Distinctly Montana Magazine

4 5 Y E A R S O F H A U N T E D W A T E R S 2 0 BUT HE HAPPILY GOT ON THE RAFT AND DRAPED THE HARNESS OF MY WICKER FISHING BASKET OVER HIS SHOULDERS. I WADED OUT PULLING THE RAFT, USING IT AS A FLOAT WHEN WE REACHED DEEP WATER, AND HUNG ON TO THE RAFT WITH ONE HAND WHILE CASTING WITH THE OTHER. The next time we went to Morrell Lake we were all older by several years, and I should have been wiser. Once again, the three of us were at the cabin and looking for something fun to do together. I didn't give it a second thought and said, "Why don't we all hike into Morrell Lake like we did last time and do a little fishing?" You have to get to the lake early for the morning rise, because the fish stop biting by about one o'clock. The water's so cold your lower parts go numb if there's no raft and you need to wade, which was the case this time. You need to arrive early, fish, and get out of the water promptly. We'd timed it just right, and when we arrived at the lake a general rise was underway. All across the lake, expanding circles of wavelets appeared on the barely rippled water as trout did a "head poke" or just sipped to take flies from the surface. It was a compel - ling sight as a new rise form, as they're called, instantly came to life for every one that flattened and died out. I waded out and caught all I wanted in a short time: it was only a few, because by then I was working my way into the catch-and-release ethic. JohnFitz stayed on the bank to keep my dad com - pany. My father sat on a log looking happy but tired. I waded back to shore and offered my father the rod. "Dad, do you want to fish for a while?" I said. "It's still early, the fish are still moving." He had this wonderful smile on his face, one that came from deep within and lit up the world. "I don't need to do any fishing," he said. "Let's just hike out." We took it easy on the return trip and all went well until about the halfway point. My father by then was leaning backwards, tipping back at an alarming angle. He tried to smile, but his face was a grimace and he was having trouble making headway. We had about a mile to go. "Go right along with him and talk to him, see what you can do," I told my son. JohnFitz already was helping him, without seeming to do it. He put a supporting hand on his grandfather's back, not pushing but just encouraging him along, talking to him, letting him stop whenever he needed to rest. It got rough toward the end, but JohnFitz was tender and patient with him, and we made it back to the mainland without serious mishap. "He's a tough old bird, he did well," JohnFitz said to me. My father sat down heavily in the car's passenger seat. "I'd like to go back to the cabin and have a rest," he said. So that's what we did. We'd left the gate closed on the short dirt road to the cabin, and when we turned onto the dirt JohnFitz offered to jump out and open the gate. Norman wasn't having it. "I'll do it," he said, and stepped out and opened the gate. Once inside the cabin, though, he had a lie-down. And that was the last fishing trip. The very last one. Johnfitz was too young to have taken up flyfishing, And that was the last fishing trip. The very last one. WESLEY W. BATES (2)

• Cover