Trout Fishing in America Read Online Free PDF

would have said that the cranium was formed by one solitary bone. . . . The meninges were attached to the internal walls of the cranium so firmly that while sawing the bone around the interior to detach the bone from the dura the strength of two robust men was not sufficient. . . . The cerebrum with cerebellum weighed about six medical pounds. The kidneys were very large but healthy and the urinary bladder was relatively small.”
    On May 2, 1824, the body of Trout Fishing in America left Missolonghi by ship destined to arrive in England on the evening of June 29, 1824.
    Trout Fishing in America’s body was preserved in a cask holding one hundred-eighty gallons of spirits: O, a long way from Idaho, a long way from Stanley Basin, Little Redfish Lake, the Big Lost River and from Lake Josephus and the Big Wood River.

The Message
    Last night a blue thing, the smoke itself, from our campfire drifted down the valley, entering into the sound of the bellmare until the blue thing and the bell could not be separated, no matter how hard you tried. There was no crowbar big enough to do the job.
    Yesterday afternoon we drove down the road from Wells Summit, then we ran into the sheep. They also were being moved on the road.
    A shepherd walked in front of the car, a leafy branch in his hand, sweeping the sheep aside. He looked like a young, skinny Adolf Hitler, but friendly.
    I guess there were a thousand sheep on the road. It was hot and dusty and noisy and took what seemed like a long time.
    At the end of the sheep was a covered wagon being pulled by two horses. There was a third horse, the bellmare, tied on the back of the wagon. The white canvas rippled in the wind and the wagon had no driver. The seat was empty.
    Finally the Adolf Hitler, but friendly, shepherd got the last of them out of the way. He smiled and we waved and said thank you.
    We were looking for a good place to camp. We drove down the road, following the Little Smoky about five miles and didn’t see a place that we liked, so we decided to turn around and go back to a place we had seen just a ways up Carrie Creek.
    â€œI hope those God-damn sheep aren’t on the road,” I said.
    We drove back to where we had seen them on the road and, of course, they were gone, but as we drove on up the road, we just kept following sheep shit. It was ahead of us for the next mile.
    I kept looking down on the meadow by the Little Smoky, hoping to see the sheep down there, but there wasn’t a sheep in sight, only the shit in front of us on the road.
    As if it were a game invented by the sphincter muscle, we knew what the score was. Shaking our heads side to side, waiting.
    Then we went around a bend and the sheep burst like a roman candle all over the road and again a thousand sheep and the shepherd in front of us, wondering what the fuck. The same thing was in our minds.
    There was some beer in the back seat. It wasn’t exactly cold, but it wasn’t warm either. I tell you I was really embarrassed. I took a bottle of beer and got out of the car.
    I walked up to the shepherd who looked like Adolf Hitler, but friendly.
    â€œI’m sorry,” I said.
    â€œIt’s the sheep,” he said. (O sweet and distant blossoms of Munich and Berlin!) “Sometimes they are a trouble but it all works out.”
    â€œWould you like a bottle of beer?” I said. “I’m sorry to put you through this again.”
    â€œThank you,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. He took the beer over and put it on the empty seat of the wagon. That’s how it looked. After a long time, we were free of the sheep. They were like a net dragged finally away from the car.
    We drove up to the place on Carrie Creek and pitched the tent and took our goods out of the car and piled them in the tent.
    Then we drove up the creek a ways, above the place where there were beaver dams and the trout stared back at us like fallen leaves.
    We filled the back