Grandfather, an Idaho trout fisherman, a Norman Maclean character except majestically tall, accompanied the four of us, two tweens, my father, and uncle, to fly fish the Queens River in Boise National Forest. Darkly dappled dirt roads demanded prudent speeds; all of us exhausted, tense, sunburned, insect-bitten; our trunk packed with waders, fishing gear, and a mess of rainbows caught by everyone but me—skunked, embarrassed, and now, scared. Grandfather, who no longer fished for more than an hour at a time, had been reading the newest Idaho Fish and Game Regulations just before we left the river after three days. “No more than six fish per fisherman per day,” he’d noticed. The ten-fish limit had been lowered. My stomach ached at the thought of our arrest by game wardens. Would this dirt road ever end? Would a paved highway, if we ever found it, protect us from ignominy? Would we be led to a flashing cruiser in handcuffs?
is a retired high school and college English teacher from Virginia. He has been lucky to have published short stories occasionally, mostly in defunct journals. (His non-fiction articles are more frequently accepted.) Steve is a husband, father, grandfather, and Navy veteran.
