Last night, Anne and I drove to a river crossing our map claimed was “good for fishing.” It was around six—plenty of daylight left in an Alaskan summer—and Anne stayed in the car, deep into a Kindle novel, while I rigged up my fly rod.
I started casting along the right bank. No luck. So I moved upstream to the left of the parking area and made a few more casts. That’s when I heard a car door thud shut behind me. I turned, assuming Anne had gotten bored.
She hadn’t.
Instead, striding toward me was a slender woman of Asian descent, most likely Japanese. She had long legs, glossy black boots that somehow reflected the sky, black skinny jeans tucked in without a wrinkle, and a smoke-blue silk blouse that looked straight out of a travel fashion shoot and utterly out of place in bush country.
Her clothes whispered “high-end.” Her walk said “not in a hurry.” Her eyes—dark brown and direct—locked on mine as she smiled. She looked familiar, somehow. Like Janet Lee, the pool player, not the one from Psycho.
She carried a fly rod case, the good kind—big enough for a two-piece rod and reel combo, likely carbon fiber. When she stopped beside me, I forgot which hand my rod was in and managed to snap my fly line into the back of my head like a seaweed wreath.
“Do you mind if I fish the bank below you?” she asked, in a voice smooth enough to sell jazz records.
I meant to say, “Please, be my guest.” What came out was, “Why sointley.” Full Curly Howard. I winced.
She didn’t laugh. That was somehow worse.
She descended the muddy slope as if it were hardwood, said she’d caught two graylings here the other night, then squinted upstream. “Wait—this isn’t my spot. I was closer to that downed log.” And just like that, she turned and headed back up the bank.
I offered a hand. She declined, ascending as if by gondola. Her boots were still gleaming. No mud, no effort, no explanation.
She looked for a path through the aspens, found one, slipped around the last tree…
And vanished.
Gone. Not a sound. No footprints. Not even a branch was disturbed.
I stood there for a solid minute, trying to decide if I’d seen a spirit, an outdoor gear commercial, or an interdimensional guide sponsored by Orvis.
After exhaling and reeling in my limp fly line, I strolled back to the Mercedes.
I put away my gear, shut the door, and slumped into the driver’s seat.
Anne looked up from her Kindle. “What was that all about?”
I turned to her, wide-eyed. “Oh, thank God you saw her. I thought I was hallucinating.”
— jw