Dick, from Wakefield

I’ve fished at or just up from the mouth of the Presque Isle River into Superior for a long time. Near to 40 years, I figure. That’s fair time gone even without bragging. The place whipped my ass for maybe half that, then in tantalizing stages relented to my enticements. Or maybe I learned better how to romance a river. At any rate we've reached rough accommodation, this river and I. And as an old married man, I recognize a key to true & lasting love when I see it.

Though the signage is specifically for vacationers, it offers a word to the wise all the same.

I’ve no need to beat the Presque Isle and would prefer it not to beat me. Careless tourists are occasionally carried by watery sinew down from the falls and offered up to the cold embrace of Superior, where one’s mortal remains might remain forever lost. I’d be of mixed mind, as to that.

Along our trip you’ll not escape this river, as others sometimes have. If we return here often, that’s because this glistening ribbon that rises in lowland to inform a great forest before tumbling through a hard rock cut at the end is my river and its terminus at big water my anchor in this wilderness.

Spend quality time over decades in a place and you’ll meet other folk who feel about it much as you do, often for reasons entirely their own. Then, whether generous of spirit or jealous in their prerogatives, time erodes most things down to the nub and so it is with people too. Years of watching someone’s approach to fellow travelers, wild waters and especially the creatures that thrive in those mightn’t leave you with a person’s proper name, but it will provide a decent window upon their character.

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On the lower Presque Isle you could mistake Dick’s last name for Wakefield ‘cause the appellative came so firmly attached, as in: “Dick from Wakefield’s upriver. He’s got fish.” And frequently when no one else had fish, which puts a mark by a man’s name. I’ve known two people who’ve gone into the Presque Isle during heavy water and lived to tell the tale. Both were fishermen. Dick from Wakefield was the second.

Dick was taciturn in the way of men most at home in the woods and on waters. I say “was” as I’ve not seen him on our river for a few seasons running and suspect Dick’s story is likely well and truly told, some bit of it now only retold here with affection by me.

Already well along when first I encountered him, his keen eyes would flash from wary to twinkling and back again at moment’s notice. I never saw him without a Duluth pack, an old camo jacket hung comfortably from his sharp shoulders and a sturdy fly rod with battered old reel in his hand, mostly with a length of line expertly played out so his bait’d ride through cauldron hole and maelstrom alike, always face to face with fish.

For years we nodded to each other across our river or offered a quick “How’re ‘ya doing?” when our paths crossed. Almost always he did better than me; evidenced mostly by his bulging Duluth pack, no braggart he. Except for one glorious, bitingly wet morning when from across the river Dick stood agape as I returned an in-season trophy walleye unharmed to the water. Though he’d grown accustomed to my releasing fish, I suspect he’d never seen anyone do that before.

One morning I met Dick from Wakefield along the narrow trail that runs close under the bridge then down to a deep, fast run between the final set of falls.

Dick headed up and I was going down, which meant I’d arrived too late. We paused together on the narrow path. Everything about him was as ever save that instead of a fly rod he held the exact same outfit as mine, a fairly upscale pairing of rod & reel rarely seen on our river. Dick cast a glance down at my gear. One’s choice of tools carries particular weight with certain men and our shared judgment went in my favor.

As we exchanged pleasantries I was a trifle embarrassed, caught by the old river rat while wearing an inflatable pfd. That’s my sole hedge against the vicissitudes of loving as fickle a partner as a wild river and the funny thing is, I never wore one before that affair matured.

Then, like no time before or since, Dick from Wakefield told me a story. It went like this:

Dick was fishing his favorite spot -- upriver beneath the suspension bridge and hard to the edge of a shale shelf just below the last set of falls. One foot found empty air. Dick’s balance shifted, aged reflexes proved slow and before he could draw a breath, Dick plunged into dark, swift water.

The river carried him downstream. Dick realised that a tourist on the bridge saw him go in. When the startled man tried to run to the rescue, his legs went out from under him and he fell flat upon the bridge.

“That’s that”, Dick thought.

The old man tried to swim out but the river had him fast. He said it tried to yank his boots off. I’d heard that before, though didn’t interrupt to tell him when or why. All the way down to near the mouth, Dick from Wakefield desperately tried to pull himself from the river. Like the sign says, rock is slippery when wet and all he managed was to delay what seemed to him inevitable.

On the east side of the river at its mouth, cut rock falls steeply away and current gains strength with depth to make a final rush into the big lake. As Dick approached the point of no return, he spied the tourist waiting for him with outstretched arms. As he hurtled by, Dick from Wakefield reached out for one last time and didn’t miss. The tourist held strong. In a moment, Dick was again high, if not dry.

The dappling sun along the trail seemed to dim in response to Dick’s story, which was startlingly familiar to me. The old man looked downriver and far, far away.

 “I dream about it every night”, he said quietly.

There was in his voice a hint of sad betrayal, that a lover he’d devoted himself to so well for so long sought finally to claim him completely. We stood silently together for a moment, each of us caught in private current of terrible memory.

Then the old man did something extraordinary. A slow smile spread over his craggy face. He reached for the zipper to his camo jacket, which was closed tight about his throat. Then he slowly slid it down a piece to offer me a peek.

Hidden securely from the prying eyes and summary judgments often leveled by tough old river rats, men who’d known him for decades and whose respect was long since granted under any circumstance, Dick from Wakefield wore the exact same inflatable life vest as I.

Our river had claimed him and he’d barely escaped. Only a fool would count on a second chance and Dick was no fool. Unwilling to abandon his river and no matter that he’d first have to unzip his jacket to use it, the old man now possessed a secret weapon. And that morning he chose to reveal his secret to me.

I say thee godspeed Dick, from Wakefield. May your pack always brim with fresh fish and your boots remain forever dry.