ChapterEight
There wasa low-lying fog resting over the surface of Smoke Lake when we pulled from the dock. Will was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. I was tired. We’d been up at four to meet my grandfather here at five in the morning. We were not the first in line to get our boats in the water. Anglers were a special breed.
“We’ll start trolling as soon as we get out to deeper water,” Kenruh informed us. Actually, he was informing Will. I’d been doing this with my grandfather since I was old enough to hold a fishing pole. The boat we were using was borrowed from an old friend of my grandfather’s who served as a hunting and fishing guide. As much as we’d scrimped and saved over the years, we’d not been able to afford even the down payment for a fancy bass boat. Someday, maybe, I’d get a degree and a high-paying job as a philosophy professor then Kenruh would have the boat of his dreams. Someday seemed a long, long way off…
Will reminded me of a puppy someone had turned loose at the dog park. He was bouncy and cranked up on the coffee we’d tossed back before leaving the bunkhouse. Smoke Lake was calm, the wind just a gentle blush on our cheeks. Settling back into one of the well-padded seats, I pulled my hat down over my brow, crossed my ankles, and folded my arms over my chest. I was glad I’d worn a flannel shirt over my tee. The fog dampened clothing fast. Will should have grabbed an overshirt as well. And a damn hat. He was going to be a walking melanoma by his fortieth birthday, the ass.
“Wake me up when the salmon start biting,” I said around a yawn. The water lapping at the sides of the boat as we slowly made our way away from shore always eased me into a lazy state of mind.
“This is a really nice boat you have, Mr. Yellow Horse,” Will said as my eyes slowly closed.
“I wish this was mine. It belongs to a buddy of mine, Corny Dimora, one of the best guides in the area,” Kenruh replied from his seat behind the steering wheel of the big Bayliner boat.
“Is he Indian?” Will enquired from my left. We were seated behind my grandfather, the big outboard motor behind us. At the moment we were using a trolling motor instead of the Evinrude. “Sorry.”
“Sorry for what?” Kenruh asked as the call of a loon floated over the lake. It was rare to hear one outside of Yellowstone but on occasion a pair would spend the summer on Smoke Lake.
“Calling him an Indian. Perry doesn’t like that term.” Will shifted around, his thigh brushing mine. A tingle of awareness coursed through me. Amazing how attuned I was to him and his touch now, even if it were accidental.
“Ah well, no harm done. Not everyone finds the term offensive. Some of us are perfectly fine with being called American Indian or just Indian. Others prefer different terms such as Indigenous or Native. It’s kind of like pronouns. Best to just ask right off what a person wishes to be called and then call them that.”
It was kind of entertaining eavesdropping on their conversation while pretending to be sleeping. Not that they were saying anything juicy, but it was nice to hear how respectful Will was with Kenruh. He did not have that attitude with most older men. Just ask his brother.
“Oh okay. Duly noted,” Will replied earnestly. “Where did you get that hat?”
Oh good Lord. I blocked out the story about Kenruh’s lucky fishing hat. I’d heard it ten thousand times before. My mind drifted as the boat crawled along the lake. My thoughts were light, floating from one thing to another, the lure of the water and soft conversation working its magic. I must have actually drifted off because the shout of my grandfather jarred me awake.
“…was a close one!” Kenruh was saying as I blinked and sat straight up, my sight flying around the boat. Will was grinning like a moron as he reeled in one of the five poles facing the rear of the boat.
“What did I miss?” I asked, rubbing my eyes, shocked to see that the sun was now climbing into the sky. Most of the fog had burned off. Shit, I’d taken a long nap it seemed.
“Big bite,” Will replied as he cranked in the line.
“We’re going to turn and go over that area again. I wasn’t sure if what I was seeing on this newfangled fish-finder of Corny’s was really fish or some sort of glitch.” Kenruh gave the steering wheel a gentle crank, bringing the boat into a slow turn. “Guess it was fish.”
“The pole bent right down into the water. Mr. Yellow Horse—”
“Aaron,” Kenruh corrected. Will’s smile somehow got brighter. The sight stole my breath. He was so happy.
“Right, Aaron was telling me about downriggers when WHAM! we got a bite.” Will reeled like a maniac. “You need to stay awake, dude.”
“Looks that way.” I gave Will the can of white shoe peg corn.
“Oh cool, thanks! I’m starved,” he gushed as the flashy silver bait and hooks came into view.
“The corn is for the salmon, dumbass,” I retorted while Kenruh chuckled deeply. Will rolled those cornflower blue eyes of his.
“I wondered why we had ten cans of corn in the boat. Figured Aaron was just a big corn fan,” Will tossed out.
We all laughed at that because, yeah, Kenruh did like his corn. Our morning on the lake was a great success even if we only caught one salmon. Will got to battle it in as I manned the long-handled net. It was a beautiful bright orange-red skinned fish weighing in around six pounds, which is about as large as the landlocked salmon get. I took pictures of Will and his fish for him and then we returned to shore. He jabbered the whole way home, his prize in a cooler with ice in Kenruh’s truck.
“Your grandfather is really cool. He told me a joke when you were sleeping that I can’t wait to tell Paula when we see her at the dig site.” I gave him a quick look as we sailed into the Jante River Reservation for a late lunch, Kenruh’s yellow truck right in front of us. He tended to putter along most days. Life was meant to be enjoyed leisurely, he liked to say. This was true at times, but driving at twenty-five miles an hour in a fifty-five zone was a little too leisurely for me. But I didn’t dare pass him or he’d give me shit about driving recklessly and being an impetuous youth. So here we were. Puttering along with Charley Pride flowing out of the speakers.
“I’m almost afraid to ask,” I said as we rolled along with the warm summer wind rushing in the windows.
“She’ll hate it. She’s a feminist vegan or something along those lines.” He snorted in amusement. “You want to hear it?”
“Sure.” I really didn’t as I was sure I’d heard it before, but he was so stoked about it I gave in. Anything to make him happy, it seemed.