When the muddy two-track met the graded Silver Road, he stopped the truck. Silver Road would take him to the pool behind Sanders’ place. Matt turned left, jamming the gas pedal just to see gravel kick out in his side-view mirror.

“Go get em, girl. Show ‘em you still have something left,” he said. His trusty truck obliged.

A half mile south along Silver Road, the blue paint of Sanders’ cottage clashed with the forest.

After hurrying into his fishing gear, Matt locked up and headed towards Sanders’ place. He didn’t want to park too close to the property. You never knew what might happen around Bob. As he hiked along the road, a gray jay chittered on a branch to his left. He paused and watched the delicate but vociferous bird. This might be the closest he’d ever gotten to one. When he reached his hand out, the gray jay chittered again and flew off, turning its head and studying him with beady black eyes as it penetrated the thick woods.

Spirits lifted by the close encounter, Matt walked the roadside opposite the house, making sure Sanders could see him from a long way off. Sanders wasn’t the kind of guy you wanted to surprise. Big time.

The porch door slid open and a young woman stood there, smiling. She was surprisingly attractive with short blonde hair, rosy cheeks, and a china doll nose. She had to be twenty years younger than Sanders, the corners of her lips always ticked up into a near smile.

“Doin’ some fishin, are ya?” she said.

Matt nodded. “You mind if I cut through to fish the Silver?”

“Nope,” she said, smiling with her eyes. “But it’s not my land, eh? It’s Bob’s land.”

Sanders appeared from behind the woman and spastically gestured to Matt. He was wearing a red Hawaiian shirt and blue jeans. Still in his fifties, Sanders was lean and well-tanned. His pepper hair was cut military style, and he sported a ridiculous handlebar moustache. And of course the classic Yooper accent. How could Matt ever forget that.

“Long time no see eh?” Sanders said. “You want something to wet the ol’ pucker? There’s Millers in the cooler. By the by, this here is Melinda.”

“Nice to meet you,” Matt said, leaning his fly rod against the wall and shaking Melinda’s petite hand.

“Come on in,” Sanders said, waving enthusiastically. “We got some snacks too, peanut butter and Ritz. You gotta be hungry, eh? Hell, stay as long as ya want. We got a real feast. There’s bear jerky, spray Cheez Whiz, although Melinda here calls it gee-whiz cause it gives me the runs so bad.”

Sanders reached out his hand and Matt shook it. The grip was too strong in a way that hinted at overcompensation.