Small wind-spawned waves lapped at the smooth-edged shale that littered the shore of the lake. It was getting quite late in the afternoon, and from somewhere in the distance, the haunting cry of a loon echoed across the surface of the water. Fish had begun to dot the surface as the evening hatch winged out over the lake and kissed the tiny ripples driven before the wind.
"I guess there's nothing else for it then," said the man in the khaki fishing vest.
"I guess not," replied the second man, who wore jeans, a flannel shirt, and a weather-worn face.
"We may as well head back to camp and have a drink then," the first man suggested. He was softer countenanced than the second man, with the face of a man who makes his living in an office, only occasionally venturing out into the wilderness to hunt or fish.
"It's as good as anything," the second man agreed. "I can call in on the radio and have them bring a replacement in on the floatplane next flight. That would be late tomorrow afternoon. In the meantime, we could flyfish the stream below the spillway."
It was obvious to both men that the outboard motor attached to the wooden boat that was to carry them out onto the water to fish had seen its last outing.
"That sounds good," answered the first man, seeming vaguely disappointed.
"Do you still want to go after char when the new motor arrives?" the second man asked as they walked from the beach up a weed-strewn path that led through the thin forest to their camp. This far north, the boreal forest became decidedly anemic.
"I can't come all the way up here and not fish for char," replied the first man.
"Char it is then," said the second. They walked in silence for awhile.
"You've been guiding up here for a long time, haven't you?" asked the first man, breaking the silence as they approached camp.
"Since seventy-four," the second man told him.
"Sort of a 'Hemingway-esque' kind of life, isn't it?" the first man asked, smiling.
"I guess you could say that," the second man said. "Though I don't read much Hemingway. These days, I like Thomas Harris."
"Harris. That sounds familiar, but I don't think I know him. Outdoors writer?" the first man queried.
"No," the second man chuckled as they entered camp. "He writes cookbooks. Shall we have a bite? I'm famished!"
Cheers!
Rick...
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