WEST BANK, SNAKE RIVER. OCTOBER 15, 2013.
3 P.M. MOUNTAIN STANDARD TIME.
“You sneaky little bastard!” Jake Trent hissed under his breath. Talking to himself. A sure sign of obsession.
The object of his disdain wasn’t that little. Seventeen or eighteen inches at least. A good-size fish. Big enough to be a worthy adversary, if he could ever get the size 18 cinnamon ant where it needed to be.
It was a tough shot: forty-five feet across Trout Creek, upstream of the tree roots and ten inches in under the willow. It would require a big mend, but without submerging the ant, which would prevent Jake from seeing the strike. He was on river right, looking upstream and across to river left, where the king sat in his castle.
The mend, the upstream flip of the fly line meant to preserve the dry fly’s natural drift, had been the problem. Jake had made the proper cast a few times, but his mend pulled the fly under the surface, where the big guy couldn’t see it. On the last cast, Jake had seen his quarry, with its butter-yellow underbelly, trail the sunken fly, considering it. But the fish sensed something was awry. Back to the castle.
Jake had a few more casts at most. The fish was onto him. It had slowed its feeding rhythm considerably, wary of an imitation. The wind wasn’t helping. It was picking up as the afternoon wore on, rustling the sparsely dressed willows. With it came a cold blast, a herald of the approaching winter.
Jake switched the rod to his left hand to make the cast. He found the mend easier with his upstream hand. The first cast fell embarrassingly short. A small fish pecked at the ant, but Jake pulled it away. He didn’t want a small-time tussle to spook the one he was really after.
His second attempt was spot-on. The fly drifted right over the fish. The king of the trout rose, and his mouth enveloped the fly.
Jake pulled up to set the hook, but his left hand lacked the coordination of his right. It was too much. He felt the weight of the fish for only a second before the fly tore free. The fish splashed in a fury, wondering what the hell had just pricked him in the mouth. King Cutty was gone, looking for a new kingdom to call home, where stinging cinnamon ants wouldn’t bother him.
“Damn!” More talking to himself. “Only been working him for a month now.”
If they were all easy, it wouldn’t be any fun. Jake relished the smart ones. They challenged him. Right now, he needed that. A restless feeling engulfed him every autumn; the tourists were all but gone, and the best fishing was behind him. Little to no business for the bed-and-breakfast. I need a vacation, he thought. But to where?
Jake bit through the tippet and stuck the fly in his hat for next time. He walked through the high grass back to the front door of the “guesthouse,” Jake’s own residence on the property he owned—a little irony he enjoyed—broke down the three-piece rod, and slid it back in its case. He could leave it conveniently assembled for his next walkabout, likely tomorrow, but Jake liked to put everything back in its place: the reel in its faux-velvet bag, and the eight-foot, four-weight Winston back in its PVC tube.
After his equipment was stashed, he grabbed a diet soda from the fridge and shuffled over to an old cowhide sofa by the wood-burning stove. The flames from the morning were withering, and the pile outside was diminished. Jake made a mental note to pick up the cord of wood that J.P.—his occasional employee—had chopped for the bed-and-breakfast, the Fin and Feather.
Jake’s cell phone was buzzing on the side table. Area code 202. Jake flew through old associations. DC. Who could be calling from Washington?
“Hello?”
“Jake?” A woman’s voice.
“Who am I speaking with?”
“It’s Divya.”
Momentary confusion, then a bolt of recognition. “Divya Navaysam?”
“How many Divyas do you know?” A sweet, flirty tone.
He thought he’d recognized the voice, but it had been so long. What in the world does she want?
“I’m calling to ask you a favor. It’s about a legal issue—a civil rights issue, actually. Influencing Washington away from some scary legislation. Speaking truth to power—your sort of thing.” Divya went silent for a moment, allowing her words to sink in. “I think you’ll want to hear what I have to say.”
“I’m not a lobbyist.”
“It’s not a lobby. Just listen.”
Sounds like a lobby, he thought. But Divya had slyly employed that damned quote. Speaking truth to power. One of his favorites. The keystone of legal scholar Robert Cover’s avant-garde critiques on the state of twentieth-century law. Long before Cover, it was a Quaker maxim, as meaningful now as ever: to stand strong against totalitarianism.
Jake looked out the window at the woods behind the guesthouse. A breeze blew brown shells of life from the streamside willows. Fall was here. He was looking at a month or more of reading and fire stoking before there was too much snow to do anything.
“Well, go ahead.”