Glengarry Glen Mykiss
THE SETTING IS the dining room of a fishing lodge in remote northern B.C. It’s early morning on a gray, drizzly day during a very slow week. Levine, one of the anglers, is talking to the head guide before the rest of the camp has come in for breakfast.
“Okay. Look,” Levine says, choosing his words, looking over his shoulder to be sure they’re alone. “The Highlands Pool, you’re sending Smith out. Fine. He’s a good man, good caster. We know what he is. All I’m saying is, you look at the board, at his catch rate.” He points at the big white board on the wall, with all the catch records for the week. “Every run you put him in, you’re throwing those runs away. Maybe he can’t handle the wade, with the higher water. That’s all I’m saying, that you’re wasting runs.”
The head guide looks down at his coffee. “You blew the last ones we put you in…”
Levine holds up both hands. “No. Wait, let’s back up here. I didn’t ‘blow’ them. No. One kicked out, jumped and threw
