The Toyota rambled downhill towards Lake Superior, passing rutted cherry stem two-tracks that dissected the U.P. forest like rogue arteries. There weren’t many places without some kind of logging road or ATV route. Most of the wilderness had long been hacked out of the landscape, or at least as it was defined by the U.S. Forest Service. Real wilderness didn’t have roads. Oh, a few places remained and Matt knew them well. They were a rugged drive from the shack, but he did visit them. The granite knobs and ridges of the Huron Mountains visible from the orchard was one such place. Today he was heading in the opposite direction, away from the Hurons and down to the mouth of the Black River where he’d try his luck fly fishing. The Black was a clear trout stream that flowed at a ridiculous pitch from the Hurons into Lake Superior. The river bordered the eastern boundary of the shack property, but this was far above the barrier falls that prevented the salmon from swimming upstream. The salmon had no choice but to gather downstream of the craggy thirty-foot drop. Below the falls swirled an impressive pool surrounded on three sides by moss-covered cliffs. The cliffs towered over the falls and were dotted with the occasional stout hemlock that had managed to survive the axe. The slate streambed made it slick and dangerous to walk, and jagged rows of slate spiked from the water like the plates on a stegosaurus. Large slot channels ran on for fifty feet in some places.

Matt dreamed of this place often.

Sometimes the landscape details were foggy. Other times everything cleared, enough to see drops of moisture beading on the bright green moss. Sometimes the people he cared about appeared, often standing knee-deep in the pool below Black Falls. He’d call out to them, but they wouldn’t speak. His mother and father. Stacey. His sister. Friends from high school.

At last he reached Highway 5 and turned right, passing over the Black River, clear water spilling out of the woodland and glinting in the sun. A hundred yards down Highway 5 brought him to a dirt parking lot on the right side of the road.

Matt got out of the truck, pressed the lever behind the seat, and took the nylon tube which held his four-piece fly rod. He put on his tan fishing vest, reached into the front right pocket, and pulled out his silver fly reel. The rod was a gift from Stacey for a trip to Montana. Matt squeezed the case and fought back the images of her.

He slid the burgundy fly rod from the case, relishing the craftsmanship. He set the reel to the rod seat and then attached the other sections of the rod—each one smaller and lighter than the last. The simplicity pleased him. It was nice to not be obsessing on depressing things.