Still three years ago…

It had been a little more than a week since Tracey dragged Niko into the emergency clinic. He was now able walk, and his infections were under control. The first thing he used his regained strength for was the police interview. Tracey suggested bringing a lawyer, but Niko refused. “Lawyers are for when you have to lie, and a Chamonix never lies.”

Tracey shook her head at him, too exhausted to engage.

Niko sat alone in the sheriff’s office.

“You mind if I record this?” the sheriff, a towering man named Roland Reynolds, asked. He was leaning forward over his desk in his blue uniform with his hand over the recorder.

“Go ahead sheriff,” Niko said.

Reynolds clicked the machine, confirmed the time, date, and the names of those present. “Well, what happened out there?”

“When?”

Reynolds raised his eyebrows. “From the moment you met Bernard and Andrea. I need all of the details you can remember.”

Niko shifted in his seat and began. “We met at the shop. They seemed nice enough, a little out of their element, but fine.”

“Out of their element?”

“Yea. They seemed more like the yacht crowd than the drift boat crowd. And, I didn’t expect the little-boy.”

“Are you referring to the deceased four-year-old, Richard Rupert?”

Niko’s eyes lasered through the table in front of him. “Yes.”

“Go on,” Reynolds instructed.

“I didn’t know they were bringing the boy. I told them I didn’t feel good taking someone that young out there on that river.”

“Which river?”

Niko was pinching and rolling the fabric on the legs of his pants. “The Nagadan. Don’t you all know all of this shit already?”

Reynolds frowned. “What I know is of no concern. I need complete accounts from all involved.” He looked at Niko’s fidgety hands. “Is this bothering you? You got something else to do right now?”

“I get the feeling you’ve already made your mind up about me.”

“I don’t make my mind up. I listen, gather evidence, and go from there.”

Niko continued. “They drove in from Boston and told me the baby sitter had cancelled at the last minute. I offered to have the kid stay with Tracey, but they insisted on him coming. Said they had never left him alone with a stranger.”

“Did that bother you? Them not trusting Tracey?”

Niko pursed his lips and shook his head. “No. Why would I care what they thought about Tracey?”

“Seems like you think they are — ” Reynolds carefully searched for the right phrase, “arrogant.”

“I would say stuck up,” Niko replied. “I should have returned their deposit and told them to drive back down to Boston. I should’ve said I wouldn’t babysit out there. But, I just went along with it.”

“Why were you so worried about a kid out there?”

“Same reason I told them. The river looks calm, but it will swallow you up and pull you down in a second. Kids don’t realize that. Bernard said they would be fine and that I was making too much of it. He was a jerk from the start — thought he knew it all because he was some sort of fancy journalist or something.”

“You calling a man who just lost his child a jerk?” Reynolds asked, eyebrows raised.

“Yea. Tragedy doesn’t change who you were before it happened. If he had listened to me out there, he would still have his son. I wouldn’t feel like — ” Niko stopped short.

“Pretty cold way to look things.”

“Just reality.” Niko’s forearm muscles were flexing as he squeezed the chair handle.

“Go on. Tell me about it.”

“The trip up was fine. We drove about forty miles to the last public boat launch, and I had enough gas for the outboard to get the rest of the way on the river. The plan was to camp out near the headwaters, fish, and then just float back to town.”

“How did your truck get back?”

“I take my friend with me and he drives it back. I give him free gear from the shop in exchange.”

“Who?” Reynolds asked with his pen ready to write a name.

“Mossy Kroll.”

“The brewery guy?”

“Yea, that’s him.”

“Could he corroborate any of the warnings you gave the family?”

“Yea. He was warning them too.”

“What happened after you got to the boat ramp?”

“Standard trip. The weather was perfect. The flows were a little high but nothing too heavy. Bernard and Andrea seemed bored, but the kid loved it.”

“Richard?”

“What?”

“You are referring to Richard, right?”

“Yea. He was the only kid out there.”

“Just checking.”

“I was watching over him the whole time.”

“Why so intent on Richard?”

“Because he was interested in everything, each stick or leaf floating by, and Bernard and Andrea didn’t understand how to watch a child in an environment like that. Why is that hard for you to understand?” Niko’s voice was higher now.

Reynolds sat back. “Niko, I understand what you are saying. You’ve got to understand I have questions to ask. I have to figure things out.”

Niko leaned forward in the chair. “Fine.”

“What next?”

“To be honest I was surprised at how smooth it was. No one got sick, no nosy animals, no storms. We got to camp, had a nice dinner, some fishing, slept, and then started floating back.” Niko paused and bit into his bottom lip. “The only thing that went wrong was thing that went wrong.”

“That was a big one,” Reynolds said.

“You don’t have to tell me that. I was there,” Niko was leaned all the way forward and looking at the floor. “Well, it was about mid-day, and I was happy to be headed back, and — ”

“Why so happy to be coming back?”

Man, this guy does not skip a detail.

“Because they didn’t talk much, and they weren’t interested in doing anything for themselves, including watching their child. The river is tight and deep up there. You ever been that far on the Nagadan?”

Reynolds thought for a moment. It was hard to tell if he was considering the question or considering if he would even entertain a question.

“No, I haven’t,” Reynolds said.

“Well, the water rolls fast up there, and the river is full of all kinds of formations that churn big hydraulics. The surface is so smooth and clam that most people don’t even notice, so I was a little on edge. I was anxious to get through it to the easier water. Bernard was fishing while we floated, and I saw the kid — “

“Richard?”

“Yea, he was leaning over the side of the boat reaching for a stick. Neither Bernard or Andrea were looking at him.

“I slammed the oars down and pulled the kid back into the boat. He started crying because he hit his arm on a tackle box. Bernard started yelling at me, asking me what the hell I was doing and telling me to keep my hands off his son.”

Niko’s jaw was flexing.

“Why don’t you ever say his name?” Reynolds asked.

“What name?”

“Richard.”

Niko sat up and looked right at Reynolds. His jaw was now clenched and set hard.

“You want the story or not?”

“Just curious about the name. Go on.”

“I told Bernard that I just saved his son’s … I mean Richard’s life,” he paused to see how Reynolds reacted. “Then I told him that I couldn’t run the boat, help him fish, make everyone snacks, and babysit out there.”

“What did he say to that?”

“He asked what he was paying me for. Then he called me a hick and said I was overreacting. That the life-vest was more than enough.” Niko paused. “Does this all match up with the story that they told you?”

“I can’t answer that before I hear your side of things.”

“Well, Andrea was holding Richard, and he had stopped crying. She even told Bernard to stop his bickering, but he just kept on. He complained that it was boring, that there was no adventure.”

“I looked around — a pristine river, no roads, no people, no noise, just fish and wilderness for miles. I said, ‘This is the adventure.’”

“How did they react to that?” Reynolds asked.

“Bernard calmed down a little and decided to keep fishing while we floated. After an hour he hooked into a good salmon. I tried to help him land it, but he refused. He got the fish in the boat, but he was handling it like it was live grenade. Things were flopping all over, and in the commotion he buried the hook deep in his thumb as the fish splashed back into the water.”

“He started yelling and cussing again and got real aggressive. He said, ‘You gonna help me get this damn thing out of my thumb, you piece of shit.”

“He said that?” Reynolds asked. “You remember those exact words after all this time?”

“Yea. I’ve never been talked to like that on my own boat. And I’ve never been sarcastic with a client in my life, but he was too much. I yelled back, ‘Thought you didn’t need any help?’

“He told me not to be an asshole and get the hook out. I knew I had to help him, so I pulled the oars, got my wire cutters and clipped the hook. It pushed through nice and easy. Then I heard a splash.”

“What splashed?” Reynolds asked.

“What do you think?” Niko was quiet now, his voice soft. His eyes downturned and glassy. “I turned and saw the boy, bobbing in the water, his little red hat still on. He was already thirty yards downstream. I jumped in, no vest on, and started swimming like hell, but he was so far ahead already. He went under for a moment and lost his hat, and I heard his mother scream. I looked back and saw them on the boat. That man, the one who you felt so concerned for when I called him a jerk, was just standing there watching his own son float away.”

“He didn’t jump in to help?”

“No. He just watched.” Niko’s voice was shaking in a combination of anger and sadness. “The kid popped back up, coughing and crying now, but I couldn’t make up the distance. I kept trying, and it felt like miles, but I supposed it was just a few hundred yards. He drifted towards the bank and snagged on a log jam. I could see the water pile up on him right away.”

“And the father was still in the boat?”

“Yes, he was. I cut hard towards the boy, but I couldn’t get there in time. I floated past him before finally reaching the bank downstream, and I hoped to god that his parents would float right to him and get him out. I started running back over the stones and drift wood. I didn’t see the boat yet, but so I started climbing the log jam from the downstream side. I fell more times than I can count. I finally got to the top and spotted Richard in his yellow vest.”

Niko took a deep breath and continued. “I didn’t think, and I just jumped from the top and landed next to him, and I felt the heavy water on me immediately. I almost got pushed under myself, but I pulled up on a limb and then grabbed the boy. His head was pushed down, and he wasn’t struggling, and I knew it right then, but I kept trying. I pulled his body up and out, and I carried him by the vest, lifeless and limp towards the bank. His face was blue. I saw the boat just upstream. His parents had their hands over the mouths, and they were screaming. When I reached the bank, I put him down in the sand and tried CPR. I got the water to come out of his lungs, shooting out the first couple of times I pumped his chest, but he didn’t cough or breath. His eyes were dead, but I kept pumping until I felt a tap on my shoulder.”

Niko was now whispering as he leaned forward with his elbows on his knees.

“I turned. I was trying to think of what to say to his parents. I had no words for that. Then I saw Bernard with his hands up and back over his shoulder, and I was confused. Andrea was still in the boat, and I remember she yelled Bernard’s name, not the kid’s. Then I saw the oar in Bernard’s hands, and we locked eyes for a moment. I thought to put my hands up, but it was all so fast. He swung the oar at my face, and I blacked out. When I woke up it was dusk. I was alone and wet. There were footsteps leading back to the water, but the boat was gone. The kid was gone.”

Niko stopped there and waited. He felt the deep, aching tiredness that you feel once you return home from a funeral. He slumped back into the uncomfortable chair.

Reynolds leaned back and rubbed his temples with one hand.

“Interesting. That’s not how they recount the events of that day.”

“I don’t know what to tell you about that,” Niko said.

…

Check back in for a new episode next Tuesday!

About three years earlier …

Niko stumbled from the woods onto the narrow ATV track. His shirt — once a light-blue Columbia PFG — was missing buttons and darkened with blood and dirt. His eyes were red from lack of sleep, and he limped. He bled from a partially healed slash running in a line midst a raised and swollen purple ridge on the side of his face. Any exposed skin was sunburned and covered in the swollen pricks of bug bites.

He was thin, and his eyes focused on nothing in particular as they peered forward and slightly down into the dirt in front of him, as if he was willing his mind to dig a hole into which he could crawl and forget it all.

Less than a quarter of a mile along the path, he fell to the ground. He could not move his limbs — a level of exhaustion few have really felt. Niko laughed and coughed and whispered nonsense to the trees, and then he closed his eyes.

Niko, in that state, didn’t recognize the familiar terrane and had no idea that was just three point four miles from Ladawambuck. It could have been a hundred.

Niko was beginning to understand that the grit needed to survive is easier to find when the objective is clear, when there is a schedule, a lighthouse, or just a little wooden sign noting the distance to the next road. Without those things, the suffering seems endless, the task impossible, even for the toughest of people.

In his time out there, Niko had heard helicopters on two occasions, but he never saw one. He tried many times to make a fire, but he had no supplies and the soaking spring rains prevented creating one by natural means.

He wondered if they knew where to look, and he figured even if there was a search party, they would have given up after a week or so. Except Tracey. He knew she would never give up. If he could not survive this ordeal, he at least wanted to die in spot where she would find him and have some closure.

He didn’t know about all of the people who had searched. Firefighters, fellow guides, police, volunteers, Tracey, his family, people from his home town, people from college. Even some of the nomadic guides, salty captains, and mountain explorers Niko had worked with and befriended in his travels came all the way to Ladawambuck to look for him.

They searched even though the last people who saw him, Bernard and Andrea said he was drowned, swallowed up by the river. No one outright contested their story, as it would have been tasteless to do so right then, but the people who knew Niko, who really knew him, quietly wondered if they were getting the truth. So they searched on.

The search was expansive, but so is Maine, and they didn’t have accurate information to start with. They didn’t know that Niko waited for a few days and then tried to float the river on driftwood, but he split at the wrong spot, and then he went on foot for a while before returning to a smaller river where he collapsed and lay until a lone, rugged man with long hair and a wildly expansive beard that smelled of the woods found him and loaded him into a canoe and took him back to his cabin.

The cabin was set away from the river and miles from any roads, and it wasn’t on any map or any land deed or county record. The searchers tried, but they had been misled from the start.

After ten days, the official search ended. If Niko was mobile, he would have made it back by then. If he wasn’t, well that meant he was dead. No one talked about it openly, but local authorities were under pressure to resolve this quickly. A missing guide was bad for tourism. Bernard and Andrea, well connected Bostonians, had already enlisted the services of several lawyers, and a lawsuit was even worse than a missing guide.

So, based solely on Bernard and Andrea’s testimony, Niko was declared dead on June 7th. Tracey fought it in court the best she could, but the judge just wanted it finished.

Because so many family and friends were already in town, they hastily put together a memorial service. Tracey refused to participate, but her mother filmed the thing saying, “she’ll want to watch it someday.”

In the years after, Niko would celebrate June 7th as his death day. Tracey never voiced an objection, feeling that owning that sort of experience was personal and she had no context to judge’s Niko’s treatment of his own “death”, but she always made sure to be absent from that celebration for some reason or another.

Niko would begin the day by writing himself a happy death day card that he would file away in the clutters of his desk. Then he would go fishing with Mossy before beers at the brewery. There Mossy would usually suggest watching the footage of Niko’s memorial service. Niko always refused saying, “I don’t want to jinx the real one.” No one knew exactly what he meant, but they couldn’t argue with the man on his death day.

Then Niko would leave to get deliriously drunk by himself before passing out at the fly shop. June 8th was always a quiet day around the house.

After Niko’s memorial service, everyone went home, and the world went back to normal for everyone except Tracey. Some of local guides even approached her about buying the guide shop. She did her best not to punch them before calmly saying, “go eat shit and then think deeply about your life choices.”

Tracey kept looking. She would run up the rivers on boats, wind in her light hair and binoculars swinging around her neck as she scanned the banks. She would hike the trails for miles and miles around Ladawambuck, stopping to listen, and then calling his name out to the trees. Sometimes she cried when she knew she was alone. She covered ground like an experienced guide or tracker, and a few times she stayed out exposed for the night, building her shelter from the materials at hand, feeling connected to Niko through the land that they both loved.

Niko had always encouraged her to guide with him or take her own clients. He would say, “you’re better than any of the guides around here, including me. And people love to fish with me,” and then he would pause and follow up with, “Now, I am better at high altitudes and out on the salt, but you got me here in these woods.”

She appreciated the compliment, but would say, “I’m more than happy to make a living as a writer and artist. Fishing and hiking are for pleasure. Why muddy those waters with money?”

She loved how much Niko loved her. How he smiled at her paintings before they were even finished and hung the ones she didn’t sell in the perfect spot without asking, and how he always read her first drafts and posed questions that she hadn’t thought of, and how he would grab her from behind and pull her to his chest after she had been fishing or hiking and would put his face next to her neck and breathed deeply, absorbing her musk and dirtiness. Then he would smile and kiss her neck. Those were the nights he wanted her most, the nights he carried her to bed, where they lost themselves in each other, disturbing the fish-table bears with their intimate sounds that carried out the open window into the Maine air.

He loved every corner of her soul and every inch of her body for exactly what it was, never bending her unique will and peculiar tastes to a preconceived image. He conceived his images based on her.

She knew Niko was still out there, that he would not stop trying to return to her until his body had nothing left, so she kept searching.

She found him laying in the middle of the ATV track. A raccoon was sniffing him, but it ran away when it heard Tracey. Niko was unconscious but breathing. She grabbed his arms and tried dragging him, but soon realized that would take too long. She dropped his arms and then began to sprint. As an accomplished track and cross-country athlete growing up, Tracey had recorded some good times in the five kilometers, but this was by far her fastest pace. She got back to the trailhead, which emptied out next to the fly shop, and she ran to the four-wheeler in the garage. She fired it up, rushed back down the trail, lifted Niko’s body onto the rack in a swift motion, strapped him down, kissed his thinned face, and said “hold on just a little longer.”

She arrived back at the house, transferred Niko into the truck and then sped down the highway. When she dragged him into the emergency clinic, the doctors and nurses looked horrified. She yelled “what do I have to do to get some help around here?”

They rushed over and put Niko onto a stretcher. After Tracey explained the situation, the doctor scolded her for dragging an injured patient, and for not calling an ambulance. She was pulling smashed bugs from her face and hair, and she said “I got him here from an ATV trail in Ladawambuck in sixty minutes, you think you all could’ve done better?” The doctor didn’t respond, but one of the nurses smiled at Tracey.

Niko regained consciousness two days later. He was exhausted, dehydrated, undernourished, and was battling parasites as well as infection, but he had somehow avoided catastrophic injuries or organ failure. They said he would recover.

A clerk from the county came by the clinic to reverse Niko’s death certificate. Tracey called the clerk all sorts of names before a nurse suggested that she take a walk for a few minutes. Niko looked at the paperwork, and in spite of the urgings of both professionals and loved ones, who unanimously said “that’s weird, even by your standards,” Niko insisted on framing the original death certificate to hang in the fly shop. He explained that, “I don’t know too many people who have died, and I don’t want to give that up.”

He wouldn’t speak to anyone, even Tracey, of what happened during the time he was gone. When Tracey told him the version of events that Bernard and Andrea had shared, Niko just shook his head.

The local police were anxious to resolve all of this, but waited for Niko to recover before taking his statement. They had thought the case closed, two tragic losses in the backcountry, but no crime. Now that he was back, there would be legal matters.

…

Another episode will be published next Tuesday!

Each time Niko rang up a purchase he saw that envelope, that stack of bills hidden inside such a common thing. He didn’t want to look at his schedule to see who was on it. He didn’t want to consider if they were friends or from out of town, or just some guys down the road who could reschedule easily.

And each time he saw the envelope, he thought of the Nagadan River, and he knew Tracey would say he wasn’t ready.

Half way through the day, he got a text.

“It’s Bradley. Any decision?”

“Still thinking. How did you get this number?”

“Add ten more. Thirty grand for a few days of work.”

“I’ll let you know in the morning.”

Niko considered the money as he worked the day, closed the shop, and headed back to the house for dinner. It was Tracey’s night to cook, so he just sat on the wooden kitchen chair and nursed a beer.

“I’ll cook it, but I’m not your damn waitress. Come on up and get a plate,” Tracey said.

Niko wandered to the counter, scooped himself the handmade pasta and Bolognese and returned to the table in silence. Tracey sat down across from him.

“You gonna tell me who that hotshot in the SUV was? Or do I need to get you liquored up first?”

“Huh?”

“The guy in the SUV who came in the shop. Who was he?”

“Oh just some guy who wanted to get on the schedule this week.”

“Aren’t you free tomorrow?”

“I’m supposed to fish with Mossy tomorrow night.”

“So, you’re going to turn down a paid client to hang out with Mossy? You can fish with him when ever you want.”

“The guy wants an overnighter. I’m booked later in the week.”

“Overnighter? You don’t do trips like that anymore.”

“I know,” Niko took a small bite of food.

“Did you give him the other guys’ info? They could use some business like that.”

“Tried.”

Tracey dropped her fork onto the plate. The metallic clink was barely audible, but it might as well have been a fog horn.

“What’s your deal?” she asked. “Put your damn fork down and talk to me. For the past ten years, the only time you ever stop yapping to me is when you are asleep, or something’s wrong, and you haven’t said more than five words since you got home.”

“I don’t know. The guy didn’t want another guide.” Niko finished his Bell’s Two-Hearted and walked to the refrigerator and opened another.

“Okay. Tell him to deal with it. You have other clients,” Tracey said.

“He offered me a ton of money.”

“To do what?”

“To cancel my other clients and take him out for a few days.”

“How much?” Tracey asked, frowning.

“You wouldn’t believe me.”

“Try me,” she said as she chewed.

Niko leaned back and forced a laugh and waited.

“Well?” she said.

“Thirty thousand dollars.”

She leaned over the table and smiled.

“I know when you are up to your stupid ass jokes. I’m not falling for it.”

“He already gave me twenty.”

Tracey laughed and then pointed at Niko with her fork. A glob of sauce fell onto the oak kitchen table. “I was really worried about you.”

“Worried?”

“You actually worked a full day. No nap, or break to go fishing, or twenty minutes staring at the animals and muttering to yourself.”

“I can work a full day,” Niko said.

“Since when?”

Niko had no answer.

“Then you didn’t even say hi to the bears. They were scratching their backs on the tree in the side yard, which is your favorite.” She shook her head and smiled. “And then you sat here in silence over duck Bolognese. Usually you dance around the kitchen and sing Italian love songs when I make this.”

“You make me sound a little crazy.”

“I’ll give you credit. You really went all out for this trick.”

“Trick? I’m not messing around,” Niko said. “There’s twenty thousand in an envelope across the street right now. I’ll show you.”

“Sure.”

Niko stood up. Tracey shook her head.

“Sit down and eat. You can show me whatever it is you have over there after dinner.”

“I knew you wouldn’t believe me.” Niko audibly slurped a noodle and smiled.

Niko did the dishes, and as he dried his hands, Tracey walked towards the living room, away from the front door.

“Where you going?” Niko asked.

“I’m going to read for a while and then go to bed.”

“What? I need to show you that money.”

“There is no money.”

“Okay. Prove me wrong, come on over.”

“No way. You probably put a frog in the register or something.”

Niko laughed. “That does sound like me, but that ain’t this. God’s honest truth. There is twenty thousand in an envelope in the register.”

She squinted her eyes and waived her finger at him. “Fine. But if it isn’t there, you are in charge of dusting the house for a year.” She expected that would stop him. Niko was a talented counter wiper, landscaper, and floor cleaner, but he would do nearly anything to get out of dusting.

“Sure.” He walked out the door. Tracey followed, more curious now.

“Holy hell.” She held the envelope. “Why would he pay this much to go fishing?”

“I don’t know. He wants to spread his father’s ashes way out there. Said I was the only guide he would use.”

“Are you thinking about it?” she asked.

“Sad story — death and divorce.”

Tracey thumbed through the thick stack of bills, her lips pursed. Then she examined the backside of the envelope.

“Why are you the only guide he can use?”

Niko started fidgeting with a rod rack on the wall. He ignored Tracey’s question.

“Well?” she said.

“What?”

“Why does he specifically want you?”

“Oh,” Niko paused, his eyes darting.

“Niko Chamonix, you are good at lot of things. But lying to me is not one of them.”

“He said he read about me in some paper, that he liked the backcountry expeditions I had done.”

“You don’t guide those anymore. Do you tell him that?” She put the envelope down and looked right at Niko.

“I know, yea I told him, but he just offered more money.”

“So you are you thinking about doing it?” Tracey picked the envelope up and held it towards Niko as if it were a traffic ticket. “These are the decisions we are supposed to talk about together. It’s not just you. You’re not twenty-five anymore.”

Niko nodded and looked down. “I know.”

“You know this is weird right?” Tracey asked. “All this money for a trip up a river.”

“I guess so.”

“Why are you even entertaining this? The money? If you ever cared about money, you have done a great job hiding it your entire life.”

Niko leaned over the counter and looked down. He voice soft now. “I was just thinking I could give the money to the family somehow.”

Tracey sighed and smiled as if she were looking at a child. “You do remember what that family did to you?”

“I know, but — “

“That was not your fault.”

“Some of it was.”

“I really can’t wait for the day you will forgive yourself and stop dreaming up ways to try to fix something that can’t be fixed. Until you give that up, I know for sure you shouldn’t be out on a trip like this.”

“I have to get out there again sometime.” Niko pulled his hat off and ran his hand through his hair.

“Now is not that time. Plus, who the hell is this guy anyway?” She held the envelope up in the air.

“I think he is just grieving.”

“Even more of a reason for you not be out there with him. He is unstable. You always assume the best in people, and that is one of the reasons you are so great at what you do, but it also blinds you to the assholes of the world — which there are no shortage of.”

“I just want to be past all of this,” Niko was pacing up and down the counter.

“One day you will be. Where does he want to go anyway? I’m sure someone else can get him there.”

“You’re not going to like this.”

“Why is that?”

“He wants to up the Nagadan River drainage.”

Tracey put the envelope back in the register and closed it and looked at Niko, “Well, that makes our decision easy. You can’t go back there.”

Niko looked up from the counter and smiled at her. “I know. I just want to help the guy.”

“He can find help elsewhere. Just promise that you won’t go.” She held his shoulders and forced looked him directly in the eye and waited.

“I promise.” Niko crossed his chest with his pointer finger.

Niko couldn’t sleep that night, and he stared at the moonlight drifting into the bedroom through the narrow space above the curtains. He remembered three years earlier, when he stumbled from the woods onto the narrow ATV track. His shirt — once a light-blue Columbia PFG — was missing buttons and darkened with blood and dirt. His eyes were red from lack of sleep, and he limped. His bled from a partially healed slash running in a line midst a raised and swollen purple ridge on the side of his face. Any exposed skin was sunburned and covered in the swollen pricks of bug bites.

He was thin, and his eyes focused on nothing in particular as they peered forward and slightly down into the dirt in front of him, as if he was willing his mind to dig a hole into which he could crawl and forget it all.

Less than a quarter of a mile along the path, he fell to the ground. He could not move his limbs — a level of exhaustion few have really felt. Niko laughed and coughed and whispered nonsense to the trees, and then he closed his eyes.

…

Episode 5 will be available next Tuesday!

Silence is not silent,
it is actually loud and violent—a slur in itself.

Silence is a choice
that hurts people in order to avoid hurt feelings.

Silence fills rooms
with a void that lets hate echo off the walls and out the window.

Silence is solidarity
with the polite myths we use to wash racism, dry it, and fold it back on itself.

Silence was never silent,
always loud and violent—a slur in itself.

Bayless, red-eyed and reeking of alcohol, sat half-way out of the SUV and smiled at Niko.

“Are you drunk?” Niko asked.

“Probably. I’m definitely hungover. Is this your place?”

“You drive here drunk?”

“How else would I have gotten here? Is this your place? Can you hear?”

“Pretty irresponsible.”

“Good god, a damn cub scout. Talked myself out of a DUI just last night.”

“I don’t care what you talked yourself out of.” Niko’s voice raised.

“I can handle myself.”

“Recklessness is punished differently in a place like this. You drive off the road here — or, even worse, run someone else off — no one will find the vehicle for days.”

“Thanks for the lesson guy. Is this your damn shop or not?”

“It is.”

“Are you Niko Chamonix?”

“Maybe. Who’re you?”

“I’m Bradley Bayless, and I am looking to hire a guide named Niko Chamonix.”

“I’m Niko.”

“Perfect.” Bayless stood up and walked from the SUV.

“I’m all booked up for the next few weeks.”

Bayless nodded. “Thought that may be the case.”

“I’ll get you the numbers of some other guides who might be able to help you.” Niko walked back up the stairs to the shop and unlocked the front door. A brass bell rang as he swung the door open. “I’ll tell them that you showed up drunk, just so you know.”

“Congratulations.” Bayless was standing next to the SUV scanning the exterior of the shop. “No alarm system?”

Niko looked at the man for a moment, vexed at the odd question. Then he pointed across the street to the two bears who were now licking the fish cleaning table. “Guard bears. Better than any alarm.” Big Berry Dumpling looked up for a moment and grunted.

“Holy hell.” Bayless looked at the bears and then at Niko. “Is that safe?”

“If they like you.” Niko smiled, enjoying the joke he had told hundreds of times before.

“They’ve never attacked anyone?”

“Why are you so worried about my security system?”

“Just curious.” Bayless walked up the stairs. “You live over there?” He pointed to the house.

“Yea, I do. I’ve got a rifle there as well.”

“Take it easy fella.” Bayless laughed and patted Niko on the shoulder. Niko turned his head to look at his shoulder and then brought his eyes quickly back to Bayless.

Bayless withdrew his hand. “That rifle for guiding hunters?”

“I only guide fishing trips, but it is good to have some protection when you are out and the moose are horny.”

Bayless looked at him like he just claimed to have time traveled.

“When the moose are in the rut.” Niko said, but Bayless still appeared confused.

“When moose are looking to mate,” Niko paused for emphasis and Bayless nodded. “They’re mean as hell and territorial. Most dangerous thing out here — except humans and the weather.”

They were now in the shop, a well-lit rectangle. Wood floors, wood walls, wood ceiling, wood shelves, and wood counters. Niko had cut all of the boards and hammered all of the nails. He used a clear coat to seal everything, but refused to add any color or tint.

“I feel like I am in a tree,” Bayless said.

“They tell me my aesthetic is abandoned hunting cabin with a hint of rustic barn.”

“Well, you hit that.” Bayless looked around the room. It seemed that the only things not made of wood were the windows, the merchandise, and the stand-up coolers along the back wall. One for beer and snacks, one for ice, and one for bait.

The exterior walls held all sorts of gear ranging from stout trolling rods for big salmon to delicate bamboo fly rods for little brook trout. A wall of windows faced the stream, and anywhere that was not shelved with tackle had antique fish mounts or old black-and-white photos of local landmarks.

The interior of the store housed three long rows consisting of perhaps the largest collection of flies ever seen in one place. Most stores had cup-sized holders for each fly and each size. Niko used buckets, and they were always full.

Customers often asked, “why so many flies?”

Niko would smile and say, “Maine is full of bugs, just trying to keep up.”

A collage of Polaroids of Niko’s clients was assembled behind the counter. The pictures had many settings — small streams, open lakes, green trees, fall colors — but every client was smiling and holding a big fish.

The place smelled of cedar and wet leather-boots, and it made you want to listen to a story in a rocking chair just as much as it encouraged you to run out into the evergreen woods and find a quiet stream.

“You tie all of these things?” Bayless pointed at the rows of flies.

“Hell no. I can’t sit still for more than five minutes. I get them from a good friend of mine just up the road. He owns the brewery, and he ties flies while waiting for the beer to taste right.”

“Nice deal.” Bayless was still scanning the room, looking up at the ceiling and out the windows.

“If you’re casing the place, you’re doing a terrible job of it. I’ll show you the damn cash box. We don’t exactly turn over a ton of product here. This is more of a lifestyle type thing.”

Bayless, whose monthly credit card bill was more than Niko grossed in a year, laughed and straightened up his posture.

“I’m not casing the place. I just used to work in security — old habits I guess.” He walked to the counter where Niko was pulling a few business cards from a messy drawer.

“What do you do now?” Niko asked.

“I’m a lawyer.”

“Oh yea? What kind of law?”

“Mergers, asset management.”

“So, you’re still in security.” Niko smiled.

“You’re a lot smarter than you let on.”

“Usually people tell me I’m dumber than I look.”

“I don’t need those other cards.” Bayless pointed to the stack in Niko’s hand. “You’re my guy.”

Niko tossed the cards back into the drawer. “I already told you that I’m booked.”

“How much will it take to get on the schedule this week?”

“This week? I can’t just cancel on people.”

“Sure you can. Come on, I’ve put myself in a terrible bargaining position. How much for a few days?”

“A few days?”

“Three probably. But I’m not sure. That’s why I need you.”

“Where the hell do you want to fish anyway? Plenty of guides can get you wherever you need to go out here.”

“Ten grand work?”

Niko laughed aloud. “Get the hell out of here with that crap. Did Smitty send you over here to waste my time?”

Bayless grinned. “Don’t know anyone named Smitty, but I’ll be right back.”

He left the store for a moment and then returned with a thick envelope. He leaned over the counter and showed Niko the stack of bills.

“Twenty thousand.”

Niko stared at the money, and then at Bayless’s face to see if he was joking.

“I doubled it just to be sure.” Bayless said. “It’s yours if you put me on the schedule for a few days this week.”

Niko hesitated for a moment. “I really am booked.”

“Good god Niko. Let’s get smart here. I know how much you usually charge. This is a big pay day for you.”

“Why does it need to be me?”

“Cause you’re the best, and I am accustomed to the best. Just tell the other dumbasses that you are sick and need to reschedule.”

“Anyone ever tell you that you’re arrogant?”

“All the time.”

“That doesn’t bother you?”

“Arrogant people don’t give a shit what other people think of them.”

“I can’t just cancel on people. They’re counting on me. They want to go fishing.”

Bayless shook his head. While possessing very little of it himself, Bayless could detect integrity in others. He released his grin, and looked Niko in the eye.

“Alright, listen,” Bayless said. “My father passed away last month. He always talked about this perfect little spot up here where he and his father used to fish. My father always wanted to take me too, but I kept putting it off.” Bayless paused and looked down at the counter. “I never went with him, and now I’m taking his ashes up there, and I need you to help me.”

Niko gave a soft smile at the sentiment. “Where do you need to get to? Maybe we can speed this up for you. If you got all that money, you can just hire a bush plane. Be out and back in a day.”

“No planes. I want to do this the way they did, by boat. It is way the hell out there though — some point where two rivers converge.”

Niko sighed. “No promises, but maybe I could check to see what I can reschedule. Where exactly? I need to know how many days out and back.”

“It’s up near the headwaters of the Nagadan River.”

Niko’s smile disappeared. “I can’t help you with that.”

“What do you mean? You know that area.” Bayless said.

“That is a long trip, but I am sure someone else would be happy to take you for that amount of money.” Niko pushed the envelope back across the counter.

“I did my homework on you. You have more experience out there than anyone around. I read some article about how used to go out there all the time and how you got stuck — ”

“I know the story. You’ll have to find someone else.”

Bayless stepped backed and looked at Niko. He was not accustomed to hearing the word no. “I made a long trip up here to go out there with you, and I only have a few days.”

“I didn’t ask you to come here.”

“I know, I know. I don’t want special treatment, but this is important. I need the best guide. It’s my father’s ashes.” He shook his head and slapped the counter. “And I just finalized my divorce, and I got a shit ton of work pressure right now, and I need to get this done this week. I need to get out there and see this place and make it right with my dad.”

Niko waited, thinking.

“I’m sorry for laying that on you,” Bayless said.

“It’s fine. Fishing guides are often confused for therapists.” Niko gave a reassuring smile.

Bayless pulled himself together and regained his arrogant tone. “But, my offer is more than generous, which no one would argue with.”

“True.”

Bayless pushed the envelope across the counter and backed away towards the door.

“I’m not comfortable lugging all of that cash around, so if you could, please keep that envelope in your register for me, I would be obliged.”

Niko picked the envelope up and held it towards Bayless. “No way man. I’m not responsible for this money.”

Bayless was already at the door. “Just hold it for the night and sleep on it. If you still don’t want to go, just call me know tomorrow,” he placed a business card on the shelf by the door “and I’ll come get the cash. No hard feelings.” He left the shop before Niko could argue further.

Niko ran to the door, envelope in hand, and saw the Escalade speeding out of the parking lot. He also saw Tracey across the street watching. He walked back to the counter, put the money in the register and went about opening the shop for customers. His day off was ruined now anyway.

Hearing my footstep in a quiet shoe;
in the sunlight, under a skyscraper—
is a sensation hard to get used to

as I avoid unseen clouds of vapor;
expanding orbs from anonymous mouths
and noses—a creeping soft invader.

The clouds are north, I walk on the southside
or even out into the empty street—
no cars, just people struggling inside,

and me left to the sound of my own feet—
an odd out-of-rhythm drum performance
in place of melody, lyrics, and beat.

I stop; I am left with only silence
to consider a new route to get through
a city quieted by a virus.

These the steps we must take, things we must do,
but it is still odd to hear my own shoe.

Stories are essential. On a philosophical level, they shape human consciousness by using the past to paint our concept of the future. On a concrete level, they are a vehicle to share ideas. And on a practical level, they can entertain and provide human connection.

Whenever I needed a good story, I told the strange account of receiving rabies shots. I have told the story numerous times and have made many mistakes while recounting it. However, I can say that telling this tale time and time again has taught me essential lessons about storytelling itself. I hope you can take a few of these nuggets with you.

The opening …

I was 20 years old and in a crowded room when I first uttered the words, “I got a rabies shot in a Walmart parking lot.” The side conversations stopped and people turned to me. A natural storyteller, I naively thought. I smiled, they laughed, I rushed through the rest of the story, and everyone returned to the events of their day.

It can be assumed that the audience forgot any detail after that opening line. But, I had achieved exactly what I wanted right then — attention and a reputation as a care-free rapscallion.

And I learned my first lesson of story-telling: hook your audience immediately.

The first mistake …

I was enamored with my mildly effective hook. It was odd enough to garner some attention, but it was not really attached to anything of substance. Sensing the overall story lacked effectiveness, I set out to improve. Instead of building tension, adding humor, or integrating connections, I began to simply embellish the opening.

I started with the line, “I may have had rabies, and I needed treatment in a Walmart parking lot.”

That certainly got everyone’s attention, and the audience felt real concern for my well-being. But, I soon betrayed that interest when I revealed that I did not actually have rabies. I was only concerned about the possibility of the disease after I handled a small bat on the edge of dusk at a drainage pond in Bowie, Maryland.

I was in contact with the creature because it attacked my fishing lure — thinking it to be a meal — and became entangled in the barbed hook before crashing into the water where I reeled it in and showed it to my fishing buddy.

The new “improved” story had a compelling opening, but didn’t resonate because it didn’t deliver on that promise.

I learned that embellishment is fine, but never at the expense of truth.

What I left out…

Determined to craft a truly great story, I continued to tinker. I added vivid details to paint the scene — the blend of pink and purple in the dusk sky, the sound of crickets and frogs mingling with the drone of vehicles on the adjacent highway, and the sweet smell of the clean but stagnant pond in mid-summer.

People listened more intently, perhaps imagining the scene in their own minds. But I was omitting essential details. I avoided the image of how my hands shook as I tried to free the creature’s wings from the treble-hook and how I saw its mouth biting blindly at the incomprehensible trap. I did not tell that my fishing buddy tried to help me and how the gruesome tangle just worsened as we manipulated the creature in the dark. I most definitely left out the emotions I felt after putting the bat out of its misery as humanely as possible.

The story was better but incomplete. And after multiple failures in which I bored my audience, I eventually tried adding the ugly facts. Each time I added a new layer, I received more engaged attention. Instead of shock, horror, and promises to report me to the local authorities, people responded with forgiveness, kindness, and stories of their own mistakes. They connected with me on a deeper level.

I had finally learned that vivid details matter, especially the difficult and ugly ones.

A connection …

Inspired by the audience’s support, I began weaving more and more into the story. I told of entering the empty emergency-room late at night, of the huge needle inserted into my back for the initial shot, and of the flu-like symptoms that resulted from five weekly booster shots. This enhanced the story, but I still sensed that there was something hollow about all of it.

By this time in my life, I was teaching high school, and part of my job was to lead retreats where we encouraged students to discuss their authentic stories and connect with one another. As faculty, we modeled this exchange by presenting our stories in small groups. Naturally, I told the story of the rabies shots. This setting made me bluntly confront my own hypocrisy.

I had omitted the emotions that drove my actions in the story. I left how I went home after killing the bat and searched my hands for cuts and scratches, trying to remember if I was bit or drooled upon. I didn’t mention that I was prone to anxiety, and just the possibility of this disease made my hands sweat and put my stomach in knots.

I omitted how I lied to the doctor, shaving thirty-five pounds from my actual weight, which dangerously affected my dosage. I didn’t want to tell people that I had a very complicated relationship with food and that I fixated on my weight. I had incorrectly convinced myself that a man should not feel those things and certainly not discuss them openly.

Those details did not fit a specific image that I wanted to present, so I left them out, leaving the story inauthentic. I quickly learned that if I expected my students to be authentic, I could not omit those details. Going a step further, I considered that I could in fact teach young people how to share emotions, even when difficult.

So, I told it all, and I was shocked at the response. The audience didn’t dismiss my vulnerability with ridicule. The students were supportive and intrigued, reciprocating with stories of their own lives and emotions. They were most inspired by the very parts of the story that I was hesitant to share. I was finally able to actually affect the audience.

I learned to be vulnerable.

A fitting end…

The challenge of this particular story is that the events are anti-climactic. I spent years trying to increase conflict, to embellish, to add suspense, and to expose the odd humor of conducting a medical procedure in a Walmart parking lot — which is laughable and concerning on many levels, but not wet-your-pants funny.

The truth was that there were no major obstacles to overcome and no surprise ending. I simply received my final booster shot from a registered nurse while I was on vacation in North Carolina. When I called the local clinic beforehand to arrange the details, I was informed that they were closed on the day I was available for the shot. The nurse suggested that the easiest solution would be to meet at the local Walmart parking lot — as long as I brought the medicine, she could take care of the rest.

The fact that I so readily agreed to this ridiculous situation illustrates my naivety and poor judgement. I am even hesitant to share this now, as you are probably deeply questioning my fitness to provide any form good advice. But, the interaction took less than five minutes, and I left safe and healthy — thanks to the skill and kindness of that wonderful nurse.

So, I got my last rabies shot, at least for now, in a Walmart parking lot. And it was not until I finally completed the account — ugly, funny, embarrassing, and kind — that saw how I focused on the wrong elements and hid the pieces that would be most useful to the audience. Too often I kept the best nuggets to myself, dancing around how I changed and why that mattered.

The story was incomplete until I learned that is it essential to show transformation.

…

Check back next Thursday for another odd and authentic personal reflection!

“Charlie Chamonix, get your ass out here,” Tracey yelled, her arms coated in blood. “There is some jerk sleeping in the parking lot.”

Niko poked his head out of the screen door on the porch of the house, “No one calls me that anymore.” The door closed with Niko still inside.

Niko’s given name was Charles Nicholas Chamonix and he went by Charlie Chamonix until he was eleven years old. Then one day, he grew tired of the alliteration and told his mother that he would like go by his middle name, and he would like it to be shortened to Niko with a “K” rather than “C.”

“Let’s talk to your father about this,” she replied.

Niko’s father returned home that evening. He was a linesman for the Central Maine Power Company. He had never worked elsewhere, never considered working elsewhere, and was always comforted by the knowledge that Maine weather was so bad he would never go a day without a line to hang or a pole to fix. He was smart, but uncurious. Kind, but rarely affectionate. He never cussed at you, but he did not shy away from profanity. He never considered painting his opinions with a diplomatic brush. He felt that a snapshot, unfiltered, was the best course, as he valued the direct truth above all else — except maybe electricity.

Niko explained his request over the dinner table. His father didn’t look up from his stew, but said, “You have to be present at conception in order to have a say in the naming of a person. Your name is Charlie. Eating your fucking potatoes and do your homework.”

“What is conception?”

“It is when one life begins, and two others end,” his father said.

His mother — who Niko learned later in life was much more head-strong, and rebellious than his father — was also much more refined and polished than the grizzled linesman. She looked across the table at his father and shook her head.

“Don’t talk like that in front of him,” she said.

“Huh?” Niko looked at his mother.

“It is when a mom and a dad get pregnant,” she said softly.

Niko had a puzzled look on his face. “From successful sex,” she said for further clarity.

“I guess I was there then,” Niko smiled.

His father grinned. “In a way you were. But you’re still goddamn Charlie Chamonix. Named after your great-grandfather up in Canada. He sailed over from Bordeaux.” His father dropped his spoon and it clanged against the bowl. “He was the finest fur trapper within a hundred miles before a damn mountain lion bit one of his testicles off. After that he was afraid to go into the woods, so he sold candles. The Chamonix family been in the business of providing light ever since.”

“Has that story ever been verified by someone outside of the Chamonix family?” his mother asked.

“A Chamonix never lies. Never have, never will. It is gospel.” His father still looked down at the stew.

His mother rolled her eyes. “Well, maybe you remember breaking your father’s fishing rod when we were drunk in the woods that time. Did you tell him the truth then?”

“A fib to protect your good name.”

“Have to have a good name in order to protect it,” his mother said and smiled.

“Maybe that’s why I like the woods so much,” Niko interrupted.

“Maybe that is.” His mother patted his leg.

At school the next day, Niko announced his name change to the world. Well, to the three boys with whom he ate lunch.

“How do you get to do that?” a boy asked while unsuccessfully trying to wipe the pink juice-stain from his upper lip.

“I was present for successful sex.”

“How did it feel?” The boys smiled and looked upon him with envy.

“I don’t really remember.”

Everyone outside of his family called him Niko from then on.

Niko was not very interested in school, but he excelled academically because of his natural intellect and independent curiosity. He was never spotted doing homework, studying, or heard discussing school. He was perpetually in the woods, exploring ponds or rivers, or at the library reading obscure books about a range of topics that had no perceivable connection.

His forgetful nature resulted in copious overdue library notices. His mother loved to tell of the time that she received four notices in one bunch of mail. The included titles were “Maps of World War I”, “Dog Breeds of Southeast Asia,” “Frankenstein,” and “1982 Mechanical Guide to Mahindra Tractors.” She searched his room and found the books in a stack under Niko’s bed with handwritten notes on torn pieces of paper stuck throughout each book. The notes said things like “so that’s why!” and “I’ll tell Dad about this,” and the most notable, “I think this will help my idea for the entire world.”

Despite all of the distractions and the apparent lack of effort towards school in anyway, Niko received perfect grades. Many teachers and instructors thought he cheated, but he always responded by saying “a Chamonix never lies.”

The truth was that Niko was just smart in the effortless way that some people are. He applied to Harvard and Bates College and was accepted to both. He received a full scholarship to Bates, so that is where he went. During his first meeting with the course selection counselor, he told the old man that he would major in “biology, mechanical engineering, and philosophy.”

“That is a unique combination,” the old counselor said.

“I’ve thought it through. I want to know where fish might live, how boat motors work, and the cumulative wisdom of the human race — in that order.”

The counselor said he was crazy and Niko replied, “that has been true my entire life, but I am finally interested in school, and I won’t let anyone discourage that.”

He graduated with honors and got a job in Boston testing the breaking point of the tiny chips inside cell phones. He figured that since he dropped his own things often enough, he should be good at this job. By the end of his first week, Niko discovered a number of flaws in construction and testing that eventually saved the company millions of dollars.

He lasted exactly fifteen days dropping cell phones for that technology company before he packed all of his things up and drove south. He fished as much of the east-coast surf as humanly possible and only stopped when the road ran out in Key West where he spent two months spear-fishing, reading Hemingway, and eating grouper sandwiches. He managed to drink more rum and beer than would be expected of an entire ship of bored pirates.

He met a waitress named Sandy who worked at a waterfront bar on Stock Island. The place was situated between a trailer park and the shrimp docks. Niko had grown weary of the tourists in Key West — overlooking the obvious detail that he was in fact one of them — and gravitated to the grumpy sunburned shrimpers who viewed the Keys as a hot and humid work environment rather than a vacation spot.

One night, after he downed no fewer than a dozen Rum Runners, Niko asked Sandy to marry him while she was on shift in the bar. She was kind and laughed it off as a drunken prank. She returned her tray of dirty dishes to the kitchen, and pulled him outside by the garbage.

“You’re a sweet thing, but I ain’t gonna marry you,” she said. “I’m off at ten, come on by my trailer for a goodbye if you are still conscious.”

Niko slept with her one last time, and then he stumbled home — the gravel and palm trees and aqua-blue homes all blurred into one drunken image that smelled of rum and cooked shrimp. He cried for a few hours in his trailer before he fell asleep. The next morning he packed all of his things up and left the keys to continue his explorations.

After the better part of two decades, he returned to Maine and he began guiding backcountry fishing trips. He saved enough money to buy some land near Moosehead Lake. He built a house, a few guest cabins, and a fly shop. He ran his guide service — offering fishing trips only — as he refused to hunt mammals for profit, saying that it felt like cannibalism. That was not a popular sentiment in rural Maine, but he didn’t care.

When people asked why he left such a good job in Boston he would reply, “I couldn’t sleep for all the damn street noise and I can drop phones on my own for free.”

This puzzled people, but no one bothered to point out his flawed logic. Anyone who knew Niko knew that his brain was so damn noisy just by itself, that he would only fare well in places with plenty of fish and plenty of quiet.

“Niko,” Tracey called out as she looked at the Escalade across the street. She was elbow deep in fish blood while standing in front of the grey weathered wooden fish-cleaning station. Nearly every inch of the table was covered in bear claw marks accumulated in the years since Niko had built the thing and run a hose to it. The game warden had pleaded with him numerous times to clean his fish elsewhere “for the safety of himself and the animals.”

Niko had inherited his father’s reputation for absolute blunt truth, but he also acquired his mother’s good sense and filter that he could use to his advantage from time to time — especially because everyone in that area of Maine knew a Chamonix never lied.

He would tell the warden, “I got plans to move the table next spring before the fishing gets going.” When the warden inevitably asked him about it again in the spring, he would say, “my schedule is all booked up with clients, I’ll do it in the fall when the fishing dies down.”

In the evenings, he and Tracey — his domestic partner of about ten years — would sit on the porch, drink from growlers, and watch the bears ravage the table, licking and pawing at the odd tree-like object that tasted like fish. Once Tracey asked, “Why don’t you actually build a new one at the fly shop with all of the other fishing stuff?”

“It’s funny to watch them lick the table. Why the hell would I deprive us of that?”

If a bear ever wandered too close while he and Tracey were cleaning fish they would honk an airhorn, and the curious creature would run away. The neighbor’s kids always thought there was a hidden railroad station in the woods.

In the early years, they used an antique bell to keep the eager bears at a safe distance, but, as familiarity built between all of the mammals involved, the bears developed a Pavlovian response to the ringing. The sound drew them closer to the smell of fish and the promise of the delicious table to lick.

Niko enjoyed this trick, and would often ring the bell just to see the bears and talk to them as if they were pets. One day Tracey returned home to find Niko holding the bell and staring down four bears in the front yard. He was yapping at them and laughing, but they seemed displeased that he had no food for them. Tracey stepped from the vehicle, located the emergency airhorn they kept in the truck, and rang it. The bears jumped and ran into the bushes.

“You’re insane,” Tracey yelled. “No more ringing for bears.”

Niko objected to the change, but the bell was replaced by the airhorn. Niko refused to fully retire the bell and insisted that it remain stored at the cleaning-table in case it was ever needed again.

Niko had authored a nice life for himself there — as if that young boy with the overdue books under his bed had scribbled a short story and jumped right onto the page. He fished when the weather was good, and he drank when the weather was lousy. He was so good at telling stories at the local brewery that they gave him free beer — all he had to do was never tell anyone he got free beer.

He always had a few dollars left at the end of the year, and all he did was fish and drink and tell stories. Niko possessed the unique ability to always be busy, yet never get anything done, and in this, he was somehow celebrated as an anomaly in an area full of so many industrious and self-sufficient people.

“Damn it, Niko,” Tracy called again, looking at the Escalade and still holding perch fillets in both hands. “Where the hell did you put the damn freezer bags?”

“Bears must of took em last night,” he yelled through the screen door.

In fact, there was an adolescent black bear with a torn portion of freezer bag attached to his right paw munching on blueberries on the edge of the yard — an appetizer while he waited for Tracey to vacate her current spot so he could lick the wood.

Niko ran down the front porch stairs with a new box of bags in hand. He opened one and Tracey dropped the fillets in.

“Hey, it was Bob.” Niko was looking at the bear in the bushes. “Look at his paw. He took the plastic bags. Probably trying to take some berries to go.”

Tracey still found these jokes funny, but no longer felt the need to laugh aloud.

“Bob,” Niko called out. “Why you stealing our bags?”

The bear looked up for a moment, grunted, and then went back to eating his berries as another, larger male waddled up and started chewing on the other side of the blueberry bush.

“What a treat! Big Berry Dumpling is having breakfast too. I really think he is the smartest of the bunch.” Niko looked to Tracey for confirmation, but she just waited with two more handfuls of fish.

“I feel a deep connection to that bear.”

“You have a client today?” she asked and nodded her head towards the fly shop.

“No one today, but I am booked up for the later this week.”

“Who the hell is parked over there then? He pulled in at three a.m.”

“How do you know that?”

“I was up and heard a car, and then I saw him out the window.”

“What the hell were you doing up then?”

“You were snoring louder than Big Berry Dumpling after he got into that case of beer and passed out in the yard.”

“You sure?” Niko asked. “I’ve never heard myself snore before.”

“Just go see who it is.”

Niko shook his head. “Today is my off day.”

“Off day? The season is just getting going,” Tracey said. “You spent the winter pretending to tie flies at the brewery. Go do some work.”

“Do you know how many clients and trips I am able to arrange while networking at the brewery?”

“Imagine how many you would book if you weren’t always fooling around.”

“That is exactly why I live this way. So, I have time to fool around.” He grinned at her. She did not return the gesture.

“I’ll go. I’ll go see,” Niko said.

Niko put the bags down and wiped his hands on his brown canvas guide-pants and walked across the street in his navy-blue crocs. The Escalade’s engine was running, and the tinted windows were up. Niko walked past the vehicle and up the wide-planked wooden stairs before he pulled on the door handle. It was still locked. He looked back at the vehicle and waited, but nothing happened.

Tracey was watching from across the street while also keeping an eye on Bob and Big Berry Dumpling. “Someone is in the damn SUV you idiot. Knock on the window.”

“Idiot? I’m the smartest person I know,” he yelled back.

“Then you should be able to figure this one out.”

He walked to the SUV and pressed his face to the window. The engine turned off and Niko stepped back. The door opened, and Bayless sat with his hand shielding his eyes from the light.

“What the hell do you want?” Bayless asked.

“What do I want? I want to know who the hell is sleeping in front of my fly shop?”

Bayless sat up and swung his legs out of the cab. He smelled of stale beer and his eyes were glassy and red. “This is your place?”

Niko nodded.

“Perfect.” Bayless smiled. “You are just the guy I am looking for.”

…

Check in Tuesday for the next episode!

Five slender prongs spread,
blue mirroring a spring sky.
Waving in the wind,
a lone rubber glove floats the 
empty street among Sirens.

Bradley Bayless was driving his Escalade ninety miles an hour, heading north on Route 6 through the middle of the state of Maine. He was alone but spoke aloud into the night. “She left me and got the kids.” He paused and smiled, “I got the money though.”

Bayless sipped from a Dogfish Head 60 Minute IPA. He had bought a cooler at a sporting goods store the day before, and it was full of the beers waiting for him in the back of the SUV. Four empties were on the passenger side floor-mat, and six more of the green six-packs were stacked behind his seat — just in case things did not go well.

He sipped as he drove the two-lane highway lined with lumberyards, gas stations, and views. This was not the Kennebunkport Maine where the Bushes’ summered. It was the real Maine with unnamed brook trout ponds next to unnamed logging roads. One of the few places in the eastern United States where things remained unlabeled, simply left to be what they were. Bayless thought perhaps only the interior of the Everglades was more remote.

He spoke aloud again and held his beer up as if making a toast. “Down to Florida after all of this mess goes away. Days of bass and tarpon fishing, and no one checking in on me.”

Bayless had spent the day driving past awful looking mines next to thick forests that are so quiet in the middle of the day that they make your ears ring. This was country where storms that look like stale bruises creep up and then blow like a hurricane, and they make you want to crawl into a hole and pray no matter where you are from.

He had not smoked cigarettes in a decade because his wife forbade it. He gave her that one and dipped and smoked cigars instead. Now, the water bottle in the cup holder was full of cigarette butts floating in water, stinking like only a bottle of cigarette butts can. It was all terrible, but it was his own dubious freedom.

Bayless did not see the state trooper on the side of the road, so the lights and the siren behind him came as a surprise. At ninety, he had some ground on the trooper. He pressed the pedal to the floor, searching for the next turn. He slammed the brakes just after seeing the reflection of a street sign, and swung his vehicle onto a gravel road. He accelerated up a gradual slope and into a grove of pine, and then he turned the engine and lights off. He finished his beer and threw it onto the floor with the others.

The trooper was not fooled. There was only one place to turn for miles, and the dust was still in the air on the gravel road. He pulled up behind the darkened Escalade and exited his cruiser.

The trooper was an athletic-framed young man. Fresh-faced and clear-eyed even at the end of his shift. He aimed his floodlight on the SUV, and he approached. Bayless already had the window down.

The trooper shined his flashlight into the vehicle. He lingered on the beer cans, and inhaled deeply. 

“It takes a while to get the smell out, even if you open the windows before I get up here,” the trooper said.

“Yea, it does. And I am sorry for being out here drinking officer, but I have had a tough go at it the past few days, and I wasn’t sure if this was public land or what, so I figured I could stop and have a few cold ones and then sleep it off. I apologize for that. I’ll get right to sleep and then be on my way in the morning.”

The trooper listened. The pace of Bayless’s speech was one that did not invite interruption. It demanded to be heard and considered — it asked why wouldn’t you agree with me?

The trooper kept the light on Bayless. “You mind showing me your license and registration?”

“Of course. Of course. I didn’t mean to infer that you would just head on down the road without checking me out. You need to do your job.” He handed him the documents.

“Stay in the vehicle.” The trooper peered at the small writing in the dark.

“Oh, of course. I truly appreciate what you guys do. It is hard to be law enforcement, especially these days. So much violence out there, and then you protect yourself and you got yourself a damn law suit. I don’t envy your position.”

“Thanks for your concern.” The trooper handed him back the cards.

“I’ve never done anything like you do, but I am a lawyer down in D.C., so I see all the shit you have to navigate when you are just a good fella trying to help us all.”

“What are you doing so far from home?” The trooper peered into the vehicle.

“Heading up for some fishing north of Moosehead Lake.”

“That’s still a few hours from here.”

“I didn’t plan my accommodations well. I was hoping to sleep here and head up tomorrow.”

“Do you know why I pulled you over?”

“Pulled me over?” Bayless raised his eyebrows at the man. “I was already parked.”

The trooper shook his head. “No, you were driving, speeding actually, and then you turned in here.”

“That is just not true officer.”

“So you’re claiming that you were not just driving a few minutes ago?”

“Yes, that is what I am claiming, because that is exactly what happened. Are you insinuating that I am lying about that? Why in the hell would I lie?” Bayless leaned to the door and positioned his body to exit the vehicle.

“Stay right where you are.” The trooper raised his hand in Bayless’s direction.

“I’ve been parked here, with the engine off, for more than an hour. Go ahead, run my tags, you’ll see I have a perfect record.”

“I just saw you driving ninety in a fifty-five.”

“I was doing no such thing, and I am insulted you claim that I am lying. Do you have any evidence that would indicate that I was in the vehicle you saw on the road?”

“Yea. I saw an Escalade with D.C. plates drive by, and then I found you in an Escalade with those plates right here. And you smell like alcohol, and you have empty beer cans on the floor.”

“Did you see me driving? Did you see me drinking while the engine was on?”

The trooper did not answer.

“I can claim this vehicle is my sovereign domicile. Do you know what that means?” Bayless asked.

“I know what that means.”

“Good. Then you should know that I am permitted to drink in my sovereign domicile. I was drinking in the back, and I just recently climbed up here to sleep. No laws have been broken.” 

The trooper tried to reply, but Bayless continued to speak. “You should consider that it is possible, maybe not probable, but possible that another similar looking vehicle with similar plates drove by you, speeding, and continued on while you came to harass me.”

The trooper was standing straighter now, hands on his hips, leaning back. He rolled his neck and took a deep breath.

“There was still dust in the air on the road.” He stepped to his left and placed his hand on the hood of the vehicle. “Your engine is still warm.”

“Did you forget that I am a lawyer?”

“No you have made that very clear.”

“I negotiate mergers for companies that have more employees than there are people in Maine. I argue with the Senate on a regular basis. You think your old Indian trick shit about dust on the road will hold up?”

The trooper did not speak.

“Here are your two options. One, continue to insist that I am lying and do whatever stupid thing you are thinking of doing. Then you get to deal with me, my lawyers, and the god-awful mess of litigation that I will create for this backwater Podunk jurisdiction. Or, just be the good guy you are and take me at my word, which pretty damn respected where I come from. Then you will never have to deal with me again. I’ll be out of here at dawn.”

The trooper rubbed his face with both of his hands. “Lawyers are the damn worst.”

“Everyone says that until they need one.” Bayless was leaning back in his seat. He knew he had already won.

“My shift ended five minutes ago. I’m not dealing with this crap tonight.” The trooper walked away, got into his vehicle, and drove back down the gravel road before turning back onto the main road.

Bayless waited for the trooper’s headlights to disappear, and then he leaned over and opened the passenger side door and brushed the empties onto the ground. He exited the vehicle and grabbed another six-pack from the cooler in the back before he returned to the cab. Then he drove off into the night, throwing each empty out of the window.

Bayless still had many miles to cover before reaching his destination — a little town near Moosehead Lake where he could find a man named Niko Chamonix. Once he found this Chamonix guy, it would all fall into place. He could be done with the entire mess — his divorce, his father, the rest of it.

A few hours before dawn, he approached a sign: “Welcome to Ladawambuck, Population Not Many.” He parked in front of Niko Chamonix’s fly shop — a square cabin with a covered porch full of rocking chairs and carvings of wooden animals. The shop was next to a bridge that crossed a brook that emptied from a large pond before making its way to the lake.

He opened the door and pissed in the parking lot, and then he put his head in his hands and said, “What the hell am I doing in goddamn Ladawambuck?” He climbed back into the cab and passed out with the engine still running.

A curtain behind the second-floor window of the small house across the street moved. A hand had pulled it open, and someone was peering down at the vehicle.

…

Check back every Tuesday for the next episode!