Free Dead Frenzy by Victoria Houston Page B

pockets—”You never need more than five at a time if you have any idea what you’re doing.” Osborne was getting better at listening to what other fly fishermen were saying, which clued him into the current hatches at least. Today he thought he had good excuses for four of his six selections.
    “Oh, gosh no,” said Lew, leaning over to peer into his box. “Those won’t work, Doc. We’re supposed to have a hex hatch—but I don’t know if they’ll be emergers, duns, or spinners. Listen, put those away. I’m going to give you the right flies tonight after I see what the hatch is. We might have to nymph with sinking lines and I know you don’t have any. You just get your sunglasses, your rod, and your waders. I’ll take care of the rest.”
    Oh, great, thought Osborne, a hex hatch. He struggled to remember what the hell kind of mayfly that was. He knew he should be able to conjure an instant image to which he could match a trout fly but it totally escaped him at the moment. Sometimes he wondered if he would ever master the basics of this sport.
    “Look, Doc,” said Lew, her voice softening at the confusion on his face. “You haven’t float-fished before so take it easy. Here”—she shoved a pair of rubber flippers at him—”these are for you—boot fins.”
    Ten long minutes later, Osborne had managed to locate and pack his polarized sunglasses, floatant, clippers, forceps, Ketchum release, two new leaders, some 4x and 3x tippet, an extra pair of reading glasses, a packet of Kleenex—everything except his water bottle, waders, boots, and fins. Not only that, he had a shot at remembering where everything was. And he had his reel safely on his rod with the fly line threaded through the guides. He relaxed ever so slightly.
    Lew handed him one of two small backpacks that she had pulled out of the truck. “Put those boots and waders and that bottle of water in here, Doc, then we’ll hook the float tubes and the fins onto these packs.”
    “Okey-doke.” Helping each other, they rigged up. Lew locked the truck, hid the keys behind a bumper, and they started down the path into the woods.
    “I feel like a little kid getting ready for my first day of kindergarten,” said Osborne. The float tube was annoying, bouncing off the back of his legs as he walked. He decided not to let it bother him.
    The hike took them into a light-filled forest of white birch and hard maple. Splashes of sun sprinkled down through the canopy of spiky maple and serrated birch leaves. It bounced off the baby maples, bright green and leafy, that blanketed the ground in every direction.
    The sun, just beginning its descent, chose that moment to soften the air with a golden sheen. Osborne loved this time of day. He let his eyes wander through the woods, which were luminous and deep. Dark brown trunks of maple etched black lines against the brilliant white of the birches. Everywhere was leaf and light.
    “Trout live in beautiful places,” said Lew, her voice low and soft as she trudged along before him. It was her favorite expression. She stopped for a moment to inhale and look about with pleasure. Osborne said nothing. At this moment, the forest cast a spell so magic, so infinitely peaceful, that no words were necessary. Maybe this was why he loved fishing with Lew: He never had to say more than he wanted to.
    As they resumed their walk, Osborne studied his companion from the back. She had rigged her float tube, her fish net, and her flippers with such precision that she strode soundlessly along the path while he bumped along, the float tube banging off the backs of his heels. He couldn’t have felt more awkward than if he had spilled an entire box of fishing tackle.
    Another fifty yards and Lew stopped short, a look of annoyance on her face. “For heaven’s sake, Doc, let me rig that higher for you,” she said, turning him by the shoulders to adjust his straps. That helped. On they went.
    As they walked, Osborne was reminded of