Trout Fishing in America Read Online Free PDF Page A

shoe fits . . .” he said.
    Owl Snuff Creek was just a small creek, only a few miles long, but there were some nice trout in it. We got out of the car and walked a quarter of a mile down the mountainside to

the creek. I put my tackle together. He pulled a pint of port wine out of his jacket pocket and said, “Wouldn’t you know.”
    â€œNo thanks,” I said.
    He took a good snort and then shook his head, side to side, and said, “Do you know what this creek reminds me of?”
    â€œNo,” I said, tying a gray and yellow fly onto my leader.
    â€œIt reminds me of Evangeline’s vagina, a constant dream of my childhood and promoter of my youth.”
    â€œThat’s nice,” I said.
    â€œLongfellow was the Henry Miller of my childhood,” he said.
    â€œGood,” I said.
    I cast into a little pool that had a swirl of fir needles going around the edge of it. The fir needles went around and around. It made no sense that they should come from trees. They looked perfectly contented and natural in the pool as if the pool had grown them on watery branches.
    I had a good hit on my third cast, but missed it.
    â€œOh, boy,” he said. “I think I’ll watch you fish. The stolen painting is in the house next door.”
    I fished upstream coming ever closer and closer to the narrow staircase of the canyon. Then I went up into it as if I were entering a department store. I caught three trout in the lost and found department. He didn’t even put his tackle together. He just followed after me, drinking port wine and poking a stick at the world.
    â€œThis is a beautiful creek,” he said. “It reminds me of Evangeline’s hearing aid.”
    We ended up at a large pool that was formed by the creek crashing through the children’s toy section. At the beginning of the pool the water was like cream, then it mirrored out and reflected the shadow of a large tree. By this time the sun was up. You could see it coming down the mountain.
    I cast into the cream and let my fly drift down onto along branch of the tree, next to a bird.
    Go-wham!
    I set the hook and the trout started jumping.
    â€œGiraffe races at Kilimanjaro!” he shouted, and every time the trout jumped, he jumped.
    â€œBee races at Mount Everest!” he shouted.
    I didn’t have a net with me so I fought the trout over to the edge of the creek and swung it up onto the shore.
    The trout had a big red stripe down its side.
    It was a good rainbow.
    â€œWhat a beauty,” he said.
    He picked it up and it was squirming in his hands.
    â€œBreak its neck,” I said.
    â€œI have a better idea,” he said. “Before I kill it, let me at least soothe its approach into death. This trout needs a drink.” He took the bottle of port out of his pocket, unscrewed the cap and poured a good slug into the trout’s mouth.
    The trout went into a spasm.
    Its body shook very rapidly like a telescope during an earthquake. The mouth was wide open and chattering almost as if it had human teeth.
    He laid the trout on a white rock, head down, and some of the wine trickled out of its mouth and made a stain on the rock.
    The trout was lying very still now.
    â€œIt died happy,” he said.
    â€œThis is my ode to Alcoholics Anonymous.
    â€œLook here!”

The Autopsy of Trout Fishing in America
    This is the autopsy of Trout Fishing in America as if Trout Fishing in America had been Lord Byron and had died in Missolonghi, Greece, and afterward never saw the shores of Idaho again, never saw Carrie Creek, Worsewick Hot Springs, Paradise Creek, Salt Creek and Duck Lake again.
    The Autopsy of Trout Fishing in America:
    â€œThe body was in excellent state and appeared as one that had died suddenly of asphyxiation. The bony cranial vault was opened and the bones of the cranium were found very hard without any traces of the sutures like the bones of a person 80 years, so much so that one