Blackjack Creek

Blackjack Creek          

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         Young and green and growing up in the country, I lived in a kid paradise -- the best of all possible worlds. I didn’t have many worries; I liked to fish; and Blackjack Creek was just down the hill.

         Living in a more secure and less complicated world, by ten years of age my parents allowed me to take the mile long hike down the hill to fish. I wasn’t an expert fisherman, but I did okay – a half dozen trout from six to eight inches in length – not enough for feast, but enough to fry for dinner. After all, who cared if we ate them; the fun was in the catching.

         But alas, like a minnow breaking water while catching a bug, a flaw surfaced in this perfect world. Every time I fished the creek, Blackjack claimed a victim . . . me. I could never quite complete a fishing trip without falling in. Wet to the hips, wet to the knees, wet to the ankles, my fate was always the same. Unfortunately, my mother never let me forget it. “Wet again, Gary? It seems like you can’t ever come back from that creek without fallin’ in.”

         “But Mom! I really didn’t fall in. I just slipped on an old mossy log and got my pant leg wet.”

         “Just like I said, you fell in and got your pants wet. Now, go ahead and change in the utility shed. There’s a dry pair lying on the old steamer trunk.”

         “But Mom!”

         “You heard me! No ifs, ands, or buts about it. Go ahead and change.”

         Like a broken recording, the scene repeated each time I returned from the stream. How humiliating! Ten years old and still treated like a baby!

         Finally, one warm, June day, I resolved not to “fall in” while fishing Blackjack Creek by planning caution in advance. Returning home, I would even put on a public demonstration of dryness in front of my mother. It was a challenge that I resolved to win. My trip home would be totally and undeniably dry. So, grim-faced, down the water-filled, potholed road (It had rained the night before.), I marched with my fishing pole propped on my shoulder.

         The word that best described my fishing trip that day was “careful.” I was careful when crossing logs, careful when stepping from rock to rock, careful when traversing the slippery banks, and careful when casting my line. So careful, I avoided some the best fishing spots. I only caught two fish during that expedition, but looking at my watch that read four o’clock, the glow of triumph warmed my insides. I wasn’t wet. My mother couldn’t accuse me of “falling in” this time.

         With a feeling of triumph, I trudged up the bank, through the trees, across the meadow filled with fragrant, flowering blackberry vines, and up the potholed, dirt road. My pace quickened as my house loomed before me.

         The picture in my mind came into focus: strutting through the gate, making a full turn in front of my mother. “See! Dry, Mom!” I could imagine my mom’s slack-jawed expression of amazement.

         Prancing along, I performed a quick, practice turn, a little jump in the air, and “splash.” I landed in an ankle-deep pothole and managed to soak my trousers all the way to the knee. "Dammit!" That forbidden word spilled from my mouth.

         Crestfallen by defeat and angry at myself, only one course of action remained. Slogging the rest of the way up the road, I opened the gate, made sure it didn't squeak, and sneaked into the utility room to change into the dry pair of pants awaiting me. Why make excuses?

        After all, my mother wouldn’t believe a story about falling in a pothole anyway?

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        Blackjack Creek always seemed predictable. I could count on the area surrounding the stream to be darker than normal – sunlight filtered by broad-leafed foliage, spreading its umbrella over the flowing water. During most of the year (except for fall when the salmon were running) I caught an abundance of rainbow and brook trout. A lingering dampness saturated the air even on the hottest days, and moss always hung like blue-green beards from the tree branches and dressed fallen logs in frayed, green overcoats. Mud and decomposing leaves drenched the air with the musty scent of decay. Just the percolating sounds of the creek and the swish of the breeze in the tree leaves kept me company. I would sometimes pretend that I’d stepped back in time to a solitary life where hunting and fishing meant survival.

         One time, however, something mysterious happened that changed the predictable pattern of Blackjack. In early June, I trekked down the hill for a few hours of fishing when I was about eleven.  Along a familiar stretch of creek, I began casting my line into some swirling eddies that often produced a decent catch. I was using an old pole equipped with black, rayon fishing line, weakened from too many years of use. Slow fishing described the day – some nibblers, but no takers. Suppressing a yawn, I padded my way across a mossy log to a new pool formed by the surge of spring runoff.

         Tossing my lazy line into the water, I allowed the current to carry it near a huge submerged log. My mind drifted like the haze in the trees above the creek. Like a robot, I retrieved my line and cast again. A water bug skipped across the pool, and in the shallows near the bank minnows darted back and forth at flashing right angles. Ready to move farther down the creek to the next hole, the tip of my pole twitched, then dipped. My muscles stiffened. That feels like a big trout, I thought.

        Much too soon to prepare myself, with a tremendous yank the pole bent double. It nearly flew out of my grip. Before I could react, the line slackened, and the pole rebounded to an upright position. Hoping that the creature was still attached, I reeled in the line, my hands shaking. But there was nothing. I gazed at the limp line in amazement. Absolutely nothing remained. No bait. No hook. No sinker. No swivel. All gone!

         Trembling with excitement, my frantic fingers worked to repair the shambled line. Fumbling through my fishing kit, I moved in slow motion. In twice the time it should have taken, I readied myself. With great care, I attached the worm and cast my line once again onto the calm surface of the pool, causing only a slight ripple. I readied myself for the big strike. I turned the reel knob, watching the line crease the surface of the pool. I gathered my line, and cast again. Then again . . . .  After several more attempts – nothing.

         The furious fish that had seized my bait a few moments before had either fled the scene or lurked in hiding. Daydreams and a lack of preparation had robbed me of my chance to catch the submerged giant. But a chance at what? Was it the granddaddy of all rainbow trout that ever lived in Blackjack? Was it a migrating salmon that had lost its sense of time? Or was it some unknown lurking monster of the depths? Only one certainty remained. Every time I cast my line into Blackjack I hoped and prepared for a big strike of a skulking creature that never happened.

Note: while true that the identity of the creature still remains unknown, with time and knowledge, I can now make an educated guess. Most likely the “monster” that had dismantled my fishing gear that day was a steelhead trout. At the time I had never heard of a steelhead, a sea running species of rainbow trout. Like a salmon, this large, sleek, fish returns to spawn in the same stream where it hatched and can grow to a weight of nearly twenty pounds. But, unlike a salmon, a steelhead continues its voracious feeding in its home waters. After spawning, it survives the ordeal to return to the sea.