Death Canyon (2 page)

When he was finished gathering what he needed from the house, Jake walked outside and down the worn path, parallel to the stand of lodgepole pines, and through the tall grass and occasional sagebrush.

A pair of eerie eyes, a strikingly mismatched sky-blue and chestnut-brown duo of orbs, watched him from the tree line. Oblivious to his hidden onlooker, Jake strolled to his boat trailer and stashed his bag in the dry box.

With his target distracted, the animal moved closer, carefully padding through the dry pine needles. Pausing there for a moment, he observed his subject. Clueless. Jake was bent over the gunwale of the boat, shuffling things around. It was the perfect moment for
an ambush. The assailant picked up his pace and headed for Jake in an all-out sprint. In seconds, he was within thirty feet.

The footfall startled Jake and he turned to face his attacker.

“Hey! Stop! No!” Jake shouted, but it was too late.
Wham!
The muddy stray leaped up at him, planting his front paws firmly on Jake's groin, tail wagging furiously. Jake stumbled backward, groaning in pain.

The dog skittered away, frightened by the man's outburst.

Jake regained his composure. “Sorry. Shit. It's okay, Chayote, er, whatever the hell your name is.” He brushed the mud off his pants and tried to pat the animal on the head. Chayote bounced backward nimbly, avoiding his touch.

The animal slinked away into the woods, his stub tail trying to tuck itself between its legs in embarrassment. Jake shook his head.

The little cattle dog had been hanging around for weeks now, and he was getting friendlier by the day, to Jake's chagrin. At first he would watch Jake from afar and flee the second Jake acknowledged his presence. But by now, the pup was regularly approaching Jake, although he still wouldn't allow Jake to handle him.

He wore no collar, so Jake had started making up names for him: Munson, Sampson, Cutty, but he finally settled on Chayote. Jake didn't know where he'd heard the name; he just liked how it sounded. Plus, the little mottled dog looked and acted like a coyote—athletic and curious and devious. He chuckled to himself at the dog's contrary whims of moxie and reticence.

Approaching his skiff, a sixteen-foot-long flat-bottomed vessel, Jake shook his head again, this time at the craft's grimy floor—evidence of his inability to care for a possession that not only held significant sentimental value but also had provided him with a meager income and purpose during the first years after his relocation to Wyoming.

The boat hadn't been used in months. Checking the tension on the strap, Jake wasn't satisfied that it held the boat securely to the trailer. He removed it and fastened it again, tighter. Then he checked the trailer wheels. A bit wobbly—the trailer was due for two new hubs—but it would be fine for a few more miles.

Jake arrived at the popular put-in across from Charlie's convenience store at 9:15 a.m. Although there weren't many guides launching boats this early in the season, he felt unusually self-conscious to be heading out alone. A solo trip
was
a bit unusual. He figured that it wouldn't go unrecognized, especially with his one-of-a-kind sky-blue skiff and his reputation as a bit of a loner—a reputation he felt unfairly assigned.

Jake couldn't blame the other guides and local fishermen for thinking it strange to float the canyon alone. It was impossible to control the boat and fish at the same time. It was practically a piscine tragedy that he would be back rowing and positioning his skiff simply for his own enjoyment with no anglers standing ready to cast to the trout's likely lies.

Oh well; hopefully nobody is out there today.

As he stepped out to ready the boat, a familiar silver Suburban approached with a drift boat in tow.

So much for solitude.

“Jake, how are you, man? How'd winter treat ya?” Even in June, winter was a not-so-distant memory in the mountains of Wyoming. The driver was shouting over to Jake as he opened the doors for his clients, two well-dressed, portly men who immediately walked off to the Porta Johns. “Hold your breath while you're in there, boys. It's no Four Seasons.”

“Not bad, Caddy. Yours?” Jake and the man walked toward each other and shook hands. “Good to see you.” Caddy was already tan
and leather-skinned despite the early season. Jake thought it must be his permanent skin tone after so many summers.

“Fuckin' Wall Street guys. They'll be a blast. Real exciting folks.” The sarcasm was thick. He was pointing toward the toilets and rolling his eyes. “Winter? Shit, too long, man. I need this damn river to clear up so I can make some consistent money.” He looked over to see how close his clients were and then spoke in a hushed tone, like what he'd just said wasn't offensive. “We're not gonna catch shit today. Fuckin' first-timers, man! Gonna be a long day!” Caddy put in a bubblegum-sized charge of oily, reddish-black tobacco.

“Well, I have faith in you.” Jake gave him a friendly pat on the back.

“What you got going today?” Caddy looked around for Jake's clients. “They in the can?”

“Nada. Just gonna enjoy the day. Going out alone.” Jake held eye contact to see how the man would react.

He almost spit out his chew laughing. “Shit, only Jake Trent would come out here in these conditions to ‘enjoy the day.' ” Caddy collected himself and then let drool what looked like a mugful of tobacco juice into the dust. “Well, you have fun out there. Don't catch 'em all.” Caddy rolled his eyes again.

“Will do. Good luck.”

Jake tried to let Caddy put in first, but the guide insisted. Jake knew he was trying to kill time—fishing guides sometimes found ways to do this when the fishing was no good.

“Let the water warm up a bit,” he was probably telling them. “They ain't been biting till 'bout noon.” Probably true, but also convenient for Caddy.

When the boat was launched, Jake headed for a side channel branching away from the main river. He loved to fish the side channels. Dozens of drift boats might float by on the main river, but
they were out of sight and mind amid the thick cottonwoods and willows lining the channels. Besides, with this volume of water in the river, the trout wouldn't fight the main river's strong current just to consume the few morsels of food they would make out through the muddy, churning water. Somehow, they always knew the perfect balance between expending energy in the hunt and gaining energy from its spoils. Jake supposed that this idiom applied to all animals, including humans—wasn't it true that no one did anything unless they expected to be rewarded for their work? Maybe that explained the council's behavior.

The fishing in the side channels proved worthwhile. He caught plenty of twelve- to sixteen-inch cutthroats and one large rainbow trout, a nonnative species of West Coast origin that he would keep for the frying pan. While fun to catch, rainbows competed for food and river space with the cutthroats, which were completely unique to the region. Conservationists encouraged the harvest of rainbow trout.

When evening began to settle into the canyon, Jake passed the halfway point of the float and looked for a good campsite. He backed his skiff into a stout and powerful eddy that had formed at the head of an island, and he was reminded again of the force of this river during spring runoff as he struggled to keep the boat parallel to the current lines. If he crossed at the wrong angle, he could capsize.

Jake anchored the boat and tied the bowline to a dead cottonwood where the eddy's current peeled away from the bank. This slack water was littered with debris from the spring runoff—sticks, leaves, and the occasional piece of litter. More interesting to Jake, it also harbored several large shadows, clever fish taking advantage of insects that had been flushed toward them from the main current.

The perfect ratio; little work, big payoff.

When he was sure the skiff was secure, Jake got back into the
boat, pulled the fly rod from its sleeve in the gunwale, and stood at the bow's fishing station. He decided to spend just a few moments working the eddy before quitting for the day.

The pale morning duns, a mayfly of the
Ephemerella
genus, had begun their annual emergence early, and the resident fish had taken notice. Jake tied on a #16 comparadun, a close imitation of the frail body silhouette of the mayfly. He worked a chemical into the fly that would allow it to float longer and higher.
Fly-agra.
Always got a laugh from clients. With one false cast, Jake placed the dry fly three feet above the largest of the feeding fish, leaving just enough slack in the leader to allow the fly to float unimpeded into the trout's feeding lane.

The fly drifted toward the fish, which tipped upward and inhaled the fly. Jake laughed with delight.
Early season fish are too easy
. The fish surged, but Jake was able to keep the battle within the boundaries of the eddy, preventing the fish from using the strong current in the middle of the river to free itself from his line. When the trout was within reach, he slid his hand down the transparent leader and into the water, plucking the fly from the fish's mouth. It was a nice fish. Seventeen inches with beautiful deep-red slashes streaking its throat.

It would prove to be Jake's last moment of unhampered happiness for a long time.

After he finished setting up his sleeping quarters, Jake pulled the fire pan from the skiff and walked a short way down the island to prepare dinner, not daring to attract bears or other curious predators to his sleeping area with the scent of food. He seasoned the trout with a mixture of salt, pepper, garlic powder, and dill that he kept with his fishing equipment. He opened the bottle of beer he had brought along, and as evening settled further into the river canyon, the dusky ambiance
and alcohol lightened Jake's mood. He smiled when he thought of his earlier frustration with the council. Things moved slowly here, and he needed to be patient and persistent.
Besides,
he thought,
I moved here to escape external pressures. I'm hard enough on myself.

In reality, the reasons for Jake's relocation to Wyoming changed with his mood. Sometimes it was the noise of the city or the bad air that he said had finally convinced him, and sometimes it was the fast-paced lifestyle.

Eight years ago, Jake was a successful and well-known trial lawyer at Brown and Tallow, a large law firm in Philadelphia. Prior to that he had worked as a prosecutor for the United States Department of Justice in the Office of Special Investigations and then briefly in the City of Philadelphia Special Investigations Office. Jake had been the youngest head of the city's special investigation unit in its history, a fact that once filled him with pride. He eventually left the unit to pursue better pay and security in private practice, but the new job never satisfied him. After a couple of years, he moved west.

The second layer of truth was that he had come to Jackson for a woman. That is to say, he came to live out what he thought was a shared dream with a certain woman. That woman had changed her mind.

Elspet, or Elle, as mostly everyone called her, was a defense attorney like Jake. They had met during a bar association golf outing. Neither hit the ball very well, and this commonality was the first of many that sparked a romance. As with Jake, the stresses of Elle's occupation led her to desire a different life. Childhood visits to the Rockies had planted the seeds in their minds that this region would be an ideal solace from the death, maiming, lying, arguing, and posturing that was inherent to their industry. They dated for only a few months before making plans.

Over late-night glasses of wine in the spring of 2002, the details were ironed out. Jake would make the move first, while Elle wound down her employment. He headed to Jackson in the early summer to look for houses and scout jobs. On impulse and without Elle's knowledge, Jake committed to purchasing an ever-so-slightly run-down bed-and-breakfast on the West Bank of the Snake River, not far from the Idaho border. He figured the property would speak to her the same way it had spoken to him.

Two buildings on the property were in good order, the main house and a smaller guesthouse. Brightly colored wildflowers reached for the sun, complementing the darker cedar structures and patchy snow left in the shadows. The day he first saw it was perfect. Deep-blue skies were broken up only occasionally by pure white puffs of cloud. Walking along the creek frontage, Jake shed his jacket, persuaded by the midday warmth. He wandered the property for over an hour, watching trout sip blue-winged olive mayflies from the glassy surface of the spring.

When Jake returned and told Elle the news, he was met with disbelief. The Jackson Hole dream was a tangible aspiration only to him. To Elle, the notion of “leaving it all behind” was a fantasy, a mental escape.

How would we make enough money? How could we raise kids there, alone in the middle of nowhere? How would we make friends? Why would you do this without asking me?

Before Jake knew it, he was driving across the dusty Midwest alone, turning the stereo up too loud and smoking the cigarettes he hadn't touched since law school.

For the first few months in Jackson, Jake did not operate the bed-and-breakfast. He didn't work at all, for that matter. He was in a slump and surviving only on savings.

Fishing every day, he spent his nights alone in the guesthouse. The hobby kept him content—entertained, perhaps, if not blissful. After all, fly-fishing was ingrained in him. Ever since he'd learned the sport in the halcyon limestone creeks of central Pennsylvania. It was something he took for granted to some extent, yet relied on with an equal or greater weight. It was the most unchanging part of him.

Jake had aspired to become a guide for many years, and his now uncertain future provided the ideal opportunity for a man to chase his dreams. As he familiarized himself with the area's rivers, he began to feel better with each passing day.