An Early Winter (Encore Edition)

Hello Dear Readers. After posting Chapter Six of “An Early Winter,” I received a valuable piece of feedback. Specifically, how nice it would have been to read the entire story in one sitting. I agree! Initially, I thought posting a chapter (or two) at a time would work, but in retrospect I think that was a mistake. The downside for the reader is that the story loses momentum when read with a day between chapters. So here it is again…all at once. I hope you enjoy “An Early Winter.” Your support of my writing keeps me writing. Take care, Neil

“There was a time, usually late in August, when summer struck

the trees with dazzling power and they were rich with leaves

but then became, suddenly one day, strangely still, as if in

expectation and at that moment aware. They knew.

Everything knew, the beetles, the frogs, the crows solemnly

walking across the lawn. The sun was at its zenith and

embraced the world, but it was ending, all that one loved

was at risk.”

All That Is (2013)

James Salter

ONE

“Nothing runs anymore. Nothing works.”

He sits with the others watching Soylent Green. He wonders who picked this god-awful movie. He’s forgotten how many times he’s seen it. Some kind of sick joke, he thinks, courtesy of one of the CNAs. They sit together in a multi-purpose room where the neediest also take their meals. Surrounding this room are doors. One leads outside; the others lead into the bedrooms. Sometimes two to a room; sometimes four. Rarely alone. And usually when that happens it’s because someone has died. Few ever leave alive. If there is such a thing as the end of the line, this is it. He lives in a state-run medical facility for the indigent called the Inverness Community Care Center. What a word, indigent; like “mendicant.” Short for nothing, nada, zero. Busted. Like the song says, “Empty pockets don’t ever make the grade.” Nothing in the place can be said to “make the grade.” The walls are light yellow. The linoleum is light yellow. The outfits worn by the CNAs are light yellow, too. Everything is light yellow. When you run out of money and you have no family members to help you, this is where you end up. Next to him sits a shriveled-up husk of a man who shouts all night for the CNAs to come change him. The smells are vile. This fading man watches the movie with his mouth hanging open at a slight angle. It always hangs open this way. Off to one side sits an elderly woman who’s nuts with dementia. She constantly wants coffee and tries to pay the CNA who brings it with paper money she has made during a silly art activity. And then there’s the guy he feels sorry for the most. He’s a stump; no arms; no legs. Looks to be in his 30’s, but it’s hard to tell, on account of his styled black hair and closely trimmed black beard. His own age is 110, by far the oldest of anyone. Nobody knows his true age. Because of a typo, his thick medical file shows that he’s 95. The birthday (April 8) is right, but the year is all wrong. He doesn’t tell anyone, because they wouldn’t believe him anyway. On the news last week, the country mourned the passing of its oldest living citizen. Some woman who was 108. If only they knew about him. He was born in a dilapidated motel bathroom in northern California, outside of Eureka. There’s no record of his birth. His grandmother raised him on a farm in rural Oregon. He never went to school. He learned to somewhat read, write, and do arithmetic on his own. His grandmother was quite a disciplinarian, having once beaten him senseless for throwing away some rubber bands. But she was resourceful and convinced a friend at the local DMV to issue him a driver’s license when he was 16. Old age has caused the trail of his memory to grow cold now. Small sparks occasionally fill his head: Disjointed images of blue-green stream riffles, fly fishing for exquisite winter steelhead, guiding on big waters, exhilarating salmon fly hatches, and his favorite, the one he comes back to over and over again: Thousands of dragon flies overhead like tiny helicopters. The movie finally concludes. For some reason he begins to think about king salmon, how after spawning something within must feel different. They notice their bodies beginning to fall apart. Those majestic fish suddenly know their lives are coming to an end. He knows the same thing about his own. He also knows that he doesn’t want to die here like all the others before; he must get out of this place, if it’s the last thing he does.

TWO

Leaving was easier than I could have ever guessed. It was late and everyone was asleep. After putting on my clothes and a shabby overcoat, I watched the lone CNA from my darkened room. When he went to the bathroom, I simply walked out the side door. Stenciled on the glass were the words “WARNING. DOOR ALARMED,” yet like the world in Soylent Green, the alarm wasn’t working. As I stepped out into the cold, damp November Oregon air, I was immediately enveloped in fog. It felt good and fresh. I should have left a long time ago. I knew where I needed to go and what I wanted to do. My destination was the Rogue River, where I had been fly fishing in my mind since the day it was determined I was no longer able to care for myself and committed to this hellish living facility. “Appears dissociative at times,” a physician had written in my chart when once I appeared to be staring off into space. In fact, I was watching the water and tying on a different fly.

I headed on foot to Mike’s Cove, a small town on Highway 62 that consisted of a trailer park, a used bookstore, restaurants, a couple gas stations, one video poker room, and several bars. Nobody was getting rich, yet all were eking out a living from the year-round fishermen and summer tourists who hiked the trails and rafted the Rogue that worked its way through the center of town. My great grandson was a fishing guide there. I had outlived two wives, three children, 6 dogs, 4 cats, and at least one grandchild. I knew nothing about the whereabouts of my other grandchildren. I no long remembered how many I had or if they were even alive. But I did know about Luke, because he would come and visit me from time to time. He would show me photos of steelhead and salmon he caught and the new flies he tied. He always wanted to know how I was doing, and he wanted to hear my stories about odd jobs: Human scarecrow, where I chased crows away from corn fields, spawning salmon counter for the Department of Fish and Game, short-order cook, window washer, and bouncer. Most of all he liked hearing my tales as a fishing guide. “Tell me another, Grandpa,” he would say. And of course, I did. “All my fishing stories are true,” I said, “even those that aren’t.” He’d laugh and then I’d tell another. It was always the same.

Although the chances of those idiots at Inverness moving with urgency once they noticed my absence would be slim, they wouldn’t be zero. Normally, they would first check the facility and grounds. Next, they would call the sheriff. In the past I watched the deputies bring back some decrepit looking soul, clad only in pajama bottoms. They would also call the local hospital, and after that look in my admission records for emergency contacts. None would be found. A neon pink sticky note would be added by some numb-nutted CNA: “UPDATE ASAP. NEED EMERGENCY CONTACT.” And of course, no one would ever follow up. I walked all night and ducked off to the side of the road whenever I saw a car.

THREE

I don’t know how it got its name, but there was nothing about the Swiss Chalet diner that was Swiss. Not the menu, not the wall decorations, not the uniforms worn by the waitresses, which were nothing more than a pair of jeans and a light blue t-shirt that said Swiss Chalet. When I finally reached Mike’s Cove it was around 6:00 am. Once in town, only the Swiss Chalet showed signs of life with a few cars parked in the parking lot. Taking up two spaces off to the side, but within view from inside, was Luke’s beige Dodge Ram 1500. Trailered on the back was his dark green McKenzie drift boat. On the side of the boat were the words, “Steelhead Dreams Outfitters.” That was Luke’s company. He had no employees and worked every day he could taking “clients,” as he called them, for guided trips ranging from 4 to 8 hours. I was in luck. I was one step closer to what I wanted to do…what I needed to do.

No one looked up as I entered. Each to his own, drinking coffee, eating eggs, and thinking about the day ahead that made no promises. In Mike’s Cove people didn’t think about global affairs, crime in Omaha, or the New York Stock Exchange. They simply wanted to live and live simply. Don’t bother me, and I won’t bother you. It was the type of life that many people from the big cities said they yearned for, but truth be told, it probably wouldn’t have suited them. The cell service was spotty, with most still having landlines. There was no local paper, and for those who could afford Wi-Fi, it wasn’t all that reliable. Put another way, if you didn’t include outdoor recreation, there wasn’t much to do.

The seating had an L-shaped configuration. Off to the right in the back sat Luke, talking animatedly to two middle-aged clients. Guiding was a hard business to make a buck. Often the people you took had poor fishing skills whether using a flyrod or spinning tackle. Plus, there was the weather. Many didn’t like to fish in the fall and winter months, which were great times for steelhead. There was also rain and snow to worry about. Not only because of discomfort, but continual rain and snow raised the water level in the river. The water, which turned the color of chocolate milk, simply flowed too fast to catch fish. “The river is blown out today,” guides would say. “Can’t fish.” Ironically, money making opportunities dried up when the water level rose. But what made guiding steelhead trips especially challenging was that under the best conditions, catching a steelhead was hard. Some call it the fish of a thousand casts. I’ve never kept track like that, so I’ll just say this: If I hooked and landed a single steelhead in a day, I considered that a successful trip. Any experienced steelheader will tell you the same thing.

As I walked toward his table, Luke looked up and paused mid-sentence. You know how you only see certain people in certain places, and when you see them somewhere else, you’re momentarily confused? Not sure who they are? “Context is everything,” the occupational therapist told me once when we were discussing my memory lapses. Maybe. Or the start of dementia. Dementia, though, didn’t explain Luke’s sudden surprise. He had only seen me at Inverness, lying in a bed or sitting in a chair. He couldn’t believe what his eyes were telling him: That his great grandpa was in the Swiss Chalet and walking toward his table.

What came out of Luke’s mouth wasn’t, “Grandpa!” It was “Grandpa?”

I stopped and smiled at him.

“Great Grandpa?” He still wasn’t having it.

“The same,” I said.

Luke got up, then hugged and lifted me up on my toes. I felt my back crack.

“Easy, young man,” I said. “I’m old.” Luke was about 6’2” and weighed about two hundred pounds. He was solid muscle. He also had a heart of gold. In all my years on earth, I can say without hesitation that Luke was the kindest person I ever met.

“How?” he started to say. “What happened? How’d you get here?”

“Shhh,” I hissed. “Don’t worry about that.”

“Wait! Did you run away?” Luke began to half-laugh.

“We’ll talk later,” I said. “I need you to outfit me and drop me off at the Durango Bucket.” I knew Luke carried extra waders, dry clothes, rods, and flies in his boat.

Luke walked over to his clients and told them he’d be right back. He then took me outside and over to his boat, where he provided me with all the gear I needed to spend the day fly fishing for steelhead on the Rogue River.

“They’re going to catch up to you, you know?” Luke warned. “They know I visit you, the sheriff knows everyone in these parts, and this will probably be the first place they come looking.”

“I’ll need some water and some snacks, too. Got any jerky?”

“You heard what I said, right?” he said after spinning me around.

“If they come asking you for information, tell ‘em to get screwed. And use an F.”

FOUR

As I got into the front with Luke, it occurred to me that if it were possible to read the minds of his clients in the backseat of the Ram, it might go something like this: Client One: Why’s he bringing that old man? Client Two Shrugs: I thought it was just going to be us.

Most of their questions were answered by Luke on the way to the stretch of river below the dam. The two clients listened and sat quietly in the back. When Luke told them my age, I’m sure at that moment they began to wonder if they should have chosen a different guide. Catching steelhead cures all, though, and if they caught a few none of this would matter. It would be just a page in their memories. A funny tidbit to tell their friends, as they recounted their adventure of catching steelhead on the Rogue River. Steelhead on a fly, that is.

When we arrived at the river, Luke turned to his clients, “This will only take a minute,” he said.

We both exited the truck. “Tight lines,” I said, without looking back.

“Good luck,” one of them tentatively answered back.

I came around to his side and he handed me a pair of waders, rod, reel, and a vest stuffed with everything I needed, including the jerky.

“What’s this?” I said lifting the rod and reel. It was Luke’s Sage RPLXi three-piece eight-weight and Tibor Everglades reel.

“You know, Grampa, we’ve talked fishing and swapped lies, but we’ve never fished together. I would feel honored if you used my rig. It’s never let me down.”

“None of my stories were lies,” I said. “But thank you, Luke.” His eyes teared up and so did mine as he hugged me.

“I’ll be waiting for you later down river where Anna’s Creek comes in.” Luke then threw me one of his Steelhead Dreams Outfitters ballcaps.

“And remember, you never saw me.”

“Saw who?” he said, smiling.

I watched for a minute as Luke pulled out of the lot. It was a beautiful misty morning with the sun starting to peek through the scattered clouds that were still hanging just above the water. I sat for a few minutes on a rickety bench and simply watched. A great blue heron was perched on a partially submerged rock across the river. Floating in the water near the shore on my side was a family of Mallards with a couple Goldeneyes not far away. Downstream, Wigeons were bobbing up and down in the middle of the first riffle I wanted to fish. They were trying to catch small fish. And if there were small fish, the chances were good that there’d also be steelhead.

FIVE

And there were!

Within 10 minutes of wading to a spot just above a seam to the right of the riffle, I had a nice one on using a bead-head brown stonefly nymph, tied off a pink salmon egg imitation, both drifting about 8 feet below a bright orange yarn strike indicator. It was about a 5-pound summer buck that instantly did a full-body jump upon feeling the hook set. After splashing down, the steelhead took off downstream, but not so far that it went into my backing. A couple more jumps, another run, and I gently pulled the beautiful creature close enough to remove the fly from its upper jaw without touching it anywhere else. In the water the steelhead appeared like an expensive piece of jewelry with its bright red stripe along the midline, the black spots scattered about its silver body, and the dazzling red gill plate. I noticed, too, that the adipose fin had not been clipped, which meant it was a native fish.

I fished that spot for about another half-hour before deciding to continue to wade downstream to the next riffle. It was slow-going, moving around the mossy granite boulders of varying sizes. Not having a wading stick caused me to use extra caution, as I didn’t want to slip and fall. My bones were old, and I knew a fall could result in something getting broken, like my head. Then what? Wait for Luke to find me? Drown? No, I would go slow. I had all day, and it looked like I had the river all to myself.

At the next riffle, my fly kept getting hung up on underwater vegetation, which was a shame because the spot looked fishy with a giant oak providing shade over the area of my drift. After bringing in each cast, I had to clean green slime off the fly. Steelhead are smart. They’re cautious, too. If a fly drifting downstream is covered in moss, a steelhead will ignore it. They have a very refined sense of what is real and what is fake. In fly fishing there’s much talk about fly presentation. And it’s more than talk. It’s the truth. You want to match the hatch as best you can. That’s what explains how sometimes when you change flies, you get a take right away. It’s not luck. It’s strategy paying off.

So, I moved on to a long and wide stretch of water that was moving very fast, but not so fast that it should be skipped over. Rather than drift my fly as I did upstream, I removed the indicator, made as long a cast as I could, and let the two flies swing naturally through the current while I shuffled along. When you’re as old as I am your mind tends to wander: walking away from Inverness, finding Luke, the two fishermen in the back seat, the beautiful young woman who taught arts and…WHAM. The steelhead hit so hard that it about yanked the rod out of my hands.

Although I snapped out of my daydream fast enough to raise my rod and set the hook, somehow, I had managed to wade out too far from my comfort zone. The fast water was up around my waist creating resistance as if I were a big rock. I kept the rod up high to not give the steelhead any slack and slowly eased my way to the sandy shore. What happened next was a rarity in steelhead fly fishing. Rather than getting into the current and racing downstream, this steelhead first swam toward me, which created instant slack in the line. As I was quickly reeling up the slack, the steelhead then turned and bolted up stream. I followed along as quickly as I could, while continuing to use the strong backbone of Luke’s Sage rod to bring it toward me. After each upward pull, I would reel up line while also lowering the rod. This was a very strong fish and had it decided to turn and run downstream, I’m not sure I could have kept it on. Finally, I maneuvered it into shin-deep water, knelt down and eased the fly from its partially hooked jaw. Unlike the last, this summer steelhead had two crimson strips down each side, accentuated by black spots of varying sizes. Its back was a thick palate of black and olive. Once again, a buck, probably about 7 pounds. And once again, a native.

Luke knew when I asked him to drop me at the Durango Bucket that I wanted to start at a place upstream of the depression. The idea being to quietly wade down to the shallow water, just above where the water started to deepen, so as not to announce my presence. Entering from the shore can spook the steelhead loitering in the bucket, and when one goes, they all go.

Every fisherman who ever fished this part of the river knew all about the Durango Bucket. It had an oblong shape that went on for about 100 feet, with the widest part being about twenty feet. The Department of Fish and Game claimed once the deepest point of the Bucket was 18 feet. Before starting I changed flies and tied on an additional three feet of tippet. Rather than using two flies, I opted for a large weighted black stonefly. Just about a foot above the fly I squeezed on several small split shot. To catch a steelhead in the Durango Bucket you had to get your fly down to the bottom where they hung out. Unlike other parts of the Rogue, these steelhead never seemed to be interested in bugs floating on or below the surface. Experience teaches you steelhead set the rules.

After about a half-hour of swinging my fly through all parts of the Bucket I was beginning to wonder if any steelhead were present down there. Nearby in a tree, I could hear a Belted Kingfisher making judgments and carrying on a conversation with other winged citizens in the surrounding trees. No doubt, they all knew each other. I decided to make two more casts and then continue downstream. The fly had no sooner entered the water and sank to the bottom, when my line stopped. I gently pulled up on the rod thinking the split shot had become stuck under a deep rock. Nothing happened. Thinking it was hung-up for sure, I gave another pull with my rod, only this time much harder.

I thought wrong. Within seconds the line flew off my reel so fast the out signal of the Tibor made a whirring sound as if it were some kind of high-speed industrial gear. I looked down to adjust the drag just as the backing followed the last of the fly line through the top eye of the rod. I made a slight adjustment to the drag and then the fight was on. My first thought was I had hooked a salmon, king or coho. But when it rolled and dove, I could see enough of its chrome body to see that it was not a salmon. I had on the biggest summer steelhead of my life. It looked like about a 15-pound hen.

“Take it easy,” I said to myself. My heart was pounding harder and harder, and I knew I needed to get to the shore to move downstream with her, or I would lose this magnificent creature for sure. I kept my rod up high with as much drag tension as I thought the 12-pound leader could stand. They say when you’re fighting a big fish, only put your other hand on the reel when you’re going to reel. By the time I made it to ankle-deep water, the massive steelhead had run across the river to the far bank. You know how you can tell if you have a big fish on? By the head shake. With a big fish there isn’t one, only relentless and indefatigable pulling power.

I moved downstream with this firetruck being careful of the slippery rocks underfoot. My hands were cramping and my lower back felt like someone had stabbed me with a butcher knife. Each time I would pull up on the rod and reel down, the steelhead would take off like a torpedo. It jumped, then it rolled, then it jumped some more. I held on. No matter what I did I could not gain ground. You would think after 20 minutes the fish would have begun to tire, but the only one getting tired was me. I could feel my pulse in my temples. Breathing was becoming difficult. To cool my head, I reached down into the cold water and wiped my wet hand across my face. The steelhead then decided to change tactics. On a dime it turned away from the far bank and rocketed upstream. As it passed where I was standing it performed an acrobatic jump completely out of the water. My vision was starting to blur. I needed to rest for a minute, so I worked my way over to a rock and sat with the pulsating rod tucked under my arm.

I cannot explain what happened next, simply because it had never happened before. I moved from the rock and sat down in the water. As I did so, the steelhead suddenly gave up the fight. Slowly, it made its way into the shallows and stopped next to my leg. Its size was breathtaking, and I told it so. I reached down and placed the palm of my hand on its muscular back. My touch didn’t scare it. The steelhead continued to gracefully move its powerful tail lazily from side to side. I was about to remove the fly when I noticed it was no longer in its jaw. I reeled up my slack line and together we enjoyed a moment in the morning sun that no one would ever believe.

SIX

Luke is the one who found him lying on his side, still clutching the Sage RPLXi 8 weight. His arm was under his head as if using it for a pillow while taking a nap. And that’s exactly how it looked, like he was taking a nap in the cool water of the Rogue River. Luke knew his great grandpa was gone. He called the Sheriff’s Office on his cell phone, and the dispatcher directed him to stay with the body and not move it. The sheriff arrived with lights and sirens, along with several of his deputies. They strung yellow DO NOT CROSS tape around the area, and the only one allowed inside the protected zone was the county coroner. Once it was determined that there was no apparent foul play, Luke was let inside the perimeter. As they were lifting his grandpa out of the water, Luke picked up his fly rod, which by then was lying on the sandy bottom. Luke started to reel in the line when he felt a tremendous weight that was suddenly starting to pull back. But at that point, the fight was minimal, and the fish came in peacefully. The sheriff, the deputies, and even the coroner stopped what they were doing and watched in disbelief. Once the fish was in shallow water, Luke handed his rod to one of the deputies and waded in. Luke, an experienced guide and outfitter, stood in place shaking his head from side to side in disbelief. It was the biggest steelhead he had ever seen in the river. Equally surprising, it wasn’t a summer fish, it was a winter steelhead. The winter fish weren’t normally due for another few weeks, but this winter was early. Luke lifted its considerable body out of the water just long enough for everyone to see. He removed the hook and placed the fish back under water. After a slight push, the mighty winter steelhead slowly moved forward, before disappearing into the depths of the Durango Bucket.

Neil H. Schott

Reno, Nevada

August 20 in 2025

*Cover art by Neil H. Schott