Nathan Jones: Shortage

He was about to start spraying when he saw Lewis hurrying towards him, a look of alarm on his face. His cousin had been checking his G3 while also preparing to set out, but for some reason this had caught his attention. “What are you doing?”

Trev paused with his finger on the trigger. “Using one of the cans of bear spray Matt gave me. We’ve mostly been using it for self defense, but I figured up here I’m actually more likely to use it for its intended purpose. I was going to spray my coat to keep away any unfriendly visitors.”

He almost thought Lewis was trying not to laugh as his cousin slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand. “That’s not its intended purpose, man. You’re supposed to spray it in the face of an attacking bear.”

It was hard not to glare. “Do you think I’m an idiot? Of course I know that. I just figured if bears don’t like it then smelling it will keep them away.”

Lewis carefully plucked the can out of his hands, as if afraid he’d still use it on his coat. “Actually it’s the exact opposite. It’s an irritant when it gets in your eyes, nose, or mouth in spray form, but once it’s sprayed on something it’s basically just hot sauce and can attract bears. You remember the Metz’s going on a camping trip when we were younger?” Trev shook his head. “Well they had the same idea you did and sprayed their tent before going on a hike. When they came back it was crushed flat from bears rolling on it, curious at the smell.”

“Well okay then,” Trev said, feeling like an idiot. He took the can back and put it in his pocket. “I guess I’ll just bring it with me.”

His cousin nodded, still trying not to laugh. “Good luck with your fishing.”

Trev shrugged back into his coat and started down the gentle slope to where the cliffs began, heading along the familiar path which squeezed through a gap in the cliffs that was traversable with a bit of climbing. There was a good sized overhang below the cliffs there that was nearly a cave, and they’d speculated it would be good for camping in, or for watching the road while well hidden by the screen of trees on the slope below. But with the hideout so close they’d never actually used it.

As for the slope it was incredibly steep and treacherous, with a bed of fallen pine needles and mulch that might be a few inches to a few feet deep with no way of knowing until you put your foot down, which slipped easily on the mud below. It was also criss-crossed by deadfall everywhere that had to be carefully maneuvered over and around, and the icing on the cake was the snow that was already accumulating in the shade under the tall trees and making everything even more slippery.

The path down to the river at the base of the slope looked as if it hadn’t been maintained in a while, and possibly not even used. There was a spring higher up the mountain that they usually drew clean water from, saving them from having to purify river water, and if Lewis had just been here for collecting firewood he might not have even gone down to the river at all.

Still, even in poor condition it was far, far better than trying to trailblaze down the slope, and with just a bit of effort Trev was able to make it down to Huntington River. In some places the terrain around the river was flat and meadowy, or even a bit marshy, but here it went from steep slope to flowing water with no transition, the riverbanks thickly clustered with trees and deadfall and in a few places with fallen logs stretching all the way to the other bank. In his braver youth Trev had used logs like those, or maybe those ones themselves, to cross the river, but now he preferred the slightly safer path of rocks.

At the moment he had no intention of crossing, though, and instead he found a nice little curve in the bank where he was obscured from the road unless someone was directly in front of him, and at that point he’d be able to see them too. Once satisfied the area was safe enough he braced himself against a tree leaning out over the water and prepared his pole.

Trev had only fished during the summer before now, but while Lewis was his usual fishing buddy they’d both also gone more than a few times with his uncle Lucas, Lewis’s dad, who was an avid fisherman and fished year round. Since there was plenty of time to shoot the breeze on those trips they’d heard all about fishing in cold weather from the older man, gleaning the experience and skills he’d acquired over the years.

The most important things to be aware of were that trout were cold-blooded and their metabolism slowed down in the cold. They still had to eat, but it could be harder to get them to take the bait and you had to search for the right conditions.

Trev followed all his uncle’s advice today, waiting until the hottest part of the day, finding a place where the river ran slower and deeper so the fish didn’t have to expend as much energy going after the bait, and moving his line very slowly to make an easy target they might go after.

Lucas had been a good teacher and Trev’s listening seemed to pay off, because after only a few hours of patient effort, moving from one good spot to another but always aware of the highway on the other side of the river, he caught five trout that were quite a bit bigger than he was used to seeing in the summer. Maybe it was the extra months of growing and the fact that there was nobody around to fish them, but he almost never had success like this. After Lucas’s warnings about cold weather fishing being more challenging he had to wonder if he was lucky, or if the high price of fuel before the Gulf refineries attack keeping tourists and regulars away all summer had more to do with it.

Either way he wasn’t complaining as he gutted and scaled his catch and packed them in snow in the bucket to take back up to the hideout. Then, after cautiously looking around just to be safe, he picked his way up the treacherous bank to where the path began and started up. At this time of day it was warm enough that the exertion made him start to sweat, but removing his coat and carrying it would’ve just made the climb even more awkward so he kept on.

Trev had just made it to the cliffs and was doing his best to scale the gap one-handed when a sharp crack reached his ears. In that odd way in the mountains it echoed and reverberated confusingly, making it hard to trace exactly where it had come from, but Trev was pretty sure it was from above, near the hideout.

He immediately dropped his bucket of fish and unslung his .223, then wedged himself farther back into the gap facing outward and began panning the lower slope and the parts of the highway he could see with his scope, just to be safe. To his relief a few moments later he heard Lewis’s famous piercing whistle, letting him know that not only was it his cousin who’d fired the shot but that it was safe to keep coming without getting his head blown off.

He retrieved his bucket and rushed the rest of the way up the gap to the gentle meadowy slope leading to their hideout. A year ago the exertion combined with the thinner air at this elevation would’ve left him heavily winded by the sprint, but in his current shape he just needed a few seconds to steady his breathing as he looked around warily.

Lewis was entering the clearing from the south when he arrived, to the left of the path Trev had taken and farther down the meadow to where it curved down past the cliffs in a gentler but still steep slope to the river below. His cousin looked like he was in a good mood, and from his forced nonchalance as he cut across the meadow to meet Trev he had a feeling it was big news.

“Hey, how’d the fishing go?”

Trev grinned at his own good news. “Five big ones,” he said, lifting the bucket.

Lewis grinned. “In this cold? That’s awesome! We’ll have to take advantage of the fact that the fish are biting like that with however many warm days we’ve got left.” He paused and significantly hefted his bulky .308 on his shoulder. “Of course first we should be thinking about big game.”