The Last Run

By David Burns

The Last Run by David Burns
Coursing through the rugged mountains of Eastern Oregon is Lookingglass Creek, named after Chief Lookinglass, a little known warrior of the Nez Perce tribe. Although this book is fiction, it depicts the real-life struggle for the Northwests most precious resourcewater. Lookingglass Creek becomes the home of one of the most beautiful fighting fishthe fire-fish. Somehow, this gorgeous fish has managed to defy the rules of nature, evolving to combine the tenacity of the steelhead with the power and strength of a Chinook salmon.

Indigenous to Lookingglass Creek, the fire-fish is found nowhere else in the world. There is just a tiny population remaining, and these genes must be saved to be passed on for future generations, including those dedicated fishermen brave enough to tangle with one of these water warriors.

Recovering from a nasty divorce, the main character, Travis Rexton, returns to college to become a fisheries biologisthis true calling in life. He teams up with a young tribal member, Charlie Lookinglass. Together they vow to save this endangered fish at all cost. Little do they know, despite their expertise and degrees, the survival of the fire-fish ends up depending entirely on their little friend and fishing buddy, six-year-old Tyson Nightsky.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 26, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503588233

David Burns

Author David Burns grew up in Pendleton, Oregon, home of the famous Pendleton Round-Up. From an early age, David loved the Blue and Wallowa Mountains of Eastern Oregon and gained a passion for hunting and fishing from his father, Bruce. David graduated from the University of Oregon in business and has been a professional cabinet maker for many years. He has fought hard over the years to support wilderness areas in Northeastern Oregon. With strong support from the tribes of Eastern Oregon, this area received the official National Wilderness Status in 1984. This ensured that generations to come can hike into this gorgeous canyon and enjoy the abundant wildlife and take a chance on hooking into a huge bull or rainbow trout without the threat of logging, roads, or commercialization. The mighty Columbia River, which divides Oregon and Washington, has nine dams providing electricity to the entire Northwest. Native American tribes, commercial fishermen, sportfishermen, Fish and Game departments, the Corps of Engineers, power companies, and big agriculture continue to battle for their share of the water in the Columbia. David hopes this book will bring attention to the fact that some of our streams and rivers need to be protected so they remain the way they were created thousands of years ago.

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Copyright © 2015 by David Burns.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 08/17/2015

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CONTENTS

Chapter 1: Initiation

Chapter 2: Big Red

Chapter 3: The Party

Chapter 4: Starting Over

Chapter 5: Good News

Chapter 6: Showdown

Chapter 7: Finals

Chapter 8: A Night at Lucky’s

Chapter 9: New Job

Chapter 10: The Hatchery

Chapter 11: Strategy

Chapter 12: Council Showdown

Chapter 13: The Wenaha

Chapter 14: Up the Trail

Chapter 15: Tyson’s Return

Chapter 16: Charlie Returns

Chapter 17: Doc Bass

Chapter 18: Woesha’s Ride

Chapter 19: FIREFISH

Chapter 20: Three Years Later

Chapter 21: The Arrival

February 14, 2005

CHAPTER 1

INITIATION

D ad, when are we going to get there?

Dad turned to the eleven-year-old boy for the umpteenth time. Travis, my boy, we are five and a half minutes closer than the last time you asked me. Now listen, son, we are on the homestretch, honest. I told you this would be a long ride. You just have to hold on a little longer. Count the tamarack trees again, OK? I think you missed a couple last time. They coaxed the well-used four-by-four around another sharp bend in the narrow dirt road toward the Wenaha-Tucannon Wilderness as Travis slumped back into the seat once again.

Another half hour of driving passed when Dad announced, Now see that sign on the right up there? John Rexton pointed to a green Forest Service sign with an arrow pointing left. It was crooked and had a few bullet holes, but it was still readable. That is the final turnoff to the trailhead. It will just be a few more minutes. Dad then broke out into one of his favorite ’60s songs, as he was prone to do quite often. Hold on just a little bit longer. I love you so much and I can’t let go—no, no, no! He paused to look over at Travis, who had that confused look again. Hey, it was Alive N Kickin’—very good group, Dad said, knowing the boy had never heard of them.

Dad, you aren’t going to weird out on me again, are you?

Oh, probably, but I can’t help it, Travis. It must be the thin air up here. My brain is confused with this clean air, and my synapses are going crazy.

Oh brother, Travis exclaimed. I’m gonna tell Mom about this when we get home.

Go ahead, you traitor. Turn me in—snitch on me—tattletale. Believe me, your mother has heard it before. Sometimes she sings along too, so you are barking up the wrong tree there, dude. Remember too there, pal—your mother doesn’t fish.

Travis forgot the singing as they slowed to make the final turn. All right! Finally! This would be the boy’s first major hike into the true Oregon Wilderness. This was the real thing, not just the backyard, where he could run into the house at the first strange sound in the night. This would be the first time he would carry a real backpack and wear genuine hiking boots that laced up just like Dad’s. For more than two years, Travis had begged and pleaded to go along on one of his father’s hikes and fishing trips. Dad had been a fisheries biologist for the state of Oregon for over twelve years and had hiked most of the major trails in the wilderness areas of Oregon. After long discussions with mom and wife, Kay Rexton, it was decided that Travis might finally be ready for the challenge. Mom still had some half-serious motherly reservations, but Dad was anxious to have his son earn his place in the long line of Rexton fishermen. It would be no fun for Mom either having to stay home with a son who just sat around all weekend and whined about not going on the trip.

So this hike down the Hoodoo Trail to the Wenaha River was much more than just a fishing or camping trip. It amounted to a rite of passage, an initiation into manhood, and it was serious business. Failure here might mean another red-shirt year of waiting to become fishing buddies with Dad, and that would be unbearable. Fishing was already engrained in this kid’s blood, and he had received his first fishing rod at four years old. Most boys his age had race car drivers or basketball stars for heroes. Not Travis. He liked fighters—not prizefighters, not mixed martial arts cage fighters—but great warriors, like largemouth bass, tarpon, and steelhead. The posters on his bedroom walls were of famous fighting fish. The two trophies on his desk were won for casting competitions, not basketball or baseball championships. Trav was never going to grow big and strong enough to make the school sports teams. On the weekend, while his friends were out throwing baseballs or footballs, or lifting weights, Trav was home tying flies or casting into an inflatable swimming pool in the backyard.

Oh, wow, look at that mudhole, Trav, Dad exclaimed as he came to an abrupt halt. The boy released his seat belt and leaned forward to see what Dad had stopped for. There, clear across the single-lane dirt road, was a puddle—more like a pond—that extended completely across the track. We better get down to serious business here, son. Better turn ’em in, Trav. Anxious to get out anyway, Travis jumped at the chance to turn in the four-wheel drive hub on the right front side of the Blazer. The boy twisted with both hands until the telltale click, indicating the hub was engaged, was heard. Dad turned the driver’s side hub clockwise, completing the process of putting the front axle to work. They climbed back in, and Dad worked the transfer case, shifting the Blazer into low-range four-wheel drive. Betsy had looked forward to this part of the trip too.

Mom’s car doesn’t have these things to turn in, Dad—how come you have to do that?

Well, Mom’s car is quite a bit newer, Trav, and she likes all those fancy gadgets that I don’t need. Don’t you worry about Old Betsy, though. She is tough.

Dad hesitated before plunging into the hole. Did you bring your snorkel, bud? Dad joked. I have been through this one before after a good rain. It drops off about two feet. The senior Rexton eased the transfer case into low range, and the old Blazer crawled ahead faithfully. All four wheels powered up as the Blazer’s bumper disappeared into the quagmire. Travis had his hands braced against the dash and peeked over the hood as mud splattered up on the windshield. The Blazer was ten years old now but still in excellent condition. It had met up with challenges rougher and tougher than this one many times. She slipped around a little going through but climbed out no worse for wear. It was almost as if the old gal was looking forward to getting a workout.

No problem for old Betsy here, huh, Trav?

No problem, Dad, the boy responded, proud of old Betsy.

Man, I wonder how many people have headed off into that hole and never come out. I pulled a couple of guys out of here two years ago. They had a little two-wheel-drive pickup that almost disappeared when they drove into that thing. When I pulled up, they were both sitting on the hood, wondering what to do next. If I hadn’t come along, they would have had a ten-mile walk back to the ranger station. I bet they don’t try that again soon.

Old Betsy can do it, huh, Dad?

My rig’s a little old, but that don’t mean she’s slow, Dad half sang from the old ’60s song "Six Days On the Road" by Dave Dudley. She loves these old roads as much as I do. Actually, this is really more of a trail than a road, I guess. These potholes keep a lot of people out of these good fishing spots, and that’s fine with me. We don’t get any motorcycles down here anymore either, son. They used to tear up the trail pretty badly, but you can’t take any motorized vehicle in here at all now that it’s a wilderness area. You gotta work hard to get to these fish either by foot or by horseback, and that’s just the way it oughta be too. Dad patted the dash as he would a good lab who had just returned a widgeon from a landing area across the river. He looked over at the boy and said, If it was easy, it would be no fun.

Dad pulled up to the big wooden sign at the trailhead and made the announcement Travis had waited over three hours to hear, My boy—we are there, the end of the road, and the beginning of the trail! Let’s get out of the car and get onto the trail. These boots were made for walking!

Awesome, Dad, let’s get going! Travis jumped out and ran to look down at the canyon. He swallowed hard, as it was a lot further to the bottom than he had imagined. There was a thin silver streak at the bottom that was the Wenaha River. Wow was all he could muster.

Dad spent a few minutes cinching up straps on the new backpack he had bought for Travis. This was the real thing—not the fanny pack or small day pack for books at school. There were pockets everywhere, and Trav had something stuffed in every one of them. The heavy items would be left to Dad, but Trav had to earn his stripes and would pack his share of the gear.

Just one more time now, son. Let’s go over the checklist once again. You have your break down rod and the reel I bought you, sleeping bag, clothes, the lures I gave you, canteen, socks—did you remember the new socks for sure?

Got ’em, Dad. Mom put them in this side pocket. I have everything you put on my list.

I hope you don’t have too much more than that, right? No maple bars, pop, cupcakes, or any of that junk, right?

Right, Dad. I just have two candy bars, but you said that would be OK, remember?

That’s fine, son, as long as I get one of them. We just don’t want anything else unless it is essential. That is one of the first rules of backpacking—make it small, light, and essential. Dad hesitated a moment to appreciate the glorious spectacle that awaited them. Now take a look at that canyon, son. Isn’t that a wonderful sight? That old river has worked for millions of years to carve that canyon one grain of rock at a time. Look way down the river there. You see that big bend? That is one of my favorite holes. I have snagged some mighty big dollies in that spot. Old Mother Nature worked overtime when she made this canyon, son.

It’s awesome, Dad. That river must really be old. I don’t think I have ever seen anything as beautiful in my whole life. The two stood silent for a few moments, soaking up the splendor of the Wenaha Canyon.

You hear that sound, Trav? Dad cupped his hand to his ear.

I don’t hear anything, Dad, the boy replied.

"That’s what I mean, son. Sounds great, doesn’t it? No cell phones, no video games, no texting, no traffic—this is the real thing here, my boy.

OK, fishing partner, let’s hit the road. It is probably going to be a little slick here and there because of all the rain we have had up here lately. Looks like we might even get a little more precip on the way down too. Try to stay on the inside of the trail so you don’t take a tumble and beat me to the bottom.

Trav cringed a little at that statement, as he could see the trail left little margin for error in spots. The trail looked like a very long, narrow snake, winding back and forth down the steep mountainside. No, they were definitely not the backyard anymore.

The two hikers hadn’t reached the second switchback when the clouds rolled in and began to sprinkle a little moisture on them. The faucet opened even more as they continued, but there was no turning back now. It didn’t take long for the trail to get downright slick. The soil along the trail turned quickly to muck that clung to boots, like quick-setting concrete. This added a few pounds to Travis’s already heavy load, and he had to stop occasionally to scrape mud off on a rock. Dad had to gear down on this trip from his normal pace to accommodate the younger fisherman. Dad was used to hiking these trails alone, where there was no one to slow him down. This would be a test for Dad as well. He tried hard to slow himself down to the boy’s slower pace, but, once in a while, he would find himself waiting at one of the fourteen switchbacks.

Travis finally stumbled up to the fourth switchback. Let’s take the pack off for a few minutes, Trav. We might want to reorganize your load here a little to make sure everything is balanced. How you doin’ anyway, son?

OK, Dad, but that mud is like glue. I kick it off, and it’s back on my boots in two minutes.

I know. It’s pretty sticky. This soil is actually more clay than dirt. Once it gets wet, it is nasty stuff. Dad looked up at the sky and studied it a little. I think it is just passing over us, Trav. The weather report said occasional showers that would stop by midday. I think it is going to stop here pretty quickly. Dad redistributed some things in Travis’s pack. He dug into the main compartment of the pack and retrieved a lightweight rain jacket. Better put this on in case the rain decides to keep it up for a while.

Travis slipped into the jacket, then sat back down and untied the new boots. Hey, you are doing fine there, partner. How do the boots feel so far?

OK. He lied. Actually, there were sore spots on both heels by now because the new boots had only been worn a couple of times at home before the big trip. Travis didn’t dare say anything was wrong because he didn’t want Dad to be upset or call off the hike. He would just have to grit his teeth and struggle to the bottom. It felt good to get his hot feet out in the cool air as he readjusted the two pairs of socks he had on. They had wrinkled up badly, and it was nice to stretch them back out smooth again. He rubbed his heels and felt a couple of sore spots on both sides.

Dad noticed him rubbing the heels and reached into a small side pocket of his pack. He came out with a sheet of thin padding with a sticky side and some scissors. Let’s take a look at those heels, son. It might be good to stick a little of this stuff on them just in case. He cut off two three-fourth-inch-by-one-and-a-half-inch pieces, pulled off the protective paper, and carefully stuck them onto the red spots.

There, that will help. Trav retied the boots and got to his feet. Dad hoisted the pack up so he could slide into the shoulder straps. The smooth socks and the padding brought immediate relief to the boy’s feet. Trav was relieved and felt like he might just make it to the bottom now after all. The rain sounded like corn popping as it pelted his new rain jacket. He did a few dance steps now and then, trying to maintain his footing. More than once he shot a nervous glance off to his side that reminded him of the steep drop-off to the jagged cliffs below. A fall here would really ruin a guy’s day. That would be a shortcut not worth taking.

His quick and steady gait caused Travis to have to run a few steps every twenty or thirty yards to try to keep up. Once in a while, Trav would quickly drag a boot over a sharp rock, trying to scrape off more mud.

Travis did another of his many catch-up runs and was again right behind Dad. Without meaning to, Dad sent a big lodge pole limb back at the boy as John powered through an overgrown stretch of trail. The limb smacked Travis across the chest, taking the wind of out him and drenching him with rainwater. It was like a cold shower that rinsed off all the accumulated mud on his raincoat. He hesitated for a moment, caught his breath, and then forged on. Once in a while, he would reach behind him and shift the pack a little to give his back momentary relief from the extra weight on his back. The mud didn’t seem to slow down his dad, who plodded through the muck as if he had geared down into four-wheel drive. John came to full stop at the next switchback. There was a large section of tree trunk that had been held down with cables to mark the start of the change in direction. It was a good place to stop. Dad lifted off his pack, set it on the tree trunk, and reached in the pack to pull out a water bottle. He handed it to his son, who eagerly guzzled away. It seemed a little odd to be so thirsty, while thousands of gallons of water were coming down and running all over him, but it still tasted mighty good.

Dad looked at his waterproof watch. He had started the timer just as they stepped onto the trail.

Just fifty-five minutes from the top. That is actually pretty good for all the rain and your blisters and all. Just a couple of more switchbacks, son, Dad assured him. You still OK? You’re doin’ great! I think we hit it just right too. The river looks good: hasn’t muddied up at all. It has to rain a lot more than this to muddy up the Wenaha. They should be there. I can’t wait to float a fly through one of those gorgeous holes. He turned to Travis with a bit more serious look this time. I really love this river, son. I have fished rivers all over the country, but there is not one anywhere prettier than this one. Dad stood back up and began to work his way back into the straps of his pack. I never get tired of coming to this place. The Indians who once lived in this area said this was a place of power. Dad then added a caution, They say the hoodoos live in these cliffs, so keep a sharp lookout. You might just spot one today. They are sneaky little guys. You might also just hook into the biggest fish you have ever caught in your life.

Travis had just started on his second long drink when Dad cut him off. OK, Trav, let’s get down there and see those fish! Daylight’s burnin’. He grabbed the bottle from the boy’s still-thirsty lips, screwed the cap on quickly, jammed it in the daypack, and set out. Dad was as anxious as the boy to get his line in the water. They could now see the ribbon of water below them clearly now, coursing its way through the millions of years of basalt. From here on, they were pioneers—there would be no trail—and the going would get much rougher. The good news was that the end was in sight. The river was there, and the long, muddy march would be over once Travis got to its banks. Four hundred more yards and he could stop for more than the one-minute rests Dad allowed. He could get those new boots off and soak his burning heels in that clear, cool water. The rain began to lighten, and a hazy orange spot appeared, hinting of a possible nice day somewhere up above the cloud layer. The sphere was obviously lost as it peeked through time and time again, trying to find a way through the rain clouds. At two hundred yards, Dad stopped suddenly and grabbed the boy.

Did you see that, son!

He missed it. No! What was it? Was it one of those hoodoo things?

Right there at the waterfall—that was a big male too! Dad said, patting Travis on the back. Come on—let’s get down there ASAP!

Dad forgot his parental responsibility at this point and took off in a straight line for the river, leaving Travis to struggle through the tangled oak brush and salmon berry thickets on his own. Dad looked more like a big bull elk, with his horns back, barging through the trees as he knocked down everything in his path to get to the river. It took the eleven-year-old another ten minutes to do what his dad had just done in one. By the time Travis wrestled free of the last viny monster, John was perched on a rock with his 35 mm camera, awaiting the next eruption from the deep pool below the small waterfall.

Hurry up, Trav, you gotta see this.

His father beckoned for him to come over at once. Travis dropped his pack and jogged slowly to the rock. He tried not to show the pain coming from his feet as he tried to climb the boulder. Dad pulled him up and pointed down into the green depths of the pool. Travis strained his eyes to see what his dad was pointing at. No luck. Digging his $6 polarized fishing sunglasses with lanyard out of his pocket and cramming them on, he could—ever so gradually—catch a quick glimpse of some dark masses weaving back and forth at the bottom. He took a semidry paper towel out of his pocket and wiped the dirty glasses, then focused even harder on the pool below.

I see them, Dad! I see them! Travis yelled with delight. Suddenly, in that one wonderful moment of discovery, he was hooked. He watched, transfixed, as those beautiful silver streaks gathered their strength and then suddenly exploded into the air, straining with all of their might to beat the falls. He could almost reach out and touch them as they sailed past him, spraying water in his face as they went. Some made it—some didn’t, falling back into the pool to gather themselves for another attempt. There was no turning back—no giving up. There was this unseen ancient force commanding them to keep going regardless of the obstacle, regardless the height of the falls, regardless of the danger. All they knew to do was obey, as so many runs before them had done—to just keep pushing on—ignoring the scrapes and gouges suffered during their pilgrimage. As they entered the freshwater stream, their systems had atrophied to the point where they couldn’t take in any nourishment. These fish would seek the graveled bottom of the spawning grounds, miles upstream, only to mate then die. This was a journey that had been repeated for thousands of years. Modern man had continued to make the trip even more difficult with the increase in dams, commercial fishing, toxins in the streams, and an unending network of gill nets. Somehow, a few lucky fish survived the gauntlet, depositing their precious cargo and assuring the continuation of this ancient cycle.

Travis was awed by the sheer strength, the tenacity, and the natural beauty of these salmon. In those few minutes, Travis’s life changed forever. He was, from that point forward and for the rest of his days, a fisherman. He, like the salmon, had no other option. He never did really understand it, nor could he accurately explain it to anyone; he just knew he had to do it. This message was now firmly welded into the spiral strands of his DNA.

What a great day. Travis lost all track of time watching the fish until he realized he was just plain exhausted. This was to be his first encounter with the phenomenon known as the FTW, or fishing time warp. FTW was that twilight zone the fisherman occasionally slips into when his concentration on catching fish gets so intense that his mind slips into a parallel universe where time slows from the normal world clock time. Two hours of fishing time can translate into as much as six hours in the real world. This anomaly was, of course, supported by Einstein’s theory of relativity that proved that there was no such