the casting brace in the bow, slumped over sleeping. She looks back and motions to Dave.

            “Oh, he’s alright.” Dave says. “He’s just sleeping. He does that.”

            Rose slides the drift boat into a side channel with willows hanging over the water and seams running past boulders creating pockets for trout to hide.

            “Throw it under those willows,” she directs Dave. “Strip it hard. Get that thing moving.”

            As Dave follows her orders, a brown and yellow streak rushes towards his streamer and he makes contact.

            “Got ‘em!” Dave yells. “That was fricken awesome.”

            Rose nets the 16-inch brown and lets it slide back into the cold Missouri water.

            “Let’s get another one, “she says.

            “I’m in.”

            Rose pulls the drift boat back out into the current and the three-sum continues downstream. Rose is rowing, looking back at Dave and pointing out structure to chuck his streamer into. Dave is doing his best to hit ever stream along ever rock. Pat is sleeping in the front seat. He doesn’t even flinch as Dave and Rose both shout and laugh and giggle as another brown trout comes out from behind another rock at a hundred miles an hour. It doesn’t even matter if Dave hooks up on them. It’s just fun as hell to watch the action.

            At the end of the channel, as the current meets the mainstream of the river, a seam merges where blue wing olives are collecting—creating a food trough for a pod of about 10 fish. Rose sees the fish and pulls on the oars to hold the boat in place against the current. As the boat stalls, she studies the pod and tries to determine her next move.

            “See that pod, Dave,” she points out.

            “Oh yeah. Awesome.” Dave says. “What do you think? We should get Pat on them, huh?”

            Rose slowly lets the boat drift down towards the pod of fish. It’s a little trick because there is a current-line coming in from the main channel and another conjoining with the side-channel they are in. She needs to slide the boat over to the port-side just a few feet to give Pat a shot. She slides over and slowly lowers the anchor as to not slam it down into the rocks and spook the fish. They are in the perfect position.

            “Hey, Pat,” Rose nudges him. “Do you see those fish coming up?”

            Pat lifts his head and doesn’t say a word. A slowly reaches down and grabs his Sage rod. He pulls the fly from the guide it was hooked on and lets it drop into the water. He methodically strips line off his reel, about two feet at a time. One pull off the reel after another, he strips until he feels like he has enough line to reach the pod.

            “You see that one on the close edge, Pat?” Rose asks. “That’s the one you want. See how much water he’s moving when he eats? That’s a big fish.”

            Pat doesn’t say a word. He shakes his rod to let some line out the tip-top and allows it to drift down stream. He slowly lifts the rod and drags the line towards the boat and then with a burst of energy, thrusts the rod tip towards the pod.

            Amazingly, that compact cast with the least amount of effort, shoots 50 feet of line out of the rod tip and straightens out to lay the fly softly on the water just six feet above his target. He feeds another few feet of line out and with the angle, has just enough to put the fly right on the sipping trout’s nose. One cast and Pat his center punched his target and that trout gulps down his fly.

            Rose doesn’t say a word. She just watches in awe as Pat, in his own time, lifts the rod up and comes tight on the eighteen-inch rainbow. The trout goes airborne as it trying to throw Pat’s fly. Rose reaches up and pats him on the back as his fights this Missouri River trophy.

            “Absolutely astounding,” she proclaims. “Astounding.”

            Pat brings the rainbow towards the boat. Rose jumps out into the thigh-deep water to assist with the net.

            “You want a pic of this one?” She asks.

            “Ok,” Pat replies.

            Rose holds the fish, Pat points at it with a big grin and Dave snaps a picture with his Olympus digital camera. Rose lowers the trout back into the water and is slides out of her hand facing upstream and slowly swims away.

            As Rose climbs back into the boat and takes her seat, she looks back to the seam. With all the commotion, the pod moved upstream about ten feet and started rising to the surface to feed again.

            “Pat,” she calls out. “They’re still coming up. You want to take another shot?”

            “Ok,” he says.

            Pat goes through the process of pulling line off the reel again and again, drops a dime just upstream from the fish on the outside edge of the seam and again, the fish slurps down his fly. Pat comes tight and fights this fish for a few seconds before it pulls the hooks. As Pat gathers up his line, the pod comes back up.

            “You want to take another shot?” Rose asks.

            “No. I’ve molested these fish enough,” Pat decides. Then he puts his rod down by his side and drifts back to sleep.