PastorLevi (US)

 The following is a chapter in a book I wrote entitled "High Above the River" and published by Laughing Loon Books.


The Fishing Trip



Bill sat in the cab of his pickup tipping the bottom of his thermos high into the air and emptying its contents into the blue ceramic mug that he held in his left hand. Wrinkled, bony fingers with swollen knuckles hardly fit through the chipped handle. The rim around the top of the mug had a chunk taken out of it from a spill it took from the kitchen table onto his linoleum floor back home. As he spun the cover back onto the thermos he stared at the mug he had placed gently on the dash of the old Chevrolet.
Elaine had given it to him for Christmas one year, and he would be using it until it just couldn’t possibly be used anymore. It had the image of a leaping rainbow trout on it. Even if it couldn’t be used for drinking anymore, he would do the best he could to repair it, and he would use it for a pencil holder, or fill it with screws or nails or something else.
Bill cherished Elaine. He clung to her memory and anything and everything that reminded him of her. He placed the thermos down on the floor of the passenger’s side of the truck, and then he reached out with his right hand to retrieve the mug. Steam rose from the last cupful of the rich, black liquid. He cupped both hands around it and brought the mug to his lips but didn’t drink any of it.
He closed his eyes and drank in the aroma of the coffee as he traveled back in time in his mind to the days when he would rise up from a good night’s sleep to discover that Elaine had already gone from her spot in the bed beside him. She had risen earlier and retreated to her own private place, the kitchen. Cliff would lie in bed, and smell the fragrance of fresh perked coffee, mixed with the sounds and smells of bacon and eggs snapping and popping in an iron skillet.
The scene played itself out as fresh as ever in his mind, he saw himself jumping out of bed, and wrapping his old, rust-colored and worn bathrobe around him. He slipped his feet into the wool lined moose-hide slippers she had purchased out of the sporting good’s catalog one Christmas long ago. He passed through the door that led from the hallway at the bottom of the stairs into the kitchen, and there she would be. She stood dressed in her favorite long flannel nightgown, with her long blonde hair, straight and falling over her shoulders with a graceful and feminine sweep. The morning sunlight streamed in from the window behind her highlighting her silhouette, thrilling his heart and confirming there was life yet left in him.
When she saw him, her eyes lit up like a hundred suns in a hundred skies, and her smile spread as wide as the ocean itself. Her arms were as open as her smile as she rushed into his arms. As she pressed her body against his, her heart began beating in a cooperative rhythm with his own. She closed her eyes as he bowed his head toward hers, searching for a gentle touch. Just as his lips met hers he was awakened from his daydream by the sound of a barking dog beside him on the bench seat of his pickup.
Barnabas had spied two mallard ducks moving low over the Penobscot River, homing in on some unseen spot downriver, and flying like a pair of Phantom jets. Bill knew that when the pug was a puppy that it was female well enough. But, the name ‘Barnabas’ meant encouragement, and he was looking for emotional support when he got her as a gift, two years ago this summer, and he was hoping that Barney would live up to her name; she did.
“Good girl.”
Bill didn’t waste too many words speaking to Barney. He did speak to the dog more than he spoke to anyone else though. He slipped the steaming mug up onto its place on the dash, and reached to smooth the dog’s wrinkled skin on the top of her head. She turned to show her appreciation through huge brown, moist eyes, and just as quickly turned back to check on the ducks that had gone down stream.
Barney barked out one last round of sharp warnings before she turned her attention back to Bill with her tongue licking and smacking, thrust alternately up between her eyes and then down under her chin. She was jet black and a purebred, but Bill had never bothered filing any papers, or paying any fees. It didn’t seem very important to him to do that then, and it seemed even less important now.
He pulled up on the handle to the driver’s door, and then pushed it open with some effort as it squeaked and squawked rebellion and fought him all the way. He swung his feet out from under the steering wheel and his leather boots hit the hard ground with a soft sound.
He turned and reached for his .22 Ruger revolver that he kept in its holster behind the seat of his pickup. He had never had to use it for protection, but he’d heard plenty of stories of a roaming rabid skunk or porcupine. This part of the deep woods were filled with coyote and fox and Bill wanted to be ready, if need be, so he brought it with him today. And, too, there was no telling what Barnabas might get into.
As he strapped the weapon around his waist he spoke softly, “Come on, Barney, let’s go.”
That was the signal she was waiting for. Her tail, curled tightly on top of her back, began to switch rapidly as she bounded from her seat by the far window down onto the floor of the cab. She scooted around the stick shift and leaped out into the tall grass next to her master. Still fascinated by the waterfowl, she zipped around the truck and faced the direction that the ducks had disappeared into earlier, and began barking again. She would always have the last word.
Bill smiled at the dog. Elaine had been gone only a few months, and he had to admit that he was awfully lonely. His buddies thought he might be able to use the company of the small dog, especially one that might fit on the tiny woven front seat of his fourteen foot Old Town Discovery.
He was reminded of just how much encouragement Barney really was when she returned to his feet, sat on her rump, and gazed up into his face with her big, round, cow eyes, waiting for the next instruction.
He pulled the zipper of his red and black-checkered wool coat up against the early morning chill. There was a foggy mist that rose from the surface of the river giving the morning an eerie, solitary feeling.
The water moved deliberately, but slowly this time of year. Subsurface obstructions and structure caused little riffles here and there. The occasional granite boulder thrust itself through the surface, splitting the current and forcing it to one side of the rock or the other, causing it to speed up and create some visible turbulence. Bill knew that water that churned like that generated more oxygen, as well as the rock providing a resting place for a hungry bass. He was sure there would be a nice smallmouth hanging just behind it, waiting patiently for breakfast.
The sound of the river, coupled with the rustling of the leaves in the early morning breeze was gentle music to the fisherman’s ears. He stood still and patient, listening intently for the sound of the chickadee’s call or the scolding of a jay.
Barney sat uncomplaining, waiting for his master’s next movement. Bill prayed a silent prayer to his own Master, thanking him for the day, and the beauty of it, as was his custom every day.
After a few more moments, Bill made his way to the back of the truck, untied the lines that secured the canoe into the bed, and tugged on the stern.
“Look out, Barney!” Bill commanded the dog to scoot out of the way as the canoe dropped to the ground from the tailgate with loud thump.
In his younger days, Bill could have picked up the canoe and carried it across his back to portage it a great distance with little fatigue. But now he had resigned himself to dragging it behind him wherever he had to go. He had several spots along the river where he could get very close to the edge of the water with the truck. Of late, he had been picking one of these places where he had to handle the boat as little as possible whenever it was out of the water. He especially like putting in at this spot because it was only a day trip of drifting and fishing before he could pull the boat out at the town’s boat landing just behind Riverside Church.
He planned to leave his boat there, walk across the street to the restaurant for some supper, and then have one of his buddies drive him back to his truck. From there he would be able to drive back to the landing, retrieve his own canoe, and go home for a good night’s sleep.
The canoe dragged behind him, the keel bumping and grinding over gravel and grass until he reached the small cove where he would launch her. Returning from the truck, he gently placed the cooler that held their dinner and snacks amidships. He secured the small, round dog’s bed that served as Barney’s seat for the duration of the trip in the bow area. From there she could bark directions and instructions to Bill as she commandeered the ship for the rest of the day.
“In, Barney.” That was all that the old gentleman had to say. The little dog barked once, and hopped over the gunwale and settled into his position, just like she had done a thousand times before.
Bill pushed the bow out into the river and pushed the extra paddle along the deck toward Barney before he donned his fishing vest that doubled as a life jacket. It contained a set of CO2 lungs that inflated with just a jerk on the cord that hung out of the left chest pocket. He found these to be much more comfortable to wear while fishing than the more traditional style.
Don’t forget your life jacket! He could still see Elaine and hear her giving those final instructions as he left on his trips in the canoe in years past. He always promised her then, and he still kept the promise today, to wear the life jacket whenever he was out in the canoe.
He settled into the stern seat and pushed out from shore with his paddle. The bow caught the current as the boat slid out from the protection of the quiet little cove. With very little effort, Bill was headed directly downstream. He took the time to put the paddle in the water to quicken the pace for a moment, and twisted it slightly to direct them out toward the middle of the river.
When he was about sixty or seventy feet offshore, he gently placed the paddle across the gunwales, and reached for his spinning outfit. It didn’t take him long to rig up with his favorite “go to” bait, a plastic worm rigged “wacky style”. The blue color with gold flakes consistently produced the best. Some fishermen would use a weight, but Bill had found consistently better luck with just a line, hook, and five-inch worm. He would cast it, and let it sink naturally, without any twitching or infusing action on his part. Once the worm settled on the bottom, he would twitch the end of the rod tip, just enough to give the worm a little bit of swimming movement. And then he would wait. After a while, if nothing happened, he would twitch it again.
“What’s up, Barney?” Bill looked up quickly when he heard the jet-black dog bark. His gaze followed the direction that she was pointed. A cow moose was on the opposite shore, feeding on some kind of delicacy under the surface. He spied her just in time to see her head pop up from below the waterline, and he watched the water run off her head and back. She blew water out through her flared nostrils and then eyed the pair without alarm. Weeds and pads dripped from both sides of her mouth as she chewed. Bill’s heart thrilled as he watched her flick her ears and switch her tail to ward off the insects that feasted on her. She looked like she had survived the winter well. She wore a shiny, healthy coat and appeared to be about six hundred pounds or so.
Bill looked around and saw no sign of a calf. No matter how many times he had seen these great beasts of the Maine woods in the wild, he would watch them as if it were for the first time. Some folks thought them to be ugly and awkward, but Bill saw them as a beautiful animal, well suited for the Maine woods, and perfectly proportioned for the task God had given them. Both Barney and Bill kept their eyes upon the animal until the canoe disappeared around a bend down the river.
“Well,” Bill muttered so that Barney could hear, “time to get to work.”
His eyes scoured the nearby surface of the river for any signs that a feeding bass might be there. He noticed a mostly submerged log with just the tip of it sticking out of the water. It created a soft “V” shape as the river parted on either side of the branch. The bottom of that piece of driftwood must have lodged itself, somehow, between two boulders on the bottom.
“There’s a good looking spot, Barn.” Bill was intent on finding out. He positioned the rod at about two o’clock high behind him with the bait hanging about five inches from the tip. He snapped the rod forward with his wrist and let the bait coast through the air until it landed about eight or ten feet above the branch in the water. He let the worm drift naturally, right past the nose of some unsuspecting bass who would be just waiting for such a meal.
Bill pulled the line taught and waited. He reeled in a little bit, and then a little bit more. The boat was drifting a little faster than he liked, but there wasn’t much he could do about that right now. He had to pay close attention, making sure to keep the line tight, but not so tight that the bait bounced along the bottom at the same speed as the boat.
“Barney! What’s that?” He smiled as he felt a slight tap. Then another. He quickly reeled in the bait and brought it into the boat.
“Nope. Nothing.” There was no disappointment in his voice as he said out loud to Barney, “Bluegill or a chub.” He looked right into Barney’s bright eyes as he added, “and we don’t want any of those, do we Barn?”
He rearranged the bait on his hook. It was certain that something had been picking at the bait. It was not a bass, though. It was something smaller, Bill was sure of it.
He was just about to toss the worm out again when he spied the perfect hiding place for a big bass just ahead. He could see that about two hundred feet ahead the west bank had worked its way out into the river. Here, where the river was not as wide, the river’s current picked up speed. An ancient oak stood near the water’ edge, spreading its branches wide over the water. Directly underneath that silent sentinel stood a string of boulders that created some white water and some turbulence. A deeper pool lay just below the rocks. Bill knew that this was a prime spot for a large bronzeback to sit and wait. Food would drop out of this tree and drift down around these rocks in the current.
Bill grabbed the paddle and straightened the canoe so that it headed directly downstream. He also pulled it several feet closer to shore, and then he waited patiently for the river to take him just above this “honey hole”. When he was close enough so that he was certain one cast would put his bait just above the line of rocks, he swung the rod back over his head, and then quickly snapped it forward. He triggered the line with his finger, guessing at the proper distance.
“Perfect, Barney,” he exclaimed. Barnabas barked her delight at her master’s pleasure. The dog stayed sensitive to his moods, and, when Bill was happy, Barney was happy.
The blue and gold-flecked worm landed just three feet upstream from the targeted rocks. The swift current took it between two of the rocks that were the closest to the bank. It happened so quickly, and the monster bass hit the bait so hard and so fast that Bill didn’t have enough time to click the bail shut on his reel so that he could reel in and tighten up the line. There was no tap, tap, tap this time. The trophy realized that he was hooked, and headed from behind the rocks out into deeper water with one massive tug, putting a strain on the rod. Bill struggled to keep the rod tip high and make some adjustment to the drag.
He spied the downed tree that had drifted near a sand bar and settled into its resting place sometime during the spring thaw. The bass was headed for the safety provided by the spreading branches of the tree that lay underneath the surface. Somehow these fish know that they can entangle the line in those branches so the fisherman can’t control the fight. Bill didn’t know how a bass could know that, but he would swear to it that they did.
He pulled the line a bit tighter, and tried to reel the fish in against the drag, but it wasn’t working. The monofilament was drawn so tight that the line sang a high-pitched tune as the morning breeze passed around it. He kept a careful eye at the line as it passed into the surface of the water. Just beyond where the line entered the river, the bass made his first attempt at throwing the hook. He jumped at least two feet above the surface of the river, spraying water in all directions. He flipped and flopped and showed himself full of strength, long and bronzed, and fat.
Barney barked her approval and bounced upon her bed in the bow of the canoe. Her rear legs stiffened out as she puffed up her chest, thrust out her short snout, and gave it all she had. She was every bit as excited as Bill was, maybe more so, and wanted to help in any way that she could.
The sides of the fish glistened as it reflected the sunlight, and his markings were clear and beautiful. This guy did have a bright brownish back! The Penobscot River is renowned for its world-class smallmouth bass fishing, and it was fish like this one that kept that reputation alive. The bass was unsuccessful at throwing the hook. The brute dropped back into the river and sped toward the safety of the underwater tree.
Bill was so involved with fighting this fish that he didn’t notice his canoe begin to drift sideways in the current. The bow had swung around to the opposite shore, which left the boat broadside to the current. The Old Town picked up speed until it was traveling at the same speed as the river. He realized the danger almost too late to do anything about it. He was headed for a huge boulder that jutted up more than three feet above the surface. There was such a turbulence caused by this rock splitting the speeding water, that it created white water on both sides of it.
The approach to the obstacle was rough, evidence that there were more dangerous rocks just underneath the surface. If the canoe entered into this area broadside, it was certain to capsize and pin against the granite.
Bill returned his attention to the big fish just in time to see it leap again, this time higher than the first. This fish had a broader tail than he had seen on any smallmouth in a long time. He guessed the weight somewhere between four and five pounds. Barney had quieted down in the meantime, but this last jump set her off again. She barked and growled, and bounced around on her pillow, and the hair stood up on the back of her neck.
The fish returned to the river with a big splash, and headed again for the tree. Bill raised the rod tip one more time, adjusted the drag on the reel, and tried to prevent the fish from reaching safety.
The canoe picked up more speed and Bill felt the danger ahead coming closer. He turned his head just in time to see his boat enter into the unsettled surface of the swift current. The sound of the white water increased and demanded his attention. Barney felt the tension rising and her bark changed to a “yip”, and she dived into the bow of the canoe and settled down, pressing her belly into the deck. She had seen this happen before.
Bill took his last chance to drop his rod and pick up his paddle and begin to pull himself to the inside of the river, the shortest distance away from the dangerous swirls. Three or four powerful thrusts dragged him out of harm’s way.
“Hop up, Barn,” Bill smiled at Barnabas, still cowering in the bow. “You’ll be okay.”
He stretched out his arm and touched Barney’s pillow with the tip of his paddle and repeated, “up, Barn, hop up!” Barney’s tongue lashed out, licking her own nose, and obeyed.
Then Bill remembered his fish! He carefully placed his paddle down alongside his tackle box and leaned forward to retrieve his rod.
“Aw, shoot.” That one short statement revealed his great disappointment. Barney cocked her head sideways, panting, and wondered what was up.
Bill reeled in the line as quickly as he could. When the end of the line reached the tip of the rod, Bill’s shoulders drooped. He looked at the little black dog and said simply, “gone, Barn.” We’ll catch him again, someday, the good Lord willing, Bill thought.
He paddled the boat into an eddy that was hidden just beyond a jetty of land on the western shore that looked like a nice, quiet cove. When they were sitting nearly still, Bill re-rigged with another worm, the same color. If it worked once, it’ll work again. Once he completed the task, he sat still and looked around him at how beautiful the day was, and thanked the Lord again for his surroundings.
“Thank you, Lord,” he said out loud. Barney thought he was talking to her. She spun around to face him, and stood at attention on her pillow. Bill could smell the musty odor of the boggy marsh that so often invited the moose to come in for their supper in the evenings. He spied several beaver slides as they led down into the water; although he didn’t see any evidence that they’d been at work recently.
Colorful dragonflies zipped around his head, searching for mosquitoes to eat, and would occasionally land on his cap for a rest. He examined a mayfly hatch and mused that he might try a fly later, if the worm stopped working for him. The sun was higher in the sky now, and it was getting warmer. He took his hat off and let the sun reach his face and his balding head.
He sat quietly and listened to the gentle sound of the water lapping where it met the canoe. High up in an Eastern White pine, a chipmunk was scolding someone for something. His tail flailed and snapped with every word he spoke. An osprey soared overhead, circling, searching for a mid-morning snack. The breeze was picking up and rustled the leaves in the trees, stirring them into action and sound. Bill was certain that even if he didn’t catch anything worth bringing home for supper, this had been one, fine day. Better than he had dared to hope for.
He reached for his paddle to make his way back into the main stream and when he did, he noticed an odd shaped color, partially hidden up under the edge of the alders along the lower side of the eddy that they rested in.
A log? Bill pondered.
No. The color was too bright. He sat quietly, and his curiosity kicked in. He watched the object for a few more moments, watching it bob up and down in the shaded area, and decided that he couldn’t figure out just what it was. He’d have to move closer. He dipped his paddle gently into the water to push the canoe in the direction of the mystery. He pressed with just enough effort to glide slowly toward it, studying it as he slid across the surface.
“What is that, Barn?” Barney didn’t answer, but kept her attention on her master.
When he came within twenty feet of the thing, his demeanor sank and his heart came up in his throat. His pulse quickened, and he swallowed hard. He was hoping against hope that this was not what he thought it was.
He discerned an arm, twisted unnaturally, with a hand lying behind the corpse’s back. The arm on the far side of the body could not be seen. Bill could tell that one of the legs had caught up under the branches, which is what had helped to keep the body out of sight from any distance. A dark-colored, hooded sweatshirt covered the torso, and the hood was pulled up over the head that was face down in the water. A large snapping turtle popped his head up out of the water near the feet of the body, and quickly disappeared when it saw Bill.
Not a word was spoken, but Barney sensed the mood become somber. He sat quietly and watched his master’s chin drop to his chest as he closed his eyes. Bill was overcome with emotion, even though he had seen death many times throughout his years. He lifted his head to look at Barney; his eyes had become watery and his hands shook slightly. He lifted his hat from his head and looked toward the heavens and spoke inaudibly, reverently. For what seemed an eternity to Barney, he sat with his elbows propped up by his knees, drawing in one deep breath after another.
After a time, he wiped his brow with his shirtsleeve and jammed his ball cap back on his head.
“Well, Barn,” Bill stated matter-of-factly, “this is the end of our fishing trip for today.”
Then he maneuvered the canoe parallel to the shore, trying to position it so that he could load the body into the craft. Bill moved to the center of the boat and worked at untangling the victim’s legs from the clutching branches of the alders that held the poor soul. Trying to maintain balance and a low center of gravity, Bill leaned over the side of the canoe and thrust one hand inside the corpse’s jeans at the small of his back. He pulled the hood down so that he could get a good grasp on the shirt collar, and pulled with all he had. The body was heavier than Bill had expected it to be. He had to let go, thinking the boat was about to capsize.
“Lord,” Bill prayed out loud as he slumped his shoulders. “You know that I’m in a predicament here. I can’t leave this person here.” He sat silent and still, not really expecting an answer.
He watched Barney in the bow watching him. The dog jumped down off her red bed with her tail wagging, and made her way over a coiled anchor rope to try and comfort her master.
Bill stretched his hand to retrieve the rope to make it easier for the little dog. “That’s it, Barney!” Bill exclaimed as the idea struck him.
He untied the anchor from the rope, tied one end around the waist of the body, and the other to the carrying handle molded into the stern of the canoe. Once he assured himself that the body was free from the alders, he left about six to eight feet of line between the boat and the body. Then he paddled slowly across the small cove to a spot where he knew there was enough space so that he could both land the craft and pull the body ashore.
The bow grounded against the gravel, and Barney bounced out onto dry land like a beach ball. Bill steadied himself, grabbing both gunwales and following the dog’s lead. Once he had his feet secured in the oozing mud, he pulled the canoe up onto the shore just enough so that he could reach the rope tied to the stern. He set his teeth, squared his jaw, and pulled. The body came willingly at first, but grounded out in about a foot of water, and became caught on a submerged stump. He pulled harder, but then realized that the dead body’s shirt had gotten caught.
Bill was committed to treating this person with as much respect as possible, and dared not risk damaging the body, or any evidence that might help the authorities discover what had happened to them. In fact, it occurred to him that he should not have moved the body at all!
I’ve moved it this far, he muttered to himself, and reluctantly continued with the task.
So, out he waded, about six or seven feet, to retrieve the remains by hand.
As he investigated, he discovered that a sharp edge on the top rim of the stump had lodged itself into the sweatshirt, poking a hole through the material and holding it tight.
He had to roll the cadaver onto it’s back to free it, and he shuddered as he looked into the face of this person that he had never met. He wondered if this poor soul had a family who loved them. Surely someone was missing them by now, wondering what could have happened, and where they could possibly be. There was no time to speculate about all of that now, he muttered to himself.
He grabbed the shirt collar at the back of the neck and dragged the corpse behind him until it lay still, directly beside the canoe. He propped the lifeless form in a sitting position amidships and forced the shoulders and torso back as much as he dared. He moved to the feet, picking them up with one leg on either side of his own body, and with an audible grunt and much effort, he was able to dump the body inside the boat. It remained twisted, and without protest in an awkward position.
Bill didn’t like having to look at the open eyes and mouth, so he pulled the sweatshirt up as high as he could on the body. That allowed him to pull the hood over the head and down toward the chin to cover the face. He stayed standing in the water, holding the canoe steady.
“Come on, Barney,” Bill called to his reluctant passenger who was sniffing and exploring the sights and scents along the shoreline. “Hop in.” Uncharacteristically, he commanded Barney three times before she obeyed. Barnabas was uncertain about the new passenger.
He spun the canoe around so that the bow was headed toward the current, and then he hopped into the stern and began paddling briskly, headed down stream for the parking lot of the church in Riverside.