Chase, freshly bathed and dressed in his trousers, lay on his belly across a flat rock overhanging the stream. He concentrated hard on the shimmering water below, careful not to let his shadow fall across the loyawh, trout, gliding in lazy loops beneath the surface. The fish circled the fine milkweed fiber Chase dangled in the creek, then danced close, brushing it with its fin, even nibbling at one of the worms on the slivers of bone tied along the line. But though Chase had dabbled the bait there for what seemed like time enough to grow a full beard, the trout wasn't interested. He hadn’t fished this way since he was a boy. In Hupa, they built an ehs, a dam, across the river to trap salmon, or they caught trout with a net. But his father had also shown him the Konkow way of fishing, which was useful in smaller creeks and when traveling. At least, it was supposed to be useful. At this rate, Chase was sure that, years from now, someone would find his bleached bones still lying atop this rock and that damned fish still circling around and around the line.
