Death, Dreams and Fishing Poles

GRAND CANYON Death, Dreams and Fishing Poles

He sat on a boulder beside a small stream just off Bright Angel Trail near the bottom of the Grand Canyon, looking frail, oddly content and out of place. A fly fishing rod jutted crookedly from his pack, which was brand new. A sleeping bag was lashed lopsidedly to his pack frame with twine and his hiking boots were barely scuffed. A curious combination of weariness and joy struggled for dominance on his finely etched features.

I stepped off the trail and walked over to the stream beside which he sat, drawn mostly by the sound of the water. I lay flat on the sun-heated rock and plunged my head into a clear pool until coolness seeped to the roots of my hair He watched me with gentle amusement, a man in his early 20s with tangled blond hair and keen, somber eyes. He focused on the two fish-again how gaunt he seemed. He had been energized by our conversation. Now he had a translucent quality. I felt a sharp stab of fear for him. After the coughing passed, he fumbled with a pocket on his backpack, pulled out a small bottle of pills, and shook one into his hand.

I recognized by the label a prescription for one of the drugs used to hold the AIDS virus at bay.

A silence settled between us.

"When were you diagnosed?" I asked at length. He glanced at me, storm shadows of yearning and nonchalant courage sweeping across his face.

"Two years ago," he said.

That used to be a long time for an AIDS patient to survive after diagnosis. I was a medical writer early in the epidemic and have interviewed a lot of young men dying by inches, much too soon.

"How are you doing?" I asked.

"Oh, great," he said, with an utterly sincere smile.

Fishing poles projecting from my pack-a fly rod and a spin caster.

I sat on the rock beside the stream, torn between my appointment on the Rim and a tug of curiosity about this misplaced stranger. I hadn't much time to waste. I'd just come off the river at Phantom Ranch after a four-day run down from Lee's Ferry with a research team counting the last few native fish in a river conquered by trout, catfish and carp.

I'd wanted to stay, for the river had begun to weave its spell. But I couldn't stay. I had played hooky from my life too long already. I had no more time to drift down that hypnotic river. But I could sit there a minute beside the stream. After rummaging through the fishing tackle in my pack, I pulled out a bag of trail mix. He watched me, his eyes flicking to my fishing pole. Wordlessly, I offered him a handful of gorp.

"Thanks," he said.

"Going fishing?" I asked.

"Yes. Yes, I am," he said with a curious finality.

"Good fishing down there," I said, remembering the big rainbow's effortless undulation after I'd let him off my hook.

"Really?" he asked hungrily. "I've never been fishing before,"

he confessed. "And I'd always heard that the Grand Canyon had some of the best fishing in the world."

"It's better up by Lee's Ferry," I said.

His face fell.

"But it's still wonderful fishing down here," I added hastily. "I caught a 20-inch rainbow last night."

"You did?" he asked eagerly.

So we fell into a discussion of fish, hooks and fake flies. He'd never fished, but had studied books. We talked about eddies, undercut banks, flies and nymphs. He took it all in so eagerly, I begin to feel guilty, since I don't actually know much about fishing.

The stranger lapsed into a sudden fit of coughing. I noticed"You going to be alone down there?" I asked.

"My brother was going to come," he said, wistfully. "But he couldn't get away. He's a lawyer, you know," he added with a note of pride.

We said nothing for a time.

"It's not so bad being alone-not out here," he added, with a gesture that encompassed the stream and the layerupon layer of sandstone, schist, limestone. "Sometimes, it's a lot more lonely with people around."

"I guess that's true," I said, recalling my eagerness each night to leave camp and find a rock on the river.

"Kind of takes your mind off things, out here," he added. The silence settled, then he added, "When I was a kid, I saw an article in a magazine somewhere about the Grand Canyon. This guy had caught the biggest trout I've ever seen. Ever since then, I've had this fantasy about fishing in the bottom of the Grand Canyon. So I just thought I'd do it."

I groped for something to say. "No time like the present," I said, lamely.

"That's true," he said, with a small, secret smile.

Down in the brush and small trees along the stream, the cicadas started up. My ride waited at the Rim, to hurry me back to my jumbled life. I considered going with him back into the Canyon. But he seemed content to be alone with his dream of trout.

"Listen," I said impulsively. "I didn't catch anything on the fly rod. You need a spin-casting rig." I opened my pack, and pulled out my cheapo pole and my little plastic box of lures and hooks. "Here, take this."

"I can't," he said slowly. "It's yours."

"I don't need it," I said, setting it down and standing. "Good luck down there," I said, gripping his hand.

"Good luck up there," he replied.

I left him beside the stream, but turned, 50 yards up, at the next bend.

He stood where I'd left him, holding my pole, staring down into the Canyon that called us both.

GRAND CANYON Showtime

"For me, the power of light transforms one of Earth's great spectacles-the Grand Canyon. Here Nature unveils a work of art, an unpredictable natural performance. How do you show the great changes of the Earth in the single instant of a photograph? This is the work for me, the passion. These acts of Nature bring me to my highest level. In recording the timeless moment, I am transformed by it."

'Nature unveils a work of art, an unpredictable natural performance.'