Big Two-Hearted River Read online

on the logs. Nick tied a new hook on the leader, pulling the gut tight until

  it grimped into itself in a hard knot.

  He baited up, then picked up the rod and walked to the far end of the

  logs to get into the water, where it was not too deep. Under and beyond the

  logs was a deep pool. Nick walked around the shallow shelf near the swamp

  shore until he came out on the shallow bed of the stream.

  On the left, where the meadow ended and the woods began, a great elm

  tree was uprooted. Gone over in a storm, it lay back into the woods, its

  roots clotted with dirt, grass growing in them, rising a solid bank beside

  the stream. The river cut to the edge of the uprooted tree. From where Nick

  stood he could see deep channels, like ruts, cut in the shallow bed of the

  stream by the flow of the current. Pebbly where he stood and pebbly and full

  of boulders beyond; where it curved near the tree roots, the bed of the

  stream was marly and between the ruts of deep water green weed fronds swung

  in the current.

  Nick swung the rod back over his shoulder and forward, and the line,

  curving forward, laid the grasshopper down on one of the deep channels in

  the weeds. A trout struck and Nick hooked him.

  Holding the rod far out toward the uprooted tree and sloshing backward

  in the current. Nick worked the trout, plunging, the rod bending alive, out

  of the danger of the weeds into the open river. Holding the rod, pumping

  alive against the current. Nick brought the trout in. He rushed, but always

  came, the spring of the rod yielding to the rushes, sometimes jerking under

  water, but always bringing him in. Nick eased downstream with the rushes.

  The rod above his head he led the trout over the net, then lifted.

  The trout hung heavy in the net, mottled trout back and silver sides in

  the meshes. Nick unhooked him; heavy sides, good to hold, big undershot jaw,

  and slipped him, heaving and big sliding, into the long sack that hung from

  his shoulders in the water.

  Nick spread the mouth of the sack against the current and it filled,

  heavy with water. He held it up, the bottom in the stream, and the water

  poured out through the sides. Inside at the bottom was the big trout, alive

  in the water.

  Nick moved downstream. The sack out ahead of him sunk heavy in the

  water, pulling from his shoulders.

  It was getting hot, the sun hot on the back of his neck.

  Nick had one good trout. He did not care about getting many trout. Now

  the stream was shallow and wide. There were trees along both banks. The

  trees of the left bank made short shadows on the current in the forenoon

  sun. Nick knew there were trout in each shadow. In the afternoon, after the

  sun had crossed toward the hills, the trout would be in the cool shadows on

  the other side of the stream.

  The very biggest ones would lie up close to the bank. You could always

  pick them up there on the Black. When the sun was down they all moved out

  into the current. Just when the sun made the water blinding in the glare

  before it went down, you were liable to strike a big trout anywhere in the

  current. It was almost impossible to fish then, the surface of the water was

  blinding as a mirror in the sun. Of course, you could fish upstream, but in

  a stream like the Black, or this, you had to wallow against the current and

  in a deep place, the water piled up on you. It was no fun to fish upstream

  with this much current.

  Nick moved along through the shallow stretch watching the banks for

  deep holes. A beech tree grew close beside the river, so that the branches

  hung down into the water. The stream went back in under the leaves. There

  were always trout in a place like that.

  Nick did not care about fishing that hole. He was sure he would get

  hooked in the branches.

  It looked deep though. He dropped the grasshopper so the current took

  it under water, back in under the overhanging branch. The line pulled hard

  and Nick struck. The trout threshed heavily, half out of water in the leaves

  and branches. The line was caught. Nick pulled hard and the trout was off.

  He reeled in and holding the hook in his hand, walked down the stream.

  Ahead, close to the left bank, was a big log. Nick saw it was hollow;

  pointing up river the current entered it smoothly, only a little ripple

  spread each side of the log. The water was deepening. The top of the hollow

  log was gray and dry. It was partly in the shadow.

  Nick took the cork out of the grasshopper bottle and a hopper clung to

  it. He picked him off, hooked him and tossed him out. He held the rod far

  out so that the hopper on the water moved into the current flowing into the

  hollow log. Nick lowered the rod and the hopper floated in. There was a

  heavy strike. Nick swung the rod against the pull. It felt as though he were

  hooked into the log itself, except for the live feeling.

  He tried to force the fish out into the current. It came, heavily.

  The line went slack and Nick thought the trout was gone. Then he saw

  him, very near, in the current, shaking his head, trying to get the hook

  out. His mouth was clamped shut. He was fighting the hook in the clear

  flowing current.

  Looping in the line with his left hand. Nick swung the rod to make the

  line taut and tried to lead the trout toward the net, but he was gone, out

  of sight, the line pumping. Nick fought him against the current, letting him

  thump in the water against the spring of the rod. He shifted the rod to his

  left hand, worked the trout upstream, holding his weight, fighting on the

  rod, and then let him down into the net. He lifted him clear of the water, a

  heavy half circle in the net, the net dripping, unhooked him and slid him

  into the sack.

  He spread the mouth of the sack and looked down in at the two big trout

  alive in the water.

  Through the deepening water. Nick waded over to the hollow log. He took

  the sack off, over his head, the trout flopping as it came out of water, and

  hung it so the trout were deep in the water. Then he pulled himself up on

  the log and sat, the water from his trouser and boots running down into the

  stream. He laid his rod down, moved along to the shady end of the log and

  took the sandwiches out of his pocket. He dipped the sandwiches in the cold

  water. The current carried away the crumbs. He ate the sandwiches and dipped

  his hat full of water to drink, the water running out through his hat just

  ahead of his drinking.

  It was cool in the shade, sitting on the log. He took a cigarette out

  and struck a match to light it. The match sunk into the gray wood, making a

  tiny furrow. Nick leaned over the side of the log, found a hard place and

  lit the match. He sat smoking and watching the river.

  Ahead the river narrowed and went into a swamp. The river became smooth

  and deep and the swamp looked solid with cedar trees, their trunks dose

  together, their branches solid. It would not be possible to walk through a

  swamp like that. The branches grew so low. You would have to keep almost

  level with the ground to move at all. You could not crash through the

  branches. That must be why the anim
als that lived in swamps were built the

  way they were. Nick thought.

  He wished he had brought something to read. He felt like reading. He

  did not feel like going on into the swamp. He looked down the river. A big

  cedar slanted all the way across the stream. Beyond that the river went into

  the swamp.

  Nick did not want to go in there now. He felt a reaction against deep

  wading with the water deepening up under his armpits, to hook big trout in

  places impossible to land them. In the swamp the banks were bare, the big

  cedars came together overhead, the sun did not come through, except in

  patches; in the fast deep water, in the half light, the fishing would be

  tragic. In the swamp fishing was a tragic adventure. Nick did not want it.

  He did not want to go down the stream any further today.

  He took out his knife, opened it and stuck it in the log. Then he

  pulled up the sack, reached into it and brought out one of the trout.

  Holding him near the tail, hard to hold, alive, in his hand, he whacked him

  against the log. The trout quivered, rigid. Nick laid him on the log in the

  shade and broke the neck of the other fish the same way. He laid them side

  by side on the log. They were fine trout.

  Nick cleaned them, slitting them from the vent to the tip of the jaw.

  All the insides and the gills and tongue came out in one piece. They were

  both males; long gray-white strips of milt, smooth and clean. All the

  insides clean and compact, coming out all together. Nick tossed the offal

  ashore for the minks to find.

  He washed the trout in the stream. When he held them back up in the

  water they looked like live fish. Their color was not gone yet. He washed

  his hands and dried them on the log. Then he laid the trout on the sack

  spread out on the log, rolled them up in it, tied the bundle and put it in

  the landing net. His knife was still standing, blade stuck in the log. He

  cleaned it on the wood and put it in his pocket.

  Nick stood up on the log, holding his rod, the landing net hanging

  heavy, then stepped into the water and splashed ashore. He climbed the bank

  and cut up into the woods, toward the high ground. He was going back to

  camp. He looked back. The river just showed through the trees. There were

  plenty of days coming when he could fish the swamp.

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  Last-modified: Mon, 04 Dec 2000 17:44:57 GMT