Catch & Release (25 page)

“Hey, Polly, Earth to Polly. Report,” says Odd.

“I'm just thinking about peaches,” I say.

“Yep! Good ice cream,” says Odd, and he holds the cone out like a wineglass. I touch mine against his. “To Meriwether Lewis,” says Odd, “who slept here in this exact spot, according to the sign.”

“Do you think it's true?” I ask.

Odd shrugs. “It's cool to think about. Bet it looked different then.” There's an interstate highway on one side and a giant dam blocking the river on the other. Odd's right. Things may have changed.

“Thomas Jefferson liked ice cream,” says Odd, like that makes a difference.

Honeybees may be buzzing toward extinction. Thomas Jefferson made ice cream. The story is different for each of us.

 

On the way out of the hatchery, we pass Smokey Bear. He is standing by a fountain, handing out stickers to little kids. One little girl doesn't want anything to do with him. She hides her face against her dad's leg, wraps her arms around and won't come unstuck. Finally, the dad gives up and starts walking toward the parking lot. Hanging on her dad's leg turns into a game, and she starts laughing.

When there is a gap in the kid-and-sticker action, I get close and ask, “Is someplace close where I can fish? Trout, I mean, with a fly rod, no boat.”

“I wish I'd known the answer to that one before I jumped at this job,” says Smokey Bear. “I've seen some little ones at the bottom of the falls—Multnomah—but it's not worth it.”

I wonder if Smokey is a liar. Maybe he doesn't want to share. Why should he?

“What about a good hike, pretty, not too far, not so many people?” I ask.

“McCord Creek, Elowah,” says Smokey. Then he says, “You know the question I get asked most often? ‘Where's the water come from?' That's what people want to know,” Smokey waves paw at the cliff on the far side of the interstate. “‘Where's the water come from?'” growls Smokey. “This stupid suit itches . . .”

 

“Got milt?” No, that isn't right. “Got
milk
?” says the winking cow on the back of the shiny tanker truck. No wonder she is so goddamn happy. She isn't a salmon. They don't kill her to steal what she's got. They just take her baby and the food she had to give it. She doesn't miss her calf. She would only miss her calf if her teats swelled up and hurt. They take care of that. They take the milk and haul it away and pasteurize it, which has nothing to do with a pasture full of grass. The cow is a machine to make milk. She doesn't need dirt or grass or sunshine to make milk. But people need milk to make ice cream.

This is an easy trail—or it would be for Polly-That-Was and that kid Odd-With-Two-Legs, but they aren't here. It's a challenge for couch muscles, and couch muscles is what I've got. I can do it, but if I didn't have a real good reason, like a waterfall, I wouldn't go another step. I like green. I like ferns. I like the rotten cinnamon smell of the wet tree bark. But I've already got that. I had that at the edge of the parking lot.

I can hear kids' voices behind us. It's a happy family unit of parents, a little girl with cloth butterfly-fairy wings, and an even tinier person who will probably get lifted up and into a back carrier pretty soon. This is the kind of trail a toddler can own, and it's killing me.

While the family passes us by I'm careful to keep the bad side of my face turned away. I let Odd do the smiling and nodding and howdy. I can hide behind him and let him make eye contact to prove we are good people, decent people, just like them.

 

The decent family is on the way back down the trail. They've been to the waterfall—or given up and turned back early.

“The waterfall's great!” says the decent dad.

“Totally worth it,” says the decent mom.

“Piedoo!” says the butterfly-fairy, pointing at the dirt.

“Yes!” says the decent dad, “A spider! That's great! He lives here in the woods. This is his home.” He hunkers down by his butterfly-fairy child to look at the wonderful spider that lives in the woods.

Behind me, I can hear them singing, “Itsy-bitsy spider went up the water spout, down came the rain, and washed the spider out . . .”

If I couldn't see the creek and hear the waterfall, this is where I would stop.

 

We are close to an ancient volcano, the black rock here is pure, hexagonal pillars bending under the weight of miles of sky, and, where the black rock breaks, the water falls and bursts into spray. When the spray touches me, I'm not tired anymore. The mist collects on me into droplets and diamonds.

The waterfall is totally worth it. I leave the trail and pick my way closer to the bottom of the cliff. I can feel the force of the water moving through the rocks and up my legs. It is like breathing thunder.

Then I hear Odd, a barking yell. He should have stayed on the trail, but he didn't. He's on his hands and knees in the water and the rocks. His lips are flat and tight. His whole lower face has gone dead white. I've seen that before. I've seen that at the Kid-O-Korral when some bitch mom dropped her little guy off for Mom's Night Out and I discovered his arm was bruised, broken, when I took off his coat. I've seen it on my dad's face when he couldn't fix a horse that had been chained to a bumper and dragged for miles on asphalt. That is the face of a guy who is not going to cry even though there is damn good reason to do it.

“Come on.” I get my feet planted securely and offer him a hand up. For a second he isn't going to take it. But then the fight goes out of him, his shoulders sag, he reaches out. It's not easy getting him over the slick black jags of rock. They are everywhere, like the teeth under a trout's tongue.

When we get to the trail, the battle should be over. The trail is wide and flat, not all that slippery most places.

“Can you put weight on it?”

He can't. It buckles and rolls out from under him. He says, “It's weird. It hurts. I can feel it, but it's like it's not there.”

“Let me take a look at it.” I prop him up, and we take a few awkward steps closer to the wooden bridge over the stream. Odd leans and steadies himself against the handrail.

It's hard to see through the rip in his jeans. He's definitely cut somewhere, although exactly where or how bad is a mystery kept by mud and blood and wet shadows. It probably looks worse than it is. That's what I tell the little kids when they scrape a knee or an elbow . . . looks worse than it is . . . really . . . it's going to be all healed up by tomorrow morning . . . your own body's going to make it better . . . how cool is that?

But this isn't the Kid-O-Korral. I don't have Band-Aids spotted with dinosaurs and puppies, even though choosing is part of the ritual that makes it all better. And I can't say the magic words, either.
Your own body's going to make it better.
I can't say that because the two of us, we know that's not always true.

 

Trails usually seem shorter when you are coming out than when you are hiking in. It doesn't matter if it's uphill or downhill, the time just moves faster. Usually that's true, but it isn't going to be like that this time. The trail to the parking lot gets longer with every awkward step. We aren't talking. I don't have the breath for it. Odd needs to keep his jaw clamped tight on the pain.

We are making progress. I'm counting the steps and pausing every hundred, sometimes less. If there is a good tree that Odd can lean against, that's a reason to stop. If we make it to the top of a slope, that's a reason to stop. If I feel Odd's muscles jerk to try to get away from the pain, that's a reason to stop, but I have to ignore that because we need to move sometime.

I could never walk side by side with Bridger. We were always out of sync. I always felt off balance, like I couldn't find my center of gravity. Other couples could do it. Other couples were well-oiled machines that could move together through the crowded halls between classes and then divide with a kiss. Other couples could float along together through the lights and music at the carnival like they were riding in the same bucket on a Ferris wheel. Or maybe that whole couple thing just looks simpler from the outside. Maybe those other girls were getting pulled around, too. Maybe it's never easy to have someone steer you around with a thumb through a belt loop and their fingers in your pocket. Maybe I'm making Odd's difficulties worse because I'm setting the pace and I'm the one with a death grip on his belt. Maybe, but if I don't do it, he isn't going anywhere. And if he isn't going anywhere, then his story stops moving down the trail. And I think then, when that happens, he's good as dead.