Free Light the Hidden Things by Don McQuinn Page A

that seems pretty young to hole up in a place like Lupine.”
    “Look around, son. Name a better place.”
    “Country’s full of nice places. I can understand why you came here. Not sure I understand why you stayed.”
    Whatever the expression was that touched the Pastor Richard’s features, it came and went far too quickly for Crow to identify. He quickly changed the subject. “Did those talking fish say what they were looking for? I thought this might work.” He held out a small pink and white concoction, all bristles and wings. “Is a number two all right?”
    For the next few minutes, pulling on waders and inspecting knots while they talked, the two men discussed the finer points of outwitting a creature with a brain the size of buckshot. They were clearly unaware of any irony. In the end, Pastor Richards provided Crow a personally designed fly, another bit of bristly pink and white up front that trailed into a pink fan at the rear. Thin metallic threads added glitter to the fan part. The Pastor said, "It's a dry fly. A little chancy in these waters, but worth a try just for the excitement of seeing a coho rise up and smite it."
    They parted company then, the Pastor directing Crow upstream to a point that offered access to two deep pools. Beyond that, near the opposite shore, a jumble of large boulders rose out of the water. The Pastor pointed it out. "That rock garden there? I pulled a good one out of there."
    Crow liked the look of those rocks. Casting among them without getting snagged would be tricky. Downstream of each would be a holding eddy where fish could lurk, conserving energy while waiting for something interesting to drift past. Upstream, the pressure wave could be just as productive, if a bit more demanding. The real mystery was why they struck at all; they didn't feed after entering fresh water. Crow always figured they were just mad at the world. All that hard work to get upstream, a few minutes to spawn, then keel over and die - plenty of reason to make them cranky. He mumbled to himself; "Ours not to reason why..."
    Major scampered along with his master, whining anxiety when Crow entered the water. For a while he paced, finally settling, anxiously alert.
    An hour later Pastor Richards whooped. “Fish on! Did I tell you? Deadliest bug on the river. Look at that run!”
    The hooked fish fought. It raced upstream to still water under a cutbank and stopped, playing dead. When Pastor Richards reeled in slack, it sped into action again, dashing back and forth in unpredictable bursts. Suddenly it was off downstream. Like a telltale pointing finger, the line hissed through the water.
    The action transfixed Crow. He’d seen it or participated in it hundreds of times, but the battle never failed to fascinate him.
    Anticlimactically, Pastor Richards finally netted his catch, a silvery force of at least eight pounds. It took him only seconds to extract the hook and release it. He grinned upstream at Crow as he stepped onto dry land. “Your turn. Remember: ‘But if we hope for that we see not, then do we with patience wait for it.’”
    Wryly, Crow smiled back. Steelhead weren’t so easy to come by that two men could anticipate they’d both catch one on the same morning in the same place. Nevertheless, he went back to work. Immediately, he was too involved to worry about being skunked. The slash of the rod, the grace of the line, the need to concentrate on the exact positioning of the fly - it was all pleasure.
    And then that world exploded into primal, beautiful, contest.
    Crushing the lure, the fish struck so hard the sucking sound of its intake was clear against the background murmur of the river. A large swirl marked its return to deeper water and Crow was in a fight.
    Major broke his silent vigil, scrabbling to his feet, racing up and down the small beach, barking encouragement.
    Pastor Richards cheered as if salvation was at hand.
    The fish dove and sulked. Then it raced downstream. In an instant