Distinctly Montana Magazine

w w w . d i s t i n c t l y m o n t a n a . c o m 41 D E PA R T M E N T L I T E R A R Y L O D E "Any strikes?" I pretend not to hear him, and in truth, I can't, but I know that's what he's saying because it's what he always says when he holds his rod down and looks at me like this. "Any hits?" he says again. "No," I say, "nothing," which isn't true, but I'm hoping he'll give up and take me home. "Maybe you should try one of these." He puts his rod under his arm and holds up a little blob. "What is it?" "Olive Grizzly Flash-a-bugger, number four. I've had two good bumps." He's lying. I know he hasn't had a strike in the last half hour because I've been watching him the whole time. For Daddy, a strike is usually a production with all sorts of whooping and pointing. "I don't have any of those in my vest," I say. "Well come over here and get one. I've got plenty and they're hitting like crazy." "No," I say. "What?" "No." "No what?" "No I'm not going over there to get one. I'm going back to the truck." "We can't quit now. ey're just getting started." "Well don't then. You fish. I'll sit in the car." A half an hour later he's still flailing away without any fish and I'm getting bored with my book, so I decide to get inventive. "Daddy," I yell, rolling down the window on the other side. "Daddy, my period's started." "Not now, Peachy," he yells back, "I'm getting a bump." "But I don't have a Tampax, I'll bleed all over your Ram." "Put your waders back on." I'm ready to get out of the truck and start throwing rocks when somebody taps the window on my side. I rub off the steam and see that it's a woman, a game warden, probably an Indian because her black hair is long and thick even though it's wet, so I roll the window down. "Hi Honey, havin' problems with the plumbing?" she says while the rain hammers the bill of her cap. "Plumbing?" I say. "I heard you tell your Daddy you don't got no Tampax. I got some in my rig over there." She points to her pickup hidden in a stand of cottonwoods about fifty yards upriver. "I just made that up," I say. "We've been fishing in this rain all morning and I can't get him to stop." "I know, I been havin' lunch in my truck and seen you give up about a half hour ago. You got a license, Honey?" "Sure, it's in my vest." When I reach into the back of the cab and pick it up, I forget that it's on top of the gun, so when she sees it there she steps back and draws her own. "Step out of the truck," she says, "and put your hands on the roof." "It's Daddy's. It's not cocked," I say, stepping out into the rain. "Don't worry," she says. "I ain't gonna arrest you or nothin'. I know it's in his rights to have it there. It's just you can't be too careful these days." en she holsters her gun, reaches into the back and picks ours up by the barrel. "is here's a beauty," she says, turning it over in her hand. "Let's get in the truck before it gets wet." She walks around to the driver's side, gets in and mo- tions for me to get in too. Some Rainbow I 'VE NEVER FISHED IN RAIN LIKE THIS BEFORE. I don't mean a drizzle or a pitter-patter sort of rain; I mean a steady gray rain that sounds like popcorn popping in your poncho and after a few hours you feel soaked even though you're dry. Daddy does it all the time. I look across this little backwater of the Big Horn where he's casting. Painting by Greg Keeler; "Gray River," acrylic on canvas by GREG KEELER CONTINUED

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