Matt bolted up and away from his flannel. When he was a few feet away, a little brown head poked out of the shirt. The fisher stared at him and sniffed the air. After a good whiff, the fisher shot out of the flannel. Wasting no time, it streaked through the understory, visible for a moment as a long sleek band of dark brown. The last he heard of it was a jubilant chittering from deep within the trees.

Elated, Matt retrieved his flannel and gave it a few good shakes. Then he took the screwdriver, walked over to the tree, and pried the nail out. Next he gathered the trap chain into a coil and threw it over his shoulder.

Yeah, you can get a new nail, too, asshole, he thought as he pocketed the nail.

The fishing on the Silver had been terrible. Matt wondered if the cold front had put the fish down. The bad news was that cold fronts up here had a reputation for lasting weeks. He could extend his trip if he wanted to. His boss—James McAdams—had always given him shit for not taking enough vacation. And as he knew, the trout waited for no one. They were always a challenge. But they’d become more of a challenge the last fifteen years. With the silted streams, warmer temps, and lower water flows, they’d become very difficult to catch indeed.

Once, while snorkeling a pool in the Black as a kid he saw them in their own world, spotted and beautiful, darting through the water like flashing cutlery. Some of them pecked at his feet, their little trout lips nipping his skin like sandy marbles.

Dusk cast its pall across the Northwoods. White-tailed deer appeared on the side of Julip Road, chewing on fescue sedge and parasol sedge. High in the sky, a large-winged bird soared. A bald eagle. The Northwoods was a refuge for the majestic eagles when DDT had almost wiped them out. Authorities who should’ve known better had claimed DDT was safe. It was decades until everyone realized the truth: DDT was killing the eagles by weakening eggshells. It seemed to him mankind’s ability to produce chemicals far exceeded its ability to test for side effects.

He pointed the truck up the shack driveway and rolled to a stop twenty feet from the front door. The sun at last dipped behind the trees, flooding pink across the cirrus clouds.