Page 26 of Her Wild Coast Refuge

“My granddad. He inherited his parents’ homestead that just happens to have some of the best fishing in the state.”

“Homestead, huh.” Because Quinn and I broker land deals, we’ve come across homestead parcels before. In fact, the mineral tenure we secured came from just such a claim. It had been handed down through the family, but the fool who ended up with it had no intention of using it. When I offered him $100,000 for it, he hugged me.

We round a bend, spooking a family of deer grazing along the roadside. They bound up the slope away from us, leaping through the brush. After crossing the river on a one-lane bridge, Lexie parks in a turnoff below a cluster of tall fir trees. She rolls up the windows and cuts the engine.

Outside the truck, the thick, cool air is rich with minerals and sweet earth. The last of the hazy cloud bank is burning off, creating a halo of lemony light over the river.

“You guys ever fish for rainbows during salmon season?” she asks when we gather at the tailgate.

“Not a lot of salmon in the Rockies,” Quinn replies with a sly grin.

“But you’ve fished for trout before, right?”

Quinn and I exchange another glance in the rearview mirror.

“A long time ago,” I say. Like ten years.

“That’s okay,” Lexie says. “We’ll get you back in the groove.”

I suck in a breath, but thankfully only Quinn notices.

Back in the groove, huh? If she only knew.

“Let’s bring the eight weights. I have beads in all colors for you guys, plus some of my secret weapon flies I tied last night.” Lexie launches into a detailed description of how to “dead drift” the tiny orange beads she supplies us to catch rainbow trout, who are feasting on salmon roe and can weigh up to twenty pounds this time of year.

Quinn and I exchange yet another sideways glance. At Hawthorne, during our “initiation challenge”, the trout were snack sized.

“You guys review the catch and release rules I gave you?”

“Yes,” Quinn and I both reply. She made us promise.

It becomes obvious we are more than just out of practice at fishing when we’re donning our waders. Quinn never actually tried his on before buying them, and the straps are too long. I almost put mine on backwards but catch myself just in time. I feel like a kindergartener again as Lexie buzzes around us, adjusting this or that.

Being her focus is doing strange things to my bloodstream. I feel hot and prickly. Maybe it’s these waders and the thermal underwear plastered to me like shrink wrap in the growing heat of the sun. Or maybe it’s that same frustration from earlier, my past and present splicing in ways I’m not sure I like.

“We’ll work our way upstream from here,” Lexie says, breaking the spell I’m under. “This stretch has lots of pools.”

The three of us tromp down the loose bank to the river’s edge and hike upstream single file to a thick clump of willows. After a sweaty bushwhack, we break through to a gravel bar of smooth cobbles the color of nickel.

“Always keep within sight of each other,” Lexie warns. “If you’re in trouble, blow your whistle. To signal you’re okay, tap the top of your head.”

“Anything else?” Quinn asks.

Lexie grins. “Have fun.”

As if to underline her point, a fish splashes through a riffle upstream, his silver fin flashing in the sun.

We spend the first hour fishing the pretty creek. Though we’re spread out, Lexie keeps a close eye on us. My casting is rusty, but the work feels good in my stiff muscles. Though I fail to catch anything besides an alder limb and empty ribbons of current, my mind calms and renewed energy stirs to life inside me. Moving upstream, casting along the way, I pause at a wide, sandy bar on river left. In the slower section of current below it are dozens of idling fish.

I float my salmon egg bait past them. There’s some movement in the pool, but none of the fish strike. I try again, getting the bead just a little closer. This time, one snaps at it. I set the hook, and immediately, the fish takes off.

He's so strong that I stumble forward, splashing. It’s a miracle I don’t land on my face. Meanwhile the fish is zooming all over the current, fighting my hold on him.

Lexie catches up, breathing fast.

“You got this or need my help?”

“Help.” I’ve never had a fish this strong on the end of my line. Or a pretty guide telling me how to land it.

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