He visibly wrapped the line around his left hand and began yarding with magnificent home run swings. I feared for the roots of the tree. On the fifteenth swing the spine of the tree cracked audibly, the fly came free, and the top four feet slowly timbered to the ground, its one inch trunk severed by the fishhook. "I'm not sure I would really call that leader", John said. "He's got another one," I said. Peter and John pretended to watch the sunset. "He's got another one." I was keeping count now. And seconds later, "he's got another one." John's drink was finished. He had stopped sweating. His breathing was paced and slow. His waders were still crumpled down around his ankles where he had left them in exhaustion. "Well," John said, reaching down for the suspenders. Peter had already retrieved his rod from against the tent. "There ought to be a few of'em left on this side." And he was gone, into almost pitch black darkness, impossibly late, without dinner, and thoroughly dehydrated. Old Peter was ahead of him down the trail. All was right with the world again. Redside poisoning is not fatal, and has a variable refractory period. Trump Doyle McKenzie Flyfishers April 1990
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