The Puller by Michael Hodges

Author:Michael Hodges
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: The Puller
ISBN: 9781645060529
Publisher: Seventh Street Books
Published: 2021-02-15T00:00:00+00:00

EVERY GOOD – 15 YEARS AGO

John Kearns moved his prominent frame across the understory like a moose, fly rod in hand. His big forearms rippled, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His size fourteen tan boots kicked through the colorful leaves. He was an animal, no different than a deer or a bear. At least that’s how he felt.

It had been too long since he fished the Black and he’d worked too hard without a break. Susan had pleaded with him to go up north, promising to watch the kids in his absence. That was an offer he couldn’t refuse.

John reached into a flannel pocket and found his Marlboro Reds. The sensation of the filter between his thumb and forefinger let his body know the fix was coming. He fingered into his jeans pocket and clasped a silver Zippo lighter. He snapped open the lid, relishing the mechanical ritual. His thumb pressed down on the spiked wheel, forcing up a flame. Then he leaned his face down into it, mouth puckering around the cigarette. After flicking the Zippo closed and sliding it back into his pocket, he gazed into the canopy, pulling deep on the cigarette.

A good day, he thought. A good fall day. No work, no people. The winding currents of the Black called his name.

The woods calmed him, and offered a pleasing display of maple, aspen, hemlock, and white pine. The silence honed his thoughts. Things were not pulling at him from all sides, and he was focused on the task at hand, slipping into a meditative state. His children meant the world to him, Susan too. They had their arguments, but so what. Everyone does. But while he loved his family like ferns love the rain, he needed time to himself. He figured this was something he inherited from his father, who was part gypsy wanderer, part interstate trucker. He hoped they’d never take this personally. This need, this natural craving was something deep inside him, something genetic he couldn’t control. Besides, when he returned home he was a new man, a better person for them and for himself.

Colored leaves crunched under his boots as a ruffed grouse drummed its wings to the east. The slow beats crescendoed into a pounding rhythm. This commotion had a way of attracting many predators, and John often wondered how grouse survived. They were under attack on all fronts, the chicken of the Northwoods. If it wasn’t goshawks or owls, it was coyote, fisher, bobcat, and pine marten. They were the woods drummer, perhaps playing a song for his arrival. Hard to beat that.

Whispering water caught his ears through the trees on his left. The good, fast-running, clean kind. Ah the Black, he thought. He headed towards the sound and after a hundred yards the forest gave way to a slate cliff that plunged into a deep pool. If he tried going down that way, he’d break a leg, or his neck. He watched the swirling water and wondered what it would be like to slip and fall into the frigid pool.

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