fishing
Fuck it!
The rod bounced off the rocks, Keith wading into the mountain stream.
It was bloody freezing, the sun just capping the ridges.
Wading, slowly, quietly, extending his hands, balancing at each slippery tread, as he circled, herding the fleeting shadows.
Invisible to me.
Then leaning, extending arms.
I was captivated.
Moving, his hands now under the water, closing in on a rock ledge at the streams edge.
Edging ever closer to the ledge, then dipping his shoulders under the water, he remained
stationary, for what seemed like an age.
It was so cold, our rods were dripping with ice, I shuddered just watching him.
No movement, a stillness.
A blanket of silence, deadening the trickle of the waterfall.
Then, like a whale breeching, Keith sprang upright, sending cascading waves crashing onto the rocks, one hand breaking water with his clinched fist, grasping a big rainbow trout by the tail.
Raising the fish high above his head, in a circular swing, then swooping down with his full force, smashing the fish’s head against the rock, a dull thud, a splattering of blood, anointing Keith.
Wading out, with the bloodied fish in hand, in a matter-of-fact manner, quietly washing the fish.
That’s the easy way to catch fish, I got the bugger!
We had been climbing, steeply, up this Snowy Mountain stream all morning.
One pool, one waterfall at a time, since dawn.
I mumbled to myself.
Why in the fuck did we get up this early, when we are not catching fish!
Pointless right!
Climbing, with all the gear, each pool usually displaying four or five large trout, in the crystal clear, shaded water.
The fish taunting us.
Swimming, oblivious of our presence, totally disinterested in our lures.
We hadn’t caught anything, trying three or four times, testing each pool.
I lamented.
The fish aren’t even awake??
The fish were obviously cold and slow to react.
Just like us!
Keith’s dive into the pool, was clearly out of sheer frustration.
He outlined his technique for the uneducated, namely me.
You simply, quietly herd the trout, under the rock ledge, gently stroking their bellies.
Hypnotised, mesmerised, the trout relaxing into his hand, before ripped the trout skyward
to their shattering collision with the earth.
Keith was a giant of a man, ruggedly handsome, with large, calloused hands, radiant blue eyes and a thin moustache.
His short, greying hair, always in a crew cut.
Very short.
Keith came from good German stock and with it came the Teutonic attitudes.
Uncompromising, a man’s man, a real bushman.
Holding four Australian fishing records, always trailing a lightweight trout line and lure
behind the boat, when he went offshore fishing.
Due to the light line weight, it often took him two to three hours to land the tuna.
The Tuna were bigger than me.
Hence the records.
When I was 10 years old, remembering, that he used to catch tuna this way, we always had more fish than we needed.
Giving them away to other families in the camping area.
I have seen Keith, walk out onto a jetty, that was populated by other hopefuls.
Usually all men.
Keith would then proceed, to not only catch the only fish of the day, but the biggest.
Keith, not having a son at that stage after having three daughters, I became the surrogate son, when I was a teenager.
In awe of this man’s knowledge of the bush, I bought a rod, going on his fishing expeditions, deep into the Snowy Mountains, way before the lakes inundated the valleys.
Drinking rum, in front of a fire at dawn by the river.
It was always before bloody dawn!
Fucking freezing!
What amused me, was that we never caught any fish until the sun can over the ridge anyway.
Not a conversationalist, Keith would stride ahead, with me running, walking behind, to keep him in sight.
Turning logs over, looking for bait.
Keith often got more than he bargained for by stirring up, very angry brown or black snakes.
The nature of the insect bait was unique to each bend in the river, each time of year.
Keith knew what the fish knew.
The exact season, when each insect went through its annual cycle, where, when, for how long.
The fish, therefore, would be expecting this source of food.
Apart from using live bait, when he came across it, Keith would make lures that would emulate the colour, the shape of each insect, for the seasons.
Keith was so well known for this skill at making lures, fisherman would come from all over
to buy his lures.
My life took different turns, fishing faded from my life.
Keith had a son, who sadly died very young in his teenage years.
Keith never recovered, neither did his marriage.
I caught up with Keith many years later, having diabetes, he lost both legs.
He was a chronic smoker all his life.
I was visibly shaken when he died.
hair
bounces
fair
eyes
heavy
browed
blue weeping eyes
blink anxiety
window isolation
broad shouldered
eyes furtive
lying
lonely eyes
blink pain
words deny
crying
yelling
eyes
shout
loss
injustice
dependence
desperation
Quiet
Desperation
eyes
dream wakers
earth shapers
bleed sorrow
as time scabs
heals
seals
over lost loves
eyes
steel blue
infected
with loss
hollowed
by dread
entombed
forever
in a living
animated shell
for transit
into the unknown
alone
The image of Keith is still before me.