“Knock, knock, knock, wake up.” I sit up stunned and look at Dad.
On the other side of the door is Manny, “Do you guys want to go fishing?”
“Yeah, we want to go.” Dad rubs his eyes.
In minutes I’m following Dad and Jackie out the door to get the fishing stuff we brought in the van. All of us are eager about going and Neewa senses our excitement.
We start out in our van with Manny leading the way in his car. Our destination is the other side of the mountain about twenty minutes away near a small pond on the reserve.
After the bumpy dusty ride we arrive, park our van, and get into Manny’s car.
“Dad, why are we leaving our van way out here?” I am puzzled.
Steve, sitting in the front seat, turns around. “We are going to fish our way up the stream to this pond. It will take about three hours. When we get here, we will be tired and hungry. Instead of walking all the way back to where we started, we can drive your van back to our car.”
Manny drives us all back to the starting point on the stream, the sun is now up for almost an hour. With fishing gear in hand, we walk a narrow path to the water’s edge. There we all get ourselves organized and ready to go.
We are standing in an oasis of green before swirling water with desert all around it. Before me is crystal clean water meandering slowly through the flatlands. In the distance is a mountain, a blue vein of bubbling white water raging down the middle. On one side are gray beige rock outcrops. On the other side of the stream has hundreds of meters of low-lying lime colored fertile farming pasture, surrounded by olive scrub pine and golden aspen trees shimmering in the dry breeze. Close to the stream are emerald stemmed cattails, and wildflowers nestled in swaying light brown grasses.
Neewa runs downstream, sprinting at full gallop, splashing water all over. Exiting, she vanishes in the tall hay about to be harvested, then reappears on a small hill above stream and fields.
We start out hiking at the widest section of the stream. That’s when I do something I’ve never done before. I wade through the chilling stream in sneakers and jeans. My body shivers as I adjust to the flowing tributary of frosty whirlpools and eddies.
We begin casting our lines upstream. Using homemade flies called woolly worms, we cast ahead and let the bait drift in the calm water.
As we walk, applying our fishing technique, the current lazily meanders around us, giving off cool breezes and glistening sunlight.
Next we enter swift-moving white water running over rock stepping-stones. Cascading water fills a series of pools between the rocky cliffs growing narrower, rising before us. Each pond of calm, undisturbed, blue-green water empties with each passing moment. Carefully, I cast my line into the next swirling pool to tempt my prey.
Silently I cast my bait and amble along the edge of this larger eddy. Standing at its shallow edge, I make multiple casts to lure my quarry. Gently I lift and lower my feet, careful not to disturb the pebbles that anchor the fine silt to the streambed.
Neewa follows our every move, and then darts by our fishing party to lead the way. I throw a biscuit to her and she catches it, chews, and swallows it down in seconds.
“Good girl,” I yank her close to me, but she pulls away.
Gently she wades into the stream and laps at the foaming bubbles passing by. With her nose just above the surface, she tilts her head and stares into the water. Her white paws are visible against the dark dirt bottom. After a few moments she jumps out, shaking the beaded water from her ivory coat.
We fish pool after bright, shimmering pool. Tired from the short night and long morning, I sit for a moment and stare into moving waterway.
It’s continually changing, never the same. Flowing from the mountains through the desert to who knows where, or how far its long journey to the ocean.
Dad and Jackie join me on the bank of the stream.
Dad says, “Fishing on a reserve for non-Indians is pretty much against the law and punishable by death.”
Dad asks Manny, “What ever happened to the last guys from the city that fished here?”
Manny replies, “Oh they were hung up on a tree and gutted like deer, their dogs too.”
Dad purposely did not bring his fishing pole. He already knows about the history of Whites stealing and taking just about everything from the Indians.
Manny’s kids invited us to go fishing. Just us kids have fishing poles and that is supposed to be okay?
We are fishing for native trout, really big ones, on Native American land. It’s fun fishing in this special place that Manny and his kids know. This land is sacred to them.
Rest time is over and we continue up the canal.
I become concerned about Neewa as I haven’t seen or heard from her in a while.
To get a better vantage point, I climb to the top of the ravine and position myself facing away from the fishing party below. I am far enough away and above everyone, so I can yell for her without scaring the fish.
Shouting out into the desert, “Neewa, Neewa, Neewa.”
I wait for her to answer.
Again I holler, “Neewa come, Neewa come,” but nothing yet.
After a few minutes I hear her bark, and it isn’t long before she runs to me at full stride, stopping in front of me for a pat on the head. We are perched on a cliff looking down at the stream; both of us lean forward to gingerly gaze over the edge.
Carefully we climb down past rocks and brush, returning to the stream.
“You stay with us now Neewa, enough running off into the wilderness, no more,” I order.
As I hike and fish, Manny and his kids tell us Indian legends. First Steve tells the story of “A Man and His Three Dogs.” It is about a wolf that tries to become a human being, pretty cool. Next Manny tells us the legend of “The White Trail In The Sky.” This story is about a bear that takes another bear’s prey, and then the bear follows the Milky Way in the sky. Very cool ending.
We are in a narrow part of the stream. It is only about five or ten feet in width. Sheer canyon walls tower above us on both sides. Around us the steep, rocky cliffs allow a thin sliver of light down to the water’s edge.
Slowly, one by one we wade into the freezing water. Waist high, I push tall reeds to either side as I pass through, slipping by the curtain-like wall of cattails anchored to the gravel bottom.
Looking to either side of me, I stare at Indians naked from the waist up. Their long dark hair hangs down to their muscular shoulders. Handsome stoic profiles glide above the water like spirits suspended in time. They are at home here, like their fathers and their father’s fathers, moving effortlessly through the water as if propelled by magic. They don’t even look human.
With chattering teeth Dad remarks, “Manny, I should have brought waders?”
Manny replies looking at us, his expression serious, almost aghast, “Indians don’t wear waders.”
As we reach the other side of the gorge the stream widens again. The rock walls open up allowing the warming sun on my face and arms. The narrow grotto behind us, we walk on smooth stone banks surrounded by grasses with jagged rock just beyond.
I look up and see Neewa staring over the edge spying on us. I didn’t even hear her sneak away.
Balanced on the rim of the gorge she barks, “Roof, roof, roof.”
“Shush,” I whisper. “Good girl, Neewa.”
After watching us for a while, she turns and vanishes.
From down here by the stream, the sheer rock walls rise over me like skyscrapers. I jerk backward and look up wobbling, the rock appearing to be right over my head.
A tiny ribbon of water tumbles downward. The little waterfall cascades down smashing against the rocks. Glistening in the sunlight, the droplets glide toward me in slow motion, splashing on and around my feet, then trickle into the stream.
We have caught a half dozen Speckled Trout and finally reach the last pond. I have no desire to fish anymore, although everyone else is trying to catch just one more.
After some shouting back and forth we decide we are hungry, tired, and ready to leave. I’m so relieved as I walk straight to our van. It looks like a million bucks sitting there, right where we left it a few hours ago. This is a lot better than walking all the way back to where we started.
My clothes are dripping wet, I’m cold, starving, and tired. Finally, we are at the end of our fishing trip. I drip-dry for a while as I pack my stuff. I’m thinking about being warm and dry and having something to eat.
Just then Neewa comes running at full gallop and circles me, thumping my shins with her wagging tail, begging to be petted.
Steve is cleaning fish at the water’s edge. Neewa and I sit and watch.
“Speckled Trout don’t have scales, no need to scale them,” Steve instructs.
Neewa ogles Steve as he gathers the fish we caught today. She is begging for a taste and of course her tongue is hanging out the side. Both of us stare at Steve as he takes his hunting knife and cuts the chin of the lower jaw of each fish, creating a V-shaped flap that hangs down. Next he cuts an incision along the soft white belly from the bottom fin up to the mouth, just below the flap he just cut. With the belly opened up, the guts, stomach, and everything are exposed. Like an artist painting a picture, he clasps the hanging skin flap under the jaw in his fingers and yanks toward the tail.
“Crackle, crunch, squish,” out comes the jaw, throat, gills, intestines, stomach and everything inside, in one big clump of guts.
Tossing the innards toward the center of the pond he says, “Gutted, done, the turtles will eat that.”
Smiling proudly he dips the limp carcass in the water, “Shake it around under the water and this fish is ready for the frying pan.”
Steve cleans and rinses each of the fish caught, rubbing out any blood or other remains stuck inside. Turning to me as I hold a plastic bag open, he puts the cleaned fish in one by one, saving one in his hand.
Looking at Neewa he asks, “Hey, what is that pink thing hanging out of her mouth?”
I reply, “That’s her tongue. She lost some teeth when she had distemper as a puppy. Now her tongue hangs out the gap left by the missing teeth.”
Steve cuts a little piece of sushi filet off the fish and throws it at her. Neewa catches it in her mouth and swallows it down in one gulp. I doubt if she even chewed it at all. She stares at him for more, but we get up and head for the van.
We all gather around, packing up everything. Dad, Manny, and Steve are guessing the weight of each fish. The rest of us are talking about where each fish was caught and who caught it.
My clothes are wet, and when a cloud blocks the sun, I start to shiver. I rummage through the trunk for my sweatshirt and coat and put them on over the top of my wet stuff.
That’s when I heard it. It came out of nowhere. Clear as a church bell on a Sunday morning.