What the Other Three Don't Know by Spencer Hyde

Author:Spencer Hyde
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Shadow Mountain Publishing
Published: 2020-02-19T22:33:17+00:00

SEVEN

The sun was a faceless orange coin in the sky. The canyon had its own language. The trees gathered together that next morning and said, Yes, a light breeze today. A sweet smell rode on that morning air, on that light breeze, and I hoped it was breakfast. Skye was cooking fish again, and Nash had set out the eggs on a makeshift table near the fire.

I watched Skye tuck the fish into the fire, and I thought of all my fishing back home, of the browns staging on the shallow, rocky corners, prepping for the spawn, of the middle narrows of the Tetons in October, of the float from Riverside down to Hatchery Ford and from the Lower Narrows to Henry’s Fork, where I would often let my line float the riffs, the seams in the water, and hook a lunker before tossing it back in to assuage the river gods and what Nash might call karma. I thought of what Grandpa said about letting the fish run, and imagined pulling up on the rod too fast. Like Grandpa says, that’s a good way to give the fish a sore lip, but not a good way to land it.

The heat of the morning pressed down upon me as I stepped from the pines and into the sunlight. I saw Shelby taking a video while doing yoga with Nash. It was a completely unexpected thing to see, and I wondered if both of them had let the apple butter slide completely off the biscuit. She had her phone set up on a log, recording their warrior poses. As odd as that was to see, what made me happy was seeing that Shelby wasn’t wearing a wig, but had a bandana wrapped around her head instead.

“You going to post that?” I asked as I walked past them.

“I run a fitness gram as well.”

“Wish I could double tap your forehead to give you a like right now.”

Shelby smiled and changed poses, and Nash followed suit, after nodding a good morning my way. I returned it half-heartedly.

“Where’s Wyatt?” I said, making my way to the fire, where Skye was checking on the fish.

“He’s over there.”

Wyatt was practicing throwing his hatchets into a log that had toppled from atop a boulder beneath a copse of trees that stood like sentinels, watching over the river.

“He was sketching earlier. He’s a true Renaissance man,” said Skye. “If only we’d known.”

“There are a lot of things I want to say that about,” I said. “If only I’d known. I want to see what’s in that book of his. I want him to tell me more about light in art. That sun is breathtaking. I don’t want to get all sentimental, but look at it.”

“I’m looking at what’s breathtaking,” he said, staring my way.

“Funny. I’m looking at the Skye. Too easy.”

I heard the slap of small waves against the rocks near the camp. Skye turned the fish, and I watched the embers wax and wane in the morning light.

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