“What are you doing here?” he asked.
His voice woke Mattie up and she did stretch, her extended legs pushing into the back of the couch, which forced him over the edge.
“You too?” he accused her from the floor. “Why have all the women in my life always had such a problem with my taking a nap once in a while?”
She looked over her shoulder at him, seeing what the commotion was about, then sighing profoundly, went back to sleep.
“Fine then,” he said, his voice mildly indignant, but with the resignation of those who have suffered long, and lifting himself to his feet he went to the window to observe the day. There was a heavy cloud just beginning to come over the ridge that promised a spring storm for later on in the afternoon.
“Kowabunga!” Freddie said, suddenly wide awake. Mattie’s ears pointed up and her wide eyes questioned him from the couch. “Surfs up, Baby!”
Mattie jumped from where she was sleeping and went expectantly to the cabin door. He went to the bench where he kept the vise and material for tying flies and selected from the cups of finished bugs a variety of sizes and shapes of the Baetis mayfly that inhabited the stream below the cabin. Generically known as the Blue-winged Olive, the aquatic insect lived its life clinging to the rocks below the tumbling flow, waiting for the moment to emerge from its nymphal shuck and fulfill its purpose, to mate and die. It was in the spring, in the moments before the storm, when the air was dense with humidity and heavy with portent that the Baetis assailed the surface in numbers sufficient to ensure that enough of the species would survive the gauntlet laid down by the frenzied trout and join the mating swarms above the water.
Mattie ran out ahead when he opened the door. He waddled to the bench on the decking around the cabin to where his boots were drying from the day before. He tried to keep the neoprene stocking feet of his waders from touching the surface by walking on his heels, thinking that this would save them from wear, not realizing that this was indeed wearing the heels thin and that they would soon be useless. After slipping on the boots he selected a light fly-rod from the rack and followed Mattie down the trail.
By the streams edge Mattie was inspecting her perimeter, sniffing random tufts of grass for anything untoward that may have invaded her protectorate in her absence. She had worn her own path to this purpose over the years, following the natural boundary provided by the stream bed, but along those of her own choosing to the rear of the cabin. There were multiple paths, the concentric nature of the ever shrinking circle bearing testimony to her fading abilities, yet she would not deny her duty and went about her business carefully.
Freddie Jacobson scanned the surface film of the slick water sections for the telltale slanting black wing of the recently emerged Baetis, and saw none. But he did see the swirl of fish nearly rising to the top, telling him that the emergence was under way and he selected a fly that imitated the nymph that was riding in the water column waiting to break free of the surface. It was not a fly he could see in the water, he needed to find a fish and cast above it in the current and look for the response. If the water broke around where the fly should be, he would set the hook on the hope that the fish had taken it.
He looked for a likely place where the larger Brown Trout would station themselves, and watched for the timing of the swirl. There was a large fin that appeared every 5 seconds on a drift before a rock. He calculated how fast the water was flowing over that spot, and the distance a fly could travel in 5 seconds time. Letting the line fly, he casted smoothly and regularly, keeping it in a holding pattern away from where the fish was, so that it would not be spooked by its passage. When the fin appeared he sent the line shooting towards its target, dropping the fly upstream just as the fish went under. He counted out the seconds in his mind, and when the fish rose to the where the fly should be he pulled the line taut and the game was on.
***
It was June 21st, the longest day of the year, and the group had been floating the river since morning. They were still upon it as the sun was lost over the canyon rim and the long twilight of the summer solstice settled over the water. Freddie Jacobson rowed the drift-boat, the Dory-like craft, over the slick calm waters. The last of the rapids was past and there was only one more bend of smooth water before the final riffle to the take-out.
The customers, for whom the trip was ostensibly planned, were to arrive the next morning, but today was for the five of them who worked for the firm. The action had been non-stop all day, the cicadas plopping noisily onto the surface and the trout gorging on the extravagant fare.
It was an uncertain hatch, the cicada. Each year was different, sometimes they came, sometimes they didn’t. One of the must-do events in the lifetime of the fisherman, people studied local lore for evidence of what the hatch might be and when it would come. Sages were consulted, the old guides of the river, who always gave the same prediction. ‘When they come, they’ll be here. If they don’t, they won’t.’ But this year they did come, and at just the right time.
They were a subdued group now, mellow after having fulfilled the dream, still casting but satisfied to have cigar in hand, which vied for their attention with the whiskey on ice, as they meandered toward the boat ramp. The fish were down for the night and it seemed there was little else to expect from the day than to savor its end.
“Pull your rod in, Michael,” Freddie said from the boatman’s seat.
“What for,” Michael asked from the front of the boat.
“I’ve got an idea.”
He reached under the seat and took out a small cylindrical case that held a 4 piece, eight-weight fly rod. The ‘Big Gun’ he called it. He loaded it with a heavy line at the end of the leader, salt-water style, for big game. From the bag of fly boxes he dug up one from the bottom that was seldom used and housed flies that he’d always wanted to try, but was always too focused on something else to bother with.
There were 3 flies that were made to resemble the mouse, and he picked the biggest, hairiest, ugliest one in the box, tied it on, and handed the rod to Michael.
“See that rock where the current comes off the point over there?”
“Sure.”
“Fling this sucker onto the rock and let it bounce off the point into the water.”
“If you say so,” Michael said unconvinced, but ready for the new game.
The other of their boats was floating nearby and saw what was going on, so they took up their position as the peanut gallery, heckling Michael as he lofted the unwieldy lump of hair, leather, and foam. With jeers and cheers intermixed, the cheery eyed performer made much of his attempt to swing the faux-rodent through the settling shade and applied it to the side of the rock with an audible SMACK! before it splashed down into the swirling pool.
Barely had the ripples begun to spread when the water erupted into foam and chaos. A true denizen from lowest depths that fed only on the unwary of its own kind and the unfortunate terrestrial creature that happed into its domain, had taken the mouse for its evening meal in one glorious leap. There was screaming and cheering and laughing as Michaels eyes went wide watching the reel screeching as the line paid out.
The fight went on until it was nearly dark, but when Michael held the fish lovingly in his arms before releasing it, Freddie snapped a picture he was to carry with him forever more. On Michaels face was the look of pure contentment, happiness, joy, and friendship. It was what every moment aspired to be, and by comparison to which all others fell short.
Freddie told himself that the day would come when all moments would be like this and he would have the time to live them over and over. He couldn’t know that in only a few short weeks the firm would fail, his friendships would fade, and from then on he would have nothing but time to fill in whatever way he saw fit.
***
Thunder rumbled long and low from beyond the ridge, and the wind brought gusts as the storm grew near. Freddie sat on bank by the stream, releasing the last of the fish for the day. They continued to r
ise to the duns that were still yet coming off the water, and the air was full with clouds of mayflies that performed their rites liltingly in the air. He watched the females diving to the surface and releasing their eggs, unmolested by the trout, which were focused on more vulnerable prey.
Only the chattering of the riffled waters filled his ears, the quietude that persisted beyond the banks was lost in the ever constant flow, with a noisome clatter that resounded with the sound of glasses and plates being handled in a busy tavern. It was the sound of company, as if all whom he thought of and missed were brought together to tell of where they’ve been and what they’ve done. He too, would tell his story for them, laughing over the painful parts, as did everyone else.
There wasn’t any loneliness by the water, it was filled with the voices of happy memories. It was the laughing recitation of best moments, and he listened to the sound of the telling of the tale as he sat alone on the grass that had begun to grow after the long winter. Soon he would say goodbye to all, until next time, when he would come back to them again.
Mattie saw him from downstream, at the furthest length of her patrol, and she turned up the path to come to him. He watched her come, carefully reviewing each rock on the trodden path. She was halfway to him when a bird that had been perched on the bank was surprised by her, and she lunged for it, but losing her footing on the uneven bank, she fell into the frigid water.
“Mattie!” he screamed, throwing away the rod in his hand, and he ran down the path to where she was being carried away by the current. Her feeble paws lashed at the water to no effect, and she was pulled out to the deeper, stronger water.
Freddie saw what was happening and without a thought dove into the water where the current was strongest so that he would be flushed with it to where she was. His waders filled with water, which made him heavy, and unable to swim, but he projected himself off the rocks, gaining speed among the rapids, until he was able to grab her and they floated together with the stream.
Her breathing was wet from having gone under and she was coughing while trying to keep her head up. With one arm around her body, he used the other to try and pull them to the shore. In trying to keep her head up, he went under many times himself, and by the time they made it into an eddy, he was choking up water too.
He shoved her unto the rocks and was finally able to roll himself out. The waders were filled and he had to lay with his head downhill to let them drain. When he could sit up, he tried to get Mattie to her feet, but she could not stand, so he picked her up and ran with her in his arms back to the cabin. When she saw her bed by the fire, she struggled to get out of his grip, and nearly fell onto the cushion.
***
Mattie leaped out of Freddie’s arms and into the trough of water that was there for the tired dogs to cool off in after their strenuous run. The finish whistle had sounded, the sheep were corralled in the pen, and Mattie was officially crowned as the only Australian Shepherd to ever win the North American Sheepdog Championship. It was thought that an Aussie would never be able to compete with the Border Collies, their natural abilities were just too different. Not unequal, just different.
The Border Collie used ‘the eye’, and a crouching, predatory stance to intimidate the stock into going where the dog steered, directed from afar by its handler. Aussies were expected to herd through brute force, biting heels and barking at the animals, making them do what it wanted, without the finesse and delicacy of the Collie. Freddie didn’t know anything about ranching or sheep when he got the puppy, playing with a ball or chasing a stick was all the sport he had looked forward to.
But there was something bred into him as well, and he knew a champion athlete when he saw one. He was amazed at the intelligence and agility of her. Her speed and endurance, even as a small pup, was astounding.
It was not far, in geographic terms, from the life of the mountaineer to that of the rancher. They occupied much of the same lands, though they were worlds apart. Freddie took the pup across the valley to the ranch where his neighbor ran sheep and cattle, and had a kennel full of every type of herding dog there was. He explained to his confused neighbor that he wanted to train the dog, but had trouble making him understand why. He didn’t have any livestock and wasn’t planning on getting any.
“I think she can compete,” Freddie said.
“Training the dog is one thing,” the sardonic rancher said. “Training you is another one altogether. Good part is the dog can run cattle pretty much by its self, if you stay out of its way.”
“I’m talking about cutting out sheep, and moving small herds,” Freddie said, knowing what the man was going to say.
“You’re crazy,” he was predictably told.” Them dogs ain’t made for that. Could be dangerous for the sheep, too.”
But Freddie was able to convince the man to let him and Mattie borrow some of his sheep in their summer grazing lands to train with, promising to pay full value for them if any were injured. Over the coming years the two of them learned to perform the herding trials event together.
Freddie was waving to the cheering crowd in the stands who were calling wildly for the new champion that had stolen their hearts. She sat panting happily in the water, lapping up a drink in between breaths. There were sheep all over the mountainside, some in holding pens, others grazing on their own after having been herded by the dogs. It was as if she knew the audience was celebrating her, and she basked in their adulation. Then, through the cheering, the panicked bleat of a frightened ewe was heard, and everyone turned to look up to the ridge where the sound was coming from.
Two coyotes had infiltrated the outermost herd and had separated one of the sheep from the others. One was attacking its feet, and once it was down the other went for its throat. Mattie also turned her sharp eyes toward the sound, and in an instant she burst out of the water and was racing up the hill. It didn’t seem possible that she could run faster than she had moments ago while winning a major international competition, but she darted up the mountainside fairly flying.
The two predators saw her coming, and placed themselves between her and the victim, knowing they had her outnumbered and expecting to intimidate her into retreating. But Mattie never slowed down and threw her full weight into the first coyote at a flat 30 miles per hour, only the steepness of the incline keeping her from going faster. The coyote tumbled under her, rolling several times as she went right through it. Not slowing down, she made a short arching turn and pursued the other.
The second coyote had seen enough and beat a hasty retreat. Mattie quickly ran it down, and in the way no other dog but the Aussie can do, she bit through the coyotes heel at full speed, bringing it to a stop. The now horrified attacker, finding its self having gone from predator to prey so quickly, turned to make a stand, but before it could find its footing she was on it.
The ferocity of the attack was terrifying to watch; she flew at the coyote’s throat and roared as she ripped it from the body. The outrage in her was appalling, destroying the coyote with a viciousness that was unearthly to witness. She threw aside the lifeless body and began to go after the other when Freddie blew the signal to come on the whistle. She turned without pause and raced down the mountain as she had gone up. He pointed to the water trough, and she leapt into it, sending a wave flying over the closest viewers, her face and chest covered in blood.
Back in the water, she again panted happily, smiling broadly. The stunned crowd murmured in the stands, not knowing whether to be frightened for her, or of her. But one keen observer of the herding sports turned to his companion and said, “Now, THAT is why you keep an Aussie on the ranch.”
***
He woke in the middle watches of the night, and knew from the chill that gathered around him that the last embers of the waning blaze would soon be going cold. The blanket was drawn heavily over Mattie in her bed, the corners tucked underneath. His head was upon the cushion beside her where he was lying when he had fallen asleep. His arm was draped over all, comforting
her and himself, as if protecting her just as she had him throughout her life. He knew immediately that she was gone.
At first he did not move, avoiding having to acknowledge the reality, and he moved his hand over the thick fur of her neck, saying, “Good girl, good Mattie, good Woggle,” over and over again.
He finally got up and remade the fire, but then lay back down on the floor by the cushion on the river rock hearth and waited for the dawn. He waited for the sunny side of the cabin to be warmed by the spring day, and then dug through the wet and cold dark loaming soil on that side of the house. The daffodils were beginning to sprout and he tried not to damage them, knowing she would like to have them there where she used to bite off their heads so that he would come chase her away.
In the deep hole he laid her on the bed in the curled up sleeping position she was in, and finally covered the grave deep with rocks so that she be not violated by those marauders she so successfully had kept at bay in the past. When all was finished he sat by her in the sun until the day was nearly spent, when the unaccustomed sound of a heavy motor came up the hill to him, and he raised his eyes to look.
The county snowplow was clearing the road to open the loop through the cabins for the summer. The driver saw him there by the wall and stopped the plow.
“Hey there,” the driver called, walking up the drive.
“Afternoon,” Freddie replied, but not getting up.
“Looks like you got yourself a jump on summer up here. Be a little easier now, with the road clear.”
“I guess so,” Freddie said.
The driver looked around and noticed there were no snowmobile tracks to the cabin.
“How you get up here, anyway?” he asked.
“I live here. This is home.”
“Really?” the driver asked, looking at Freddie differently now.
“Sure,” he answered, but thinking he needed to give some kind of explanation he added, “It’s peaceful. And quiet. Peace and quiet; what more can you want?”