We bounced along over rutted roads, passing through dense forests, saying little to each other except the occasional comment about the gradually emerging sunrise, birds winging from tree to tree, and the fine day it promised to be.
Ken eventually brought up what George had said about “rabbits.”
Innes laughed. “Old superstition among fishermen in these parts,” he said. “Have a rabbit come near you when getting set to go out for a day of herring fishing, you’ll have terrible luck. Anybody even mentions rabbits near fishermen puts a curse on them.”
Another curse. Wick’s most popular pastime.
By the time we reached a one-lane dirt road that ran past widely spaced farmhouses, the sun was fully up, working to burn away the last wisps of ground fog. Innes pulled onto a strip of grass and shut off the engine.
Ken got out and looked around. “Where’s the stream?” he asked.
“Over there,” Innes said, pointing to a meadow beyond the closest house.
“How do we get to it?” I asked, not seeing any path from the road to where Innes had pointed.
“Walk” was his answer.
Ken and I retrieved our gear from the truck and followed our guide, who started out across the property on which the house was situated. I was uncomfortable walking there, feeling like a trespasser. Maybe our guide had some sort of arrangement with the farm’s owner. I asked.
“Oh, no, Mrs. Fletcher. No need for that. It’s understood that any fisherman can cross anybody’s property to get to a stream, as long as we close gates and don’t destroy nothing.”
“That’s certainly an enlightened view,” I said.
“Not like back home,” Ken Sassi said.
“No, it’s not,” I said, continuing to keep pace with Ken and our gillie.
We crossed a large cow pasture, climbed a couple of low fences, passed through a decaying wooden gate, and eventually reached the fishing stream, fifty feet wide and fast-flowing.
“We’ll start you out here,” Innes said. “Should be some nice hungry brown trout in these parts.”
Ken and I went through the ritual of putting on our equipment—multi-pocketed vest, chest-high Neoprene wading stockings held up with suspenders, over which we put our felt-sole lace-up wading boots. We attached each other’s nets to rings on the back of the vests, secured wading belts about our waists to keep water from gushing into the waders in the event of a fall, and hooked fold-up wading staffs to the belts.
As we went through these preliminaries, I saw Mr. Innes watching us closely, a bemused smile on his face.
“Like going to war,” I said lightly.
“Ay. The way you do it.”
“What’s wrong with the way we do it?” Ken asked.
“Nothing. Except it takes a lot of work, doesn’t it?”
“Ready?” Ken asked me, ignoring Innes’s comment.
“All set.”
Rufus Innes had brought with him a fishing rod as long as the one I’d seen Constable McKay carry. “Mind if I fish, too?” he asked.
“Not at all,” Ken said.
“What works in this river?” I asked, referring to the type of. artificial fly to use.
“I like emergers this time of year,” he said. “Hare’s ear. Ants work pretty good, ‘specially if you cast ’em under overhanging trees. Might try a streamer, too.”
I chose a pretty little hare’s ear emerger, which I attached to my hook, pleased I hadn’t forgotten how to tie the required knot. Ken went with a long, brightly colored streamer. We used our wading staffs to check the floor of the stream, and carefully entered it. I loved the feel of cold water against my ankles, calves, and finally hips as I waded to where I felt comfortable. Ken did the same twenty yards upstream.
I turned to see what Rufus Innes was doing. He stood on the bank using his long rod to cast across the stream, almost reaching the opposite shore, which we could do only by being halfway across it I now knew what he meant when he gently criticized our approach to fishing. For him, no waders, no boots, no cumbersome equipment. Just stand on the bank and cast.
I put the differences between our fishing styles out of mind and began to cast, pleased with how after not having done it for quite a while I was able to lay my tiny artificial fly where I wanted it, in a swift channel running beneath an overhanging tree that would provide what trout like: shaded cover. I’d been at it for ten minutes when I saw Rufus hook a fish and skillfully bring it to shore. He lifted the plump sea trout from the water with his hand and examined it, lowered it back into the water, moved it back and forth to force water into its gills, and sent it on its way.
I resumed casting.
A half hour later, Innes had hooked and released two additional trout; Ken and I hadn’t had as much as a rise.
“Want to move on?” our guide asked from the bank.
I looked to Ken, who nodded. We waded out of the stream and stood next to Innes.
“You did pretty good,” Ken said to Innes.
“A little luck. I’ll take you to a special place where I know you’ll catch fish. Wouldn’t want to return you to George Sutherland without a few fat trout in your creel.”
We got back in the truck and headed west, I think, until entering a low range of hills that gradually rose in elevation until we were granted a stunning view of Wick, the surrounding countryside and coastline, and Sutherland Castle standing lonely and forbidding. Innes stopped to allow us to drink in the view.
“It’s so beautiful,” I said.
“Of God’s making,” Innes said.
“Is there a stream up here?” Ken asked.
“Oh, yes, there certainly is. A gem. I don’t take many clients up here. None of the guides do. We . try to keep it to ourselves.”
“That sounds wise,” I said.
“But for two a’ George’s guests, I’ll make an exception.”
“Much appreciated,” Ken said. “Where’s this stream? Looks like we might get rained out before long.”
We looked up into what had been a pristine blue sky, with more of the same in the forecast. An ominous line. of black clouds, twisting thousands of feet into the air, approached from the west.
“Weather here is changeable,” said Innes. “Very changeable.”
“So we’ve noticed,” Ken said.
After another fifteen minutes of driving along a road so narrow the bushes on both sides scraped the truck, we came to the bank of a raging river about twenty feet wide, cascading down from the hills and picking up speed as it roared through the brush-laden gully in which we stood. The wind had now picked up; sudden gusts sent my hair flying.
“Running pretty fast,” Ken observed. “Tough wading.”
“Maybe we can do what Mr. Innes does, Ken, fish from the bank.”
“No,” Ken said, getting ready to enter the stream. “See that pool? I can smell fish in there.”
“Might be,” Innes said, “but too far to reach from here in this wind.”
“Game?” Ken asked me.
“Sure,” I said.
Ken entered the fast-moving water. As I was about to join him, the guide suggested I fish farther upstream. “Might be easier wading there,” he said. “I’ve pulled some nice fish from that pool.”
I took his professional advice and followed the riverbank upstream to what appeared to be a gentler access to the water. As I walked, I took in my surroundings. Despite the now-overcast skies and the wind, which seemed to increase in velocity with each step, I was supremely happy. The world had disappeared, as it always did for me when I was in, or near, a fishing stream. It would be nice to land a trout or two, but it certainly wasn’t necessary to assure my continued happiness. Just being there was enough.
I’d almost reached the spot I’d selected to enter the stream when I noticed a wooden bridge spanning the river. I hadn’t seen it before because its weathered wood had turned ash gray, melding into a pewter sky.
I’d learned years ago that the water beneath bridges was often a prime spot for fish to congregate. I looked back; Ken was waist deep in the water and casting to the pool. I smiled; this was his favorite way to spend a day despite working as a Maine guide for others. If Ken Sassi were a shoemaker, he’d be making shoes for his children on his day off.
I reached my spot and surveyed the water. I’d made a good choice. The riverbed sloped gradually into the deeper water, which would allow me to get farther out, hopefully within casting distance of a dark pool of water that spread from the shadow beneath the bridge into more open water.
I had one initial reservation about stepping into the river. Good fishing sense dictates that you should always fish in pairs when in a strange stream, especially when conditions for wading are less than ideal. I would have preferred to be closer to Ken and the gillie, but the lure of that spot under the bridge, and the promise of the fish it held, were too compelling. I’d be careful, each step taken with care, my wading staff helping me remain upright, my eyes focused on the riverbed in search of rocks, or falloffs into which I might misstep.
I entered the river and slowly, methodically headed for where I wanted to cast. The force of the water was stronger than I’d anticipated from the shore. Still, with my wading staff used to aid in counteracting the flow, I felt confident and secure.
I reached, the spot and made sure my wading boots were solidly planted in the silty soil. I tossed my hare’s ear fly into the water, increasing the length of my cast with each forward motion of my arm. But at its maximum length, I fell short of my target, the relatively still water under the bridge.
What to do?
A rising trout caught my eye, breaking the water to gulp down an insect, leaving telltale circles on the surface. There was another fish rising. And another. A hatch of insects had formed on the river. I looked to my immediate left and right and saw what they were. They weren’t identical to my hare’s ear fly, but close enough to fool a few trout. The trick was to get closer to the feeding fish.
Because the water was incredibly clear, I could see the ground beneath it. There appeared to be a path of sorts leading between large, slippery rocks to the pool under the bridge. If I took my time and stepped with care, I could bring myself within striking distance of the hungry fish.
I looked back to where Ken was still in the water, Rufus on the bank observing him. They looked very small in the distance.
I moved toward my next vantage point. I’d chosen a good path; I had little trouble navigating the current to get to where I wanted to be. I reached it and looked up. I was within twenty feet of the bridge, close enough to cast into the pool.
I applied some floatant to my fly to help it stay on the surface of the water, and started to cast. I felt good, my back cast straightening out behind me in textbook fashion, then coming up and forward in a straight line despite the wind, the fly on the edge of the hair-thin tippet landing gently where I wanted it to.
“Pow!”
A fish broke the surface and clamped onto my fly and the hook. The line straightened out and started to run from the reel as the fish sought the freedom of more open water. I gave him plenty of line. Judging from the pull he exerted, it was a good-size fish, with plenty of energy and fight. I didn’t want to play him too long and exhaust him. Better to reel him in as soon as possible, and release him before he was dangerously tuckered out.
I started to bring in line with, my right hand, my left holding the bending rod and catching the loops of line as I gathered them. My entire focus was on this task, a liberating experience. I was so devoted to properly and effectively bringing in this fish that I never really saw the man who suddenly appeared on the bridge. I mean, I saw him, but only for a split second, just long enough to see a six-foot-long log, about six inches thick, come hurtling down at me from the bridge. I gasped, and twisted to avoid being hit by it. I was successful, but in the process I lost my footing. Simultaneously, the rod slipped from my hand. I didn’t know what was more important to me at that moment, keeping myself upright, or losing the rod, my favorite, given me as a birthday gift many years ago by my deceased husband, Frank.
There really wasn’t a choice to be made. I was powerless on both counts. The rod disappeared, and I tumbled into the water. My head went under, but I forced it to the surface, spitting water all the way. The current grabbed me and headed me downstream, in the direction of Ken Sassi and Rufus Innes. I felt my waders begin to fill with water despite the belt around my waist.
I fought against being swept away; I’d noticed a particularly deep section of the river between where I’d fallen and where the others were. My mind raced. If I reached that deeper area and my waders filled, I’d be dragged down for certain. Thoughts bombarded me.
How many fly fishermen die in drowning accidents each year? A hundred? Two hundred?
Where was my prized fishing rod? Would I ever see it again? Would I be alive to use it again?
The water in my waders was sinking me fast. I grasped for rocks to keep from sliding down the river, but my fingers kept slipping from them, bruising my knuckles and elbows. My face hit a rock, sending a sharp pain from my cheekbone to my brain. I continued to fight to keep my head above water, but knew I was losing the battle.
I tried to call for help; each time I did, water gurgled into my open mouth.
What will they say in my obituary?
Will I be missed back home in Cabot Cove?
I’ll never see George Sutherland again! So much to
have said, so much to say.
I reached the deep center of the river, and started to sink. I flailed my arms, and managed a cry for help. I didn’t know whether anyone heard me. I closed my eyes and resigned myself to dying in this beautiful river in northern Scotland.
Then strong hands grabbed me. I opened my eyes to see a blurry Ken Sassi wrapping his arm around my neck. Would he try to save me as life-guards do, swim with me in-tow to. the shore? A long, slender stick appeared above the water. A fishing rod. Ken grabbed it, and we were pulled from the deep pocket to shallower water nearer the shore. Now I could see Rufus Innes. hauling us in on the end of his fishing rod.