The Snowfly Read Online Free PDF

rust it looked like it might turn to powder any second.
    â€œProfessor Ennis?”
    He did not look toward us. “You hear him?” he asked, gesturing toward the pool.
    Rose said, “Far side.”
    The old man smiled. “Howdy, Rose.” He had white hair and slow, gentle eyes.
    â€œNice fish,” he said.
    Rose nudged me. “Professor Ennis, I came to ask you about the snowfly.”
    â€œDid you? And who might you be? A friend of Rose? One of her curled-toes club?”
    Rose looked at me and rolled her eyes. She had told me during the drive to the cabin that Ennis was “not all there.” His specialty was the history of the Rockies. He had spent a lifetime tracing the movements of mountain men, spending several winters alone in the Rockies to better understand his subjects.
    â€œWhat’s he mean?” I whispered.
    â€œTalk to him,” she said impatiently.
    â€œI’m Bowie Rhodes.”
    Ennis smiled and cocked his head in my direction. “Any relation to Grizzly Rhodes?”
    â€œNo, sir,” I answered without knowing who he was talking about.
    â€œHe came out of Pennsylvania around 1800. Merchant family, well-to-do people, but he was the black sheep and a bad fit for the self-styled civilized East. He lived to be ninety and he was quite a man. Unusual in that he could write, but he didn’t much bother. Married a Crow woman and taught her. They had a dozen kids, all of whom lived, which was unusual in itself. The woman’s name was Red Face. She and those kids were writing fools. I located forty journals written by various members of the family. What we know about the lives of mountain men sits squarely on the shoulders of Red Face Rhodes and her spawn. Helluva lady, she was. Sure you’re not a relation? The Rhodes family had iron blood and molten fire in their hearts, that’s for damn sure.”
    â€œNot aware that I’m related.”
    â€œToo bad for you,” he said. “Why do you want to know about the snowfly?”
    â€œI heard about it once.”
    â€œPar for the course. It’s one-a those things that doesn’t get much talked about. Lotta people say it’s myth, but me, I say myths’re usually based on something. Smoke from fire, right? That’s what history’s taught me.”
    I wanted more, but Ennis only stared out over his pool.
    â€œYou believe it’s real?” Some people needed prompting.
    â€œDoesn’t much matter what I believe.”
    â€œBut I’d like to know more.”
    â€œSomeday maybe you will and maybe you won’t. The snowfly’s a peculiar slice of life. Some are meant to know. Most aren’t and those who do know usually end up sorry for the knowing. The snowfly’s a burden, son, and I wouldn’t put it on so young a man. Best keep your attention on Rose there.”
    In August my roommate, Larry Showly, was killed during a fire in the Bitterroots. We were bunked two to a room and Larry was a quiet guy from Kansas who wanted to be a forester, did his job, and got along well with everyone on the fire team. He’d crossed a log in his corks, which was against procedure. The rotted bark gave way, he fell seven or eight feet onto a stob, was impaled and bled to death. I was the one who found him and the vision of him lying there with his unseeing eyes staring up into the heavens would not leave me.
    I did not fish much after that. Rose and I spent most of my free time in her bed. Rose taught me about making love. “It’s like basketball,” she said. “You can’t win in the first five minutes. You need to play the whole game.” When I got into my VW in September for the trip back to East Lansing, I had pretty much forgotten the snowfly. It took forty-nine hours to make the drive. Life lay ahead and I was eager to get on with it. I arrived just as registration began, secured my classes, and headed for a friend’s house to