More Tales from UpCreek
More Tales from UpCreek
My old shack looks east into the mountains and across the river where two or three fishing cabins still sit perched on the bank. Last year’s spring melt after a week of unseasonably warm weather and heavy rains turned the river into a rage that ate at the banks across from me and finally, one afternoon, sloughed off one of the cabins, Harry Watson’s, a Seattle attorney who’d come here since before me, and sent it into a log strewn Waring blender where I watched it go over sideways, hesitate a minute or so, then collapse in on itself. The boarded up windows turned beseechingly toward the sky, the front door popped off its hinges, the roof tore away in two parts and Harry’s cabin set sail briefly before sinking from view. It was a sobering sight to behold.
Harry came up to inspect for damage a few days later and I drove around, took the bridge and found him staring at the gash where his house had sat for 50 years. ‘I’m real sorry about this, Hank,” I said when I came up beside him standing over what must have seemed like an open grave. “Lot of memories in that old cabin,” he muttered mournfully.
I tried to console him, of course, said hey, you’ll rebuild another one, a better one, but we both knew the county would never grant a building permit that close to the river now. 1960, sure, go ahead, what’s it to us? Your loss if the river eats it and who cares where the outhouse drains? It all washes out to sea so let the Down River folks in the next county worry about septic overflow. We’re UpCreek people and maybe that’s what gives us an Uppity Attitude. But times change, not as fast as the river, but they change.
Trouble is, Harry’s no spring chicken. My guess is Harry’s fishing days are pretty much over. I just hope it’s only the fishing that’s ended for him. I sure don’t need to see another obit photo with a guy and his damn big fish he caught 30 years ago.
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