The wind's rolling in from the south carrying the pungent smell of freshly cleaned fish along with it. I packed up when the dark clouds rolled in while Sam and Dave cleaned the eight brook trout between them, running a line of cord through their gills and out their mouths for transport. It's a warm day at flossy lake, seven miles from Chamberlain. I'm still barefooted, feeling the soft pineneedles underneath callous, blistered feet. Rain's coming, mumblings about a shorter route behind me. Close to gutted? I holler back to them. I'm don't want to rush a fresh trout dinner, though. Boots on now, unlaced, sunburnt shoulders, leaning against a rough boulder, hearing every sound sharply, tasting the change in the air, feeling the rising and falling of my chest against my shirt, stiff with layers of sweat and salt. Using all five senses at one time, getting tuned in. Think we'll make it? Not sure. The exchange behind me is brief, hurried. No more time for scribbles, shit or get off the pot as Sam would say. Lace up, let's beat this storm, get the fish, and get the hell off the ridgeline.
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