Page 16 of Misadventures With My Fake Fiancé

“I—I.” I cleared my throat, trying to cool my flushed skin. “I can't fish with this thing on.” I wiggled the gaudy ring, which caught the fluorescent light and sparkled.

“It's for show.”

“That's a big show.”

I glanced at the guy behind the counter, who waited for me to finish the transaction, and was obviously hanging on to every word of our conversation.

“Do we need any extra lures, line or other stuff to fish?” I asked Mike.

“No, sweetheart. It's all in the tackle box in the car.” Mike smiled at me, all innocent looking. As if.

“Mmm,” I grumbled. “If I didn't want to fish so badly I would walk right out of the store.”

6

When I envisioned fishing in Alaska, I pictured majestic mountains with snowcapped peaks towering over wild rivers and thick forests of green with the wind whistling through the branches. A bald eagle would soar across the sky, its full size blocking the sun for a moment as it passed overhead. The line from my rod would make that magical whizzing sound and place the lure into crystal clear, ice-cold waters to just the right spot where I'd pull salmon the size of a skateboard out one after another.

When Mike parked the clown car in downtown Anchorage, my visions quickly changed. Not only were the sun and any mountains that might surround the town obscured by thick, gray clouds, it was pouring. The rain had started when we left Wal-Mart, but now it fell in sheets without any sign of letting up. The temperature must have dropped twenty degrees since we’d left Uncle Bob's house, and I shivered in my hoodie.

“We have to be standing in the only part of Alaska that's completely covered in concrete. I expected Alaska to smell more like that air freshener,” I told Mike, observing our very urban surroundings as we climbed out of the car. Where was thewilderness? The wildlife? “Good thing you're a doctor because you make a terrible tour guide.”

We were in a paid parking lot beneath an expansive overpass for a four-lane road. Fortunately, it sheltered us from the rain, but provided the rumbling of large trucks as they drove overhead. Downtown Anchorage, with some big buildings, including a large hotel over ten stories tall, filled the horizon instead of mountains. “Is there really water nearby?”

Mike pointed over his shoulder as he opened the hatchback and pulled out our raincoats. “Ship Creek. Runs right through town. Not the most picturesque of places, but Bob said the run's in, so if you want to catch some fish, this is where you need to be.”

I shoved my arms into my blue slicker, eager. “This is fine, but I thought scenery and fishing went together up here. I guess in this weather there is no scenery, so I pick fish.”

“Then suit up.”

I'd packed my waders in my suitcase, now more thankful than ever I had them with me to keep me warm and dry. I sat on the edge of the open back of the car as I worked them on. They were like bib overalls made of neoprene, the stuff wetsuits were made from. It wasn't the most attractive of looks, but they did their job when wading into snow-fed rivers.

We collected the rods, which were bent and wedged into the car right down the center so the tips touched the front windshield. With a large tackle box in one hand, a rod in another, Mike led me across the street and behind a tourist shop for native Alaskan crafts to a river walk.

Ship Creek was, in my mind, less creek and more river. It was about fifty feet wide and the current moved swiftly. Falling in would be dangerous to your health. The color of the water was a gray I'd never seen before, and completely opaque. I hadno doubt it was bitterly cold. The banks of the creek were mud. Thick, wet gray mud.

“Careful,” Mike said. “It's very slippery.”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, his feet came out from under him. He landed hard, right on his butt. He wasn't wearing waders, but jeans with heavy black rain boots that came up just below his knees. Unfortunately, they did nothing to protect him from the wet, dirty mess that now coated his backside. As he struggled to push himself back to his feet, his hands too, became covered in mud.

“Shit,” Mike muttered, rain falling onto his face. “Don't you dare laugh.”

I couldn't help it. A big, brawny man like him, easily able to protect himself and those who were with him from bad guys, to heal the sick, taken out completely. By mud. He was a complete and total mess. Clots of slippery mud dripped from the tips of his fingers. I held up my hand and said, “No, no. I'm not laughing.”

Knowing his pride was more wounded than his butt, I gave him room to stand back up. “Here, give me the tackle box.” I put both rods in my left hand, took the box from him with my right. Carefully, I worked my way down from the mud to the shoreline where it was river rock and sand. No chance of slipping and a great vantage point to watch the other fishermen and to scope out the best spot in the water to cast my line. Besides the heavy rain, the air had a bite to it, not summery at all, and the scent of low tide—marshy and a little fishy—was strong.

Looking upstream, there were probably twenty-five people dotting the river's edge, spaced far enough apart not to tangle lines. All wore mud-coated rain boots, most also in waders, some standing in the shallow and calmer parts of the creek, the water swirling around their legs. Tourists brave enough to stand out in the miserable weather stood at the railing of the pedestrian bridge and watched the fishing action from above.

Mike came to stand beside me after rinsing his hands in the creek. The back half of his body was a lost cause. “There, see!” He sounded as excited as I felt, completely forgetting he was filthy. He pointed at a man who had a salmon wriggling on the line. We watched while he fought the fish as he reeled it in, then unhooked it and set it on the shore. “A Silver, maybe?”

It was too far for me to tell if it was a Silver or a Red salmon, but it was too small to be a King.

“Let's find out,” I replied, attaching the reel and feeding the line through the guides, my fingers moving quickly. I was so eager to pull one in, to feel the excitement as a fish yanked on the line, the challenge to reel it in. For some women, it was hitting a shoe sale at the mall that got their adrenaline flowing. Me, it was catching the Big One.

“Are you cold?” I asked, selecting a lure from the tackle box.

“Who me?” Mike pointed to himself. “I never get cold. Soggy maybe, but not cold. My ego sure got a bath.” He pointed to the water. “Don't fall in. This is melted glacier water. That's why it's so gray—pulverized rock.”

We spent an hour on the banks, Mike moving downstream a fair distance, finding his own spot, his own rhythm. The rain poured down, but I had to admit, once in the groove, the sweet call of the simple act of fishing took over. Cast, wind in, cast. I watched as people all around caught fish, adding them to a string that dangled in a quiet part of the river, keeping them fresh.

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