“Watch out, there’s a rock on the bottom that’s loose,” Doug said across his shoulder; his voice was drowned out by the loud noise of the torrent.
“What?” Bob asked loudly.
“I said—!” Doug started.
Too late. Bob stepped on the rock, it rolled beneath his foot and suddenly, his balance gone, the branch was out of his grip and he was falling to the right.
He gasped in shock as his body hit the rushing stream. It began to move him as he floundered in the current. He tried to cry out and a burst of icy water filled his mouth. Gagging and spitting, he rolled over once, trying desperately to push up with his hands, but every time he tried to rise, the force of the stream knocked him over again. Oh, God, am I going to drown? the panicked thought struck him. He struggled to get up again and managed to raise onto one knee on the stony bottom. Then he started to fall again. This is it! he thought, terrified.
Doug’s hand suddenly grabbed the collar of his jacket and began hauling him to his feet. “Try to stand!” Doug shouted.
Bob’s legs thrashed clumsily, both feet trying to reach the bottom of the stream. He slipped again and fell into the current. Doug’s grip on his jacket collar was abruptly gone, and he tumbled over in the cold, rushing water. I am going to drown! he thought with incredulous terror.
But Doug now had him by the jacket collar again, then grabbed his right wrist with a grip so hard it made Bob cry out in pain. He felt Doug dragging him across the bottom of the stream, then onto the bank on the other side of the stream, continuing to drag him onto dry ground. “My wrist!” he cried, grimacing with pain.
But Doug held on to it until he was completely out of the water and onto dry ground. Then he let go of Bob’s wrist and sat down hard on the ground beside Bob. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered. Bob could see that Doug was almost as soaking wet as he was.
“Well, now we’re even, pal,” Doug said, breathing hard.
He does remember, Bob thought. He knew I saved him before and this was his appreciation.
“Thank you, Doug,” he said. “I don’t know whether I could have gotten out of the stream by myself.”
“You couldn’t have,” Doug answered. “You were tumbling along like a piece of wood.”
“I know I was,” Bob said.
They sat side by side, panting, regaining their breath.
Then Bob said, “Well, at least our shoes stayed dry.”
The way Doug looked at him, he half expected a punch in the nose.
Instead, Doug chuckled, looking downward himself. “Yeah, at least they stayed dry,” he said.
After a short while, Doug got to his feet, wincing. “Well, you’re in luck,” he said. “We’ll have to set our camp up right away. We’re too damn wet to go on.”
“My fault,” Bob apologized. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry, hell, you’re delighted,” Doug answered.
Bob looked at him in silence for a few moments, then laughed weakly. “You’re right, I am delighted,” he said. “Let’s go cook my turkey tetrazzini.”
Doug made a scoffing sound. “Yeah, let’s do that,” he said.
5:19 PM
There was an open piece of ground about sixty feet from the stream where Doug had said they’d camp for the night. It had made Bob wonder if Doug had intended to camp there all along and only told him that they were setting up a campsite now because they were too wet to go on. He decided to let the suspicion go. After all, Doug may well have saved his life.
Doug told him that he’d planned to have him start the fire, but under the circumstances—both of them wet and the air growing cold—he’d start it himself.
Quickly, Doug had formed a fire ring of stones while he sent Bob to find dry evergreen needles, lichen, and twigs to start the fire with, bigger fallen wood to increase it. He’d erected a cone of twigs over the pine needles and lichen and a larger cone of logs above it. Lighting the kindling with a lifeboat match, he’d begun the core of the fire. As it burned away, the outside logs slumped inward, feeding the heart of the fire.
Soon the fire was burning steadily and they took off their wet clothes, wrung them out as much as they could, and hung them from a line of thin rope that Doug suspended between two small trees. They put on dry long johns, sweaters, and their socks and boots and sat before the fire, warming themselves.
“I think a sip of brandy wouldn’t hurt right now,” Doug said and got the small flask from his backpack. The brandy made Bob cough but felt comfortingly warm going down his throat and chest and into his stomach.
“Okay, come on with me,” Doug said unexpectedly.
Bob looked at him, curious. “Where?” he asked.
“To find something better than your goddamn turkey tetrazzini,” Doug answered. He was on his feet now. “Come on.”
Bob hated to stand again but didn’t want another unpleasant exchange with Doug. He pushed to his feet with a groan and started after Doug who was heading back toward the stream. Bob opened his mouth to ask Doug a question, then couldn’t think of one and followed in silence.
Doug led him to a quiet section of the stream and pointed. “Fish like to gather at the shallows in the evening, in a pool, in the shade of bushes, around submerged logs and rocks.”
Bob nodded, thinking: My God, the man knows everything. He wasn’t going to say it though; he was still irritated by Doug’s behavior.
“All right, now watch. You may have to do it yourself someday.”
Not bloody likely, Bob thought. Still, he watched in interest as Doug rolled up his long john sleeves and stretched himself out, looking down into the still water of the pool.
“And there’s our supper,” he said. “What I’m going to do now is reach down and very gently work my hand under its belly until I reach its gills.”
Bob watched, unable to believe that anyone could catch a fish that way. Doug seemed to be absolutely motionless. But then he said, “Now I’m going to grasp it firmly just behind the gills and… Voilà!” Suddenly he yanked his arm out of the water and Bob looked in amazement at the plump trout thrashing wildly on the ground.
“I’ll be damned,” he said.
“And now, the coup de grâce,” Doug said, picking up a sharpended twig and impaling the trout on it.
Bob watched as Doug took a frying pan from his pack and set his grate across two logs on the fire. Doug got a small plastic bottle from his pack, unscrewed the top, and poured a little bit of liquid into the frying pan.
“What’s that?” Bob asked.
“Olive oil,” Doug answered, returning the plastic bottle to his backpack. He removed a small plastic bag of what looked like flour and after laying the trout in the frying pan, sprinkled some of it on top of the trout.
“You don’t need to skin it?” Bob asked.
“Waste of time. Just pick the flesh out of the skin.”
Bob nodded.
“Anyway, the valuable fats and oils are right under the skin,” Doug said.
“You’ve done this before,” Bob said.
“Many times.” Doug got a fork from his pack and turned the trout over, sprinkling flour on the other side of it.
“Did you know you were going to catch a trout here?” Bob asked.
“Well, I have before so I figured there was a good chance I’d catch one again.”
Bob inhaled deeply. “Mmm,” he said. “It’s already starting to smell good.”