Chena River Crossing – Alaska

Last evening Anne and I drove to a river crossing our map said was a good place to fish. It was around six in the evening and we figured there would be another ten hours of daylight left. When we got there, Anne sat in the car reading her Kindle book while I assembled my fly rod.

I had started casting along the shore to the right of the car then, not having any luck, moved upstream to the left of the parking area. I made a couple of casts when I heard a car door close. I glanced back to the car, thinking Anne had gotten bored and wanted to go back to camp.

It wasn’t. Instead it was a young slender woman about medium height with long black hair walking towards me. She wore a smoke blue silk blouse over black skinny jeans tucked into shiny black boots. Then I noticed her dark brown eyes as they looked directly at me and she smiled. She seemed familiar, like Janet Lee; the pool player.

She carried something in her hand and it took me a moment to realize it was a fly rod case, large enough for a two piece rod and reel. When she stood next to me, I’d lost track of my cast and hit the back of my head with my wadded up fly line.

“Do you mind if I fish the bank below you?” she asked with a deep sultry voice. My mind tried to respond with something like “If it pleases you, my dear,” but I swear it came out as <curly> “Why sointley”</curly>. She then gracefully descended the muddy slope to the river’s edge. She remarked how she had caught two graylings the other night. Then she looked puzzled and told me that this wasn’t her spot, because it was closer to the downed log upstream and began to climb back up. I offered my hand in help, but she refused and walked up the bank as if there were stairs. When she stood on the grass, her boots still shined without a trace of mud.

She looked for a path through, and then around the aspens blocking her way. Then she slipped around the end one, and then . . . disappeared; vanishing without a trace. I looked for her for maybe a minute before realizing the Goddess of Fly Fishing visited me. After exhaling and releasing my gut, I began reeling in my limp fly line from the grass, then slowly walked back to Fritz . . . and Anne.

I put away my rod and reel and sat in the driver’s seat letting out a huge sigh as the door closed.

“What was that all about?” Anne asked.

I turned to her and excitedly blurted, “Oh thank God you saw that. I was afraid that I was hallucinating.”

jw