by Joshua Allen

Howard thinks about his wife more often than not these days. The buzz of the reel when a fish is hooked and makes a run reminds him of the way his wife Sara used to hum to every song. She never sang the words. You don't know the words to a single song in all of recording history, he would tease. Happy birthday to yooou, she would start, but somewhere around the third "happy birthday" she would revert to humming. He would always hum right along with her.

He rolls one more cast upstream far enough away in the deep water that he can only assume his fly is dancing below the surface on the end of his invisible leader. The orange piece of yarn he has tied halfway up the leader produces no telltale stall. So, he reels in the thick green fly-line to try a new spot.

Do you love fly-fishing more than me? she would ask. Depends, he would say with a grin, how much do you love fly-fishing? She slapped his arm. Do you? she would persist. Absolutely, he would respond as he pulled his vest out of the closet. Prove it, she would roll lazily away from him, only breaking her gaze at the final moment.

Sometimes he would try harder than others to prove how much he adored fly-fishing, but in the end he was never the die-hard he pretended to be. He used to ponder how great it would be to arrive at the river before dawn, like he'd planned. Now, as he hooks his fly into the cork grip of his rod, he wishes she were still around to make him late.

He looks upstream and considers the terrain. The easy route is the shore, but he still has enough pride to wade up the stream. Besides, getting back in is always loud, disruptive. He decides, despite the river's early season depth, to wade. On the occasions when his father had taken him on his fishing trips to Navajo Lake (always when all his father's friends were out of town), he used to sit in his dad's Chevy pickup and trace this same river with his eyes. He followed it inch by inch as they curved along the road. Sometimes he would have to strain to keep it in view; sometimes the river would dip behind a tall embankment and all he could see was grass, maybe a few twisted trees. On the right, as they ascended the hill to the spillway, the Navajo emerged, dotted with specks of the sun and boats. The occasional bald eagle would circle at the far end, near the thicker trees, waiting for its eye to catch its next dive-bomb victim. On the left, the San Juan River flowed out like a leak sprung from the massive concrete structure. They passed over the dam on the way to the boat ramp, and if he sat high on his seat, he could see the slope that pointed to the river, a giant stone water slide.

"I heard some teenagers tried to slide down that last year. They never found the bodies." His dad said this as an afterword to the car ride, a foreword to the day of fishing; it was how he knew they had arrived. He always added, as a postscript, "Maybe some day I'll teach you how to fly-fish. Would you like that, kiddo?"

I heard some kids tried crossing down here earlier this week. One of them caught some water in his waders and was swept downstream. Happened so quick, his friends didn't realize what had happened. He inches forward towards the deeper water, testing the depth with the end of his pole. He sees the kid dragged under, blinking out of existence while his bewildered friends call his name to the banks. Little steps, that's the key. Kids these days are always in such a hurry. He steps down and the water goes from knee-deep to almost above his chest-waders. It pushes him, insisting that he is going the wrong direction. Tons of water flow against his entire left side, attempting to correct his mistake.

This is one of the few places of solitude on the river. Upstream not five hundred feet is at least a dozen fishermen. Further up, by the dam, maybe fifty more. They fish where the schools are so big they can see the fish across the river at its widest point. The men line up along the strips of land in the middle of the river and the edge, cursing when they get tangled in each other's lines. Most of them aren't even from the Southwest, let along New Mexico. Mostly they're tourists looking to take a trophy from the famed river. He and Sara used to pass them by with disdain. He fishes downriver, where his father first taught him to lift and roll his line, using the current as weight, loading the rod to shoot the fly to the perfect spot.

Down here he can always find solitude. Down here, you rarely see a fish at all.

When you've fished long enough, you don't have to see it with your eyes, you can look at a spot and know that he's there, feeding, breathing, moving only when absolutely necessary. Such a place is only ten feet in front of him. He steps up on a shallow ledge and squints at the eddy.

The river ripples over the rocks, mottling the detail of the riverbed. It looks only a few inches deep, but he knows better. The ripples flow into a lichen-coated rock and are deflected away, leaving a navy-hued pool behind. There, his eyes penetrate only a few inches of the river's depth.

There's a trout in there, maybe a big one; a king. This is his domain. Occasionally another fish will dare to enter the stillness, but the king chases it away with only a brief dart. Otherwise he sits there, letting mates and food find him. He doesn't have to move because the river is filled with tiny orange and yellow worms that simply flow into his open mouth. He never has to chase a mayfly or bee on the surface, never has to dig for a midge. In this river, he gets all he needs by just being patient. The king is suspicious, cautious. He didn't get to be that big by thrashing around like a minnow. The slightest disturbance will make him quit feeding, perhaps for hours.

* * *

Howard had only caught a trophy once. It had been well over twenty-five inches, by far the biggest he'd ever caught or seen live.

He'd battled it for almost half an hour. It had been smart, jerking upstream, relaxing, then sweeping across the deep water where the current was heaviest. His leader was ten pound test, the fish was more than a match so he'd let it run when it moved, reeled like mad when it paused.

When he'd finally fought it within net range, his right wrist was throbbing. His friend, fishing from the shore, had jumped up and down like a two-year-old.

"It's huge! You gotta get that thing mounted. I'm gonna go grab my camera!"

With his left hand he'd held his fly-rod out of the river. With his right, he'd scooped his net toward the fish. It had bolted when it felt the disturbance and he'd felt his line finally give.

He'd pulled his net out, expecting to find it empty. But the mighty fish had been trapped by the green nylon network, and was staring at him with one eye. Its red and purple stripes were especially bright. It had been mating season, then, and the fish had been loading up on food to compete with the younger stock.

Howard had been excited, imagining the fish on a lacquered plaque in his den. What would Sara think? Oh, Howard... she would be trying to smile and be happy for him. How could you kill something so beautiful?

He'd heard his friend wrestling through the brush, no doubt with his waterproof camera in tow.

Howard had taken his needle-nose pliers from his pocket; gently, he'd freed the tiny number fourteen hook with its piece of yellow chamois chewed almost off. He then had put the net in the water, and had guided the fish upright with his hand, careful not to touch it with more than his fingertips so he wouldn't damage its sensitive mucous coating. The fish had regained its composure quickly and let the stream take it away a few yards before darting off into deep water.

"Where'd the fish go, Howie?"