Suddenly he yelled, "Oh Jesus. Don't tell'em I'm here. DON'T TELL'EM I'M HERE!" He jumped into the bush again and crashed and quivered invisibly among the branches. Then I heard the sound of the truck running down the gravel road across the river, behind the trees, as had happened a thousand times before, a high speed, rock clinking, unstopping sound that rose, then faded into the water babble. "Don't tell'em I'm here. Last time the sheriff caught me I had to run him down with my motorcycle. If he ever gets me he'll throw away the key for good. Don't tell them I'm here...." His voice faded out, the bush was still as I understood he was gone. Then just the quiet sound of the river. I sat down and just watched the river for a long time. Until it was quite dark actually. And walking out I was more scared than I had ever been before. But I made it. And driving home I figured that maybe the time had come to do some fishing elsewhere. Legal fishing, maybe. The time had come. When the Tacoma Water Department locked up the whole Upper Green River watershed, they created more than a de facto wilderness area, more than a virgin fishery. They created a sanctuary into which were drawn all sorts of native and resident creatures, each for their own reasons. And in some ways maybe it's even good that they did. The fishing, at least, is great. Trump Doyle McKenzie Flyfishers January 1990
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