The Last Trout

Saffron colored aspen lined the banks of the Willowemoc as it meandered, thin and blue, through the hemlocks of the Catskills. Dark-copper magnolia leaves, along with aspen, oak, and maple, drifted past in languid circles in the early autumn current and the sun, golden and strong, rose above the ridge and into a crystal blue sky. It had been a long, hot season, and the air, although hinting of fall, held to the last dying breath of summer as it moved through the scarlet red brush in the meadow that appeared to mourn the end of September’s warmth.

Jim worked his way along the bank of the river, fishing the water that flowed under the overhangs and branches close to shore. He targeted the spots where he knew the trout would be. He had spent the summer away from the river, almost missing the season entirely. He could never find the right time to get away. Too many commitments, too many reasons. But now, with the end of the season closing in upon him, he was back on the water. And the trout were skittish. Startled by every movement. Every vibration a signal of danger. Every passing cloud a possible hawk circling for prey. So Jim fished deliberately. Each cast having purpose. Each cast a direct target. Jim knew that a missed cast here and the trout would disappear for hours.

Downstream, emerging from the hemlocks a lone figure slipped gracefully into the water. Jim could tell from the Australian bush-hat that it was Paul. They had met years ago under circumstances that had become legend around local fishing campfires and fly shops. Paul had saved Jim’s life. On this very river. Jim was fighting the largest trout of his life when he slipped on the smooth granite rocks along the bottom and crashed backward into the boulder behind him, knocking him unconscious. Paul, watching from downstream, pulled Jim from the water and carried him out of the woods, driving him to the local hospital thirty miles away. Legend now went that the next morning, after Jim had been patched up, he went back to the river to find the pole wedged between two rocks at the top of the pool with the fish still on the line, sulking at the bottom.

From that one point in their lives their friendship grew, each calling the other in the city when they had a free day to replace the concrete and noise with the hemlocks and sounds of the Catskills, or simply showing up and finding the other already on the water. They both knew when the other liked to fish. And where. Jim preferred the quiet pools to the faster runs and ripples; Paul preferred the latter. Each, however, would fish wherever the fish were biting, always ending up at their favorite pool and fishing it until dark, enjoying the quiet companionship of a late summer’s eve. Today would most likely be the same as Paul was already downstream fishing the pool.

Jim cast to a half-submerged log to his left and let the fly enter the current just above the eddy it created. He mended the line to reduce drag and watched as the fly swirled around the tiny whirlpool, moving towards the slower water of the outside. The fly was moving past the log when it hit. The brown trout swirled with the current and then struck, taking Jim’s fly and turning downstream. Jim waited a second and then lifted the tip of the rod to set the hook. He could tell by the pull that the trout was large. Seventeen, eighteen inches at least. And strong. The trout headed downstream into the rapids, tearing line from Jim’s reel. At the base of the rapids the trout leaped from the water in a majestic display of trout ballet, colors and spots shimmering in the sun, splashed again to the water and was gone, free of the line.

Jim reeled in his line and inspected the fly. The trout had twisted the hook from his mouth and would now hide for the rest of the day. He knew there was no use going after him and he looked downstream at Paul who was absorbed in his own fishing. Alone in his own world, he had not noticed the battle that had just taken place on the water above, but stood, casting to the same spot over and over, not even giving the trout in the pool the chance to strike. It seemed to Jim that Paul was going through the actions, but not fishing. That was odd, Jim thought, where is his technique?

The wind blew in the trees overhead and a flurry of gold aspen leaves fell into the water around him as Jim stood still and let his soul drink in the experience. It was the perfect day to be on the river floating a fly and stepping into the cycle of nature. Jim watched as a medium-sized brown rose in rhythmic patterns above him, gently intercepting various insects as they entered the top of the pool from the ripples. Jim let out a little more line and cast. The fly, given just the right touch at just the right time, landed lightly on the surface of the water precisely above the last ripple, just high enough above the pool to allow the fly enough time to drift into the trout’s cone of vision. Two heartbeats later and it was gone — greedily ripped from the surface by the same trout that he had watched moments earlier. Jim again lifted the tip of his rod and pulled the line with his left hand to set the hook. The fish raced for the bottom of the pool and then launched out of the water, landing with a less than graceful smack. Jim brought in more line and coaxed the trout over to the shallows at the edge of the river.

Colorful, and regal, the trout was a fifteen inch brown already changing colors for spawning. Jim eased his hand into the water and, being careful not to squeeze the belly, gently cradled the trout in his hand. Reaching into his vest, Jim grabbed the surgical forceps needed to undo the barbless hook with minimal damage and extracted the hook from the lower portion of the trout’s mouth. Then, moving the trout to faster-moving water, he held him in the flow until the oxygen level increased in his body and the trout, revived, swam off toward the other side of the pool, back to his original lair.

Jim again looked downstream to “the pool” to see Paul, now not even casting but simply standing, staring at the water. Jim looked at the damaged fly he had taken from the trout’s mouth and wondered about Paul. Maybe it’s time to check in, Jim thought as he hooked the fly to the rod and began to move toward the pool below. Jim thought about their relationship, about how they met occasionally in Manhattan, their schedules only allowing for a rare baseball game or quick lunch. It was here, out on the water that their friendship really grew. New York was a place of jobs and responsibilities to other people, other things. It was only here on the stream or at one of the local bars having a pint afterward that they would discuss world events, happenings in their lives, and milestones that they were passing. On the stream, there was idle chatter, but most of the time just silence. Each taking comfort in the knowledge that a friend was enjoying the same experiences a few hundred yards away. Each knowing that at the end of the day there would be someone to share a beer or coffee with and swap more detailed accounts of the battles witnessed at a distance.

Jim moved downstream carefully, just in case Paul was actually fishing and not only using the river as nature’s resident therapist. At the top of the pool Jim stopped and watched. There was trouble. Even at this distance he could tell that Paul hadn’t tied on the right fly for the hatch — wasn’t even using his favorite and he had barely noticed Jim entering the pool from above, briefly glancing in his direction, then returning his gaze back at the water as it flowed by at its steady pace. With the smallest of ripples, Jim moved silently next to Paul at the edge of the pool.

“Paul, everything all right?”
Paul, ever so slightly, shook his head from side to side, continuing to stare at the water as if in a trance.
“I hooked a seventeen incher that got away, and landed a smaller one in the pool above,” Jim added, giving Paul the fishing report of the morning’s activities and thinking that Paul did not look well.
“Paul, you okay?”
“I killed my wife.”

The words came without any type of warning. No preface. No help. Just the cold stark words with the weight of the world that hit Jim full in the chest.

“I killed my wife.” Paul repeated as a tear made its way down his cheek, barely noticeable under the shadows that his hat created across his face. The words caused Jim’s world to shake. He had never known Paul to exaggerate, even when retelling the day’s fishing stories at the local tavern. He was now worried.
“Paul, if this is some kind of joke, I don’t…” The words trailed off as Paul turned and faced his friend, tears now streaming down a face that was worn from too many hours of crying and not enough sleep.

“Jim, I killed my wife. She…she was terminal,” the words came stilted and forced, “she was in so much pain, oh dear God…she begged me. And so, I did it.”

Jim watched as the visions of the actions crossed Paul’s face.

“I had it all planned. I knew exactly what I would do after she was at peace. I knew,” the words stopped as Paul took a breath to continue.
“I was going to kill myself as well.” Paul paused and gazed at the water.
“I can’t live without her in my life Jim…without her there is no life for me, there is nothing to live for, no joy. There’s nothing left for me. Nothing. But I couldn’t do it. I didn’t have the balls. I looked at the gun I had bought and only saw pain. So I came here.”

Paul, by some physical memory of being on the water, again unproductively cast his fly and watched as it entered the swirls and eddies. Jim watched for a moment as the man’s soul began to melt into the river, his own mind screaming a thousand questions.

“Have you called anyone yet? Does anyone know? Did you call 911?”
“Called them from a pay phone and left a note in the apartment. They know what I’ve done, just not where I’m at.”
“There’s still hope. We could say that the note is fake, or that…”
“Jim, stop.” Paul said through the tears. “There is no hope. She’s gone Jim.”
“I’m not even planning on going back. I thought about getting into a shootout with the police, but I don’t want that kind of guilt on their shoulders — they wouldn’t know the reason. So I decided to come here, to fish one more time and then finish what I couldn’t do before.” Paul stopped and looked at the trees on the bank. “It’s already done.” Paul said and gestured to the fifth of scotch on the river’s bank. Jim looked at the fifth and then at the flask in Paul’s vest and knew what was coming next.
“I laced it with norpramine. I’m going to get pleasantly drunk and then, in a few hours, die. I’m just waiting for the pain to start, for the pain to tell me that the fear and emptiness will soon end.” Paul looked into the eyes of his fishing friend.
“It will be painful, but then at least I will have done it.” Paul wiped a tear from his cheek.
“And so, this will be my last day on the river. My last time chasing trout. My last moment of peace.”
“Paul, let me take you to the hospital.” Jim offered, already knowing the response.
“I can’t live with the knowledge of what I’ve done Jim. At least dead I won’t have the pain.” Paul answered.

Jim tried to empathize. Before him was a man, a friend, who out of love had killed his wife. A man who had looked at the pain and realized it was too much. A man who had given his wife the one last thing she requested without thinking of what it meant for him. A man who the courts would say committed murder because of whatever reason — insurance, responsibility, medical costs, or whatever other reason people with normal motives took another’s life — and imprison him. And now he stood dying, the cool blue water of the Willowemoc swirling around his legs, because he couldn’t bear the thought of living without the one person he truly loved. A strong man who didn’t have the strength to face the emptiness within his own soul. A man who couldn’t bear the prospect of facing the visions of his wife’s final moments as they haunted his psyche. Couldn’t bear the guilt that he knew would come. A man, a friend, trying desperately to grab one last moment on the river. One last moment among the trout.

Jim knew then that he would never again look up and see his friend exiting the hemlocks, never sit at the bar with him listening to his thoughts, never miss seeing him on the stream and wonder what he was doing. It seemed like such a waste. Such a loss. But Jim also knew there was little hope in Paul finding a reason to live. Not one that would cut through the pain and loss. He didn’t have children and the major portion of his life had just vanished, eaten over some period of time by the sickness that had caused enough damage and pain that this had been the final answer.

Jim watched as a magnolia leaf drifted by, swirling in the current. Paul had already taken the poison and he knew that soon the pain and fear would come, and come hard. He could try to save Paul, but he knew his friend, knew without a doubt that he would attempt it again and again until he succeeded. He was tenacious and stubborn and he lived for his wife. Jim looked back at Paul. Hard thing to do, take your own life. Those that had tried and failed said that at the actual moment they felt the most overwhelming sense of regret. He shouldn’t die like that, Jim thought. In regret. Alone. But ultimately it was his choice. And not only had he decided that he didn’t want to go on, he had already committed the act.

Paul smiled a sad, melancholy smile, tears still in the wells of his eyes. Jim nodded and returned the smile. The river would be different without his friend, but they still had now. And Jim would still have the memories.
“I’ll miss you Paul,” Jim said reaching down and feeling the cool water before dipping his bandana into the river. “I think I understand.”
“Yes, I thought that you would.”
Jim looked at his friend, and then at the fly on the end of his line and smiled. “But if you’re going to fish first, let’s make the best of it huh? First of all, I think I would change that fly if I were you.”
Paul looked at the fly he had tied on in his grief and shook his head. He had grabbed the first thing that he had seen in his box — not even close to anything the trout would take today.
“Why don’t you tie on a Royal Wulff? I was having some success with it earlier.” Jim watched as his friend reeled in his line and changed to the fly he had suggested.

After a few trout caught, the concentration of fishing had now taken over Paul’s troubled mind. He actually looked at peace Jim thought, as he watched Paul again place a perfect cast to the eddy on the far side of the pool, mending his line to take up the slack, suddenly wincing as the first stab of pain from the poison hit his heart.

It was then, in the peace of the moment, that Jim knew what he had to do and he suddenly resented Paul for bringing this thing to their pool. Resentment and sorrow, the kind of sorrow that changes things. Regret. It was here that ten years ago Paul had saved his life, and now it would be here that Jim would repay that debt. Jim moved back onto the bank as Paul recast out into the pool, giving his friend the pool to himself on the day he knew would be his last.

“Quitting?” Paul asked looking back at his friend.
Jim put his fly rod down on the bank and sat beside it. “Nah. Just thought I’d let you have the pool to yourself for a while more. Don’t want to spook the fish for you.” Damn, Jim thought. He could just walk away from it all. Let Paul finish what he started, but the thought of his friend, spending the last moments of his life in fear, doubt, grief and pain would be too much to face in the morning. Well it had happened and he couldn’t change that. This day would be different. This spot would now be different. It would have a distinctly lonely feeling and be haunted with the memories of their days together.

Jim looked around at the fire reds and golds and knew now that it was time. Paul was at the top of the pool, playing to a trout that was starting to rise on the far edge. Jim silently entered the water and moved over to where his friend was working. With the first waves of pain now gone, Paul was now totally absorbed in his surroundings — the rod, the line, the fly and the fish. Total concentration. The rest of the world was gone, including the acts of this morning and the fear of what was to come. The trout was all that there was.

Jim reached into the water and found a good-sized piece of granite, hefty and with a sharp edge. Quickly and almost without perception, he brought it out of the water and above his head. Paul watched as a large brown engulfed his fly from the eddy, unaware of the action behind him. There was nothing, nothing but the trout, the sky and the water. Jim paused for a brief moment and silently said good-bye to his friend before bringing the piece of granite quickly down on the base of Paul’s skull, just above the neck, below the edge of his hat.

The blow was decisive and the effect was immediate and total. Paul’s body went limp with the impact as his knees dropped from beneath him, and he fell face first into the pool, unconscious, the trout still on the line of his rod. Jim heaved the rock to the deepest part of the pool, wiping the tear that trailed down his face. He squeezed his eyes tight and took a deep breath before opening them to see his friend floating down toward the rapids at the lower end of the pool, blood spreading in the water from the gash in his head. Someone would find the body lodged in the rocks below and call the police. They would look at the site, logically conclude that he had slipped upstream in the rapids above the pool and hit his head and drowned. It would be sad and tragic, but that would be that. How ironic, they would think, that the man who had saved Jim from the same fate would die that way. It was amazing, Jim thought, the hand that life sometimes dealt you.

Jim looked at the pool that the two of them had fished over the years. Forever changed, it would now not hold the same peace that it had, the same repose. Now the image Jim would see would be that of his friend, hooked to a trout, realizing but not really, that it would be the last one. Jim hated the fact that his world had now changed, that this place had now changed, that nothing stayed the same forever, especially the good things. The sun came from behind the clouds and again a gust of wind blew a flurry of golden leaves to the water’s surface. Jim sat down on the bank, and cried.