In college he was baby-faced, a bit chubby in the middle. Soft, they called him. Housman could take him in all sports: racquetball, basketball, wrestling, horseshoes, and beer darts. He took him all the time. They drank all night long, and Logan was invariably the first to fade. Housman seized these moments to paint Logan’s face or get someone with a car to drive Logan’s limp body out into a cow pasture and dump him with just a blanket against the dew and chill. Logan would walk back to the dorms the next morning, chuckling, carrying his blanket. “One of these days I’m going to show you,” he would say.
They fished one day, Housman and Logan, in the New River, just outside of Blacksburg. They caught pumpkinseeds and little smallmouths on spinners. There were college kids all over the rocks. There were radios going. That was over 30 years ago.
Logan flunked out of college his junior year. They lost touch. In graduate school Housman bumped into Logan at a grocery store in Richmond, Virginia. They stood in the rain in Carytown and talked. Logan was working construction, building decks and patios for the newly rich who dwelt in the outer rings of the city in 4,000-square-foot homes. “Pricks,” he said of them. “Wannabes.” Housman told Logan about the book he was writing on Stonewall Jackson. Logan invited him to come watch Monday Night Football at his apartment. Housman turned him down. They lost touch for real.
Only by the miracle of social media did they find each other again. Logan Bruell owned an excavation business in Rogue River, Oregon. He was also a river guide. The pictures of steelhead and happy customers proved it. He reached out to Professor Housman first. Housman was jetting between conferences, one in Italy on the Baroque, and one in Miami on the Afro-Cuban diaspora. He didn’t have time to immediately respond. And he forgot for a while. What did they ever have in common? Housman asked himself. But you couldn’t argue with the photos of 30-plus-inch steelhead.
Housman found a conference in Ashland, Oregon, that took place in the spring—about when he imagined the steelhead fishing might be good. He contacted Logan and they exchanged messages but never actually spoke in person. Housman bought tickets and had his secretary pay the conference fee. Carrie also arranged his hotel and rental car.
“Housman,” said Carrie, “you’re breaking the bank on this one. The dean said no more conferences until the state approves a budget. I’m guessing you already know that.”
“Tell Sadler I’m presenting a paper. He always goes for that.”
“All right,” said Carrie. She went outside of the outreach building to smoke in the wind.
***
There was so much to do in Ashland: An incredible number of boutique wineries were sprouting up in the Applegate Valley. There were restaurants bowing to the faddish force of farm-to-table cuisine. Organic produce and goat soaps were for sale at nearly every shop. There was a coffee culture, two respectable co-ops, and a world-class film festival occurring on the very same dates Housman had booked. There were poetry readings, live music, sidewalk sales, and garden tours. But Housman was keenly interested in only one thing: steelhead fishing. He packed his waders, his boots, and his 8-weight. Logan told him not to worry about flies.
“Dude, the run is sort of petering out. But I bet something will turn up. I always seem to catch something when no one else does.”
Logan’s voice rang with a confidence Housman recognized in big game outfitters and backcountry skiers. He was surprised to hear it. He remembered beating Logan at basketball, catching him flatfooted and driving past him for an easy bucket. He remembered Logan going to the cafeteria and stuffing his face with meatloaf.
Housman never actually made any of the conference events unless you count the opening social where local Oregon pinot noir was served in plastic glasses meant to resemble champagne flutes. He picked up his conference packet: a schedule, his name badge, and a water bottle. He saw his name on the program, for a roundtable discussion about the future of humanities education. He went downtown to a brewery and foundered after three pints of potent IPA. He woke the next morning and called Logan.
“Hey, I’m about done over here and thought, if you had some time, we could hit the river a day early,” said Housman.
Logan laughed. He said something about the taxpayers’ money. He had to go over to Dixonville to pick up two Bobcat loaders he had won at auction. But he said he and his woman would come meet him in Ashland that evening, and maybe have a beer.
Housman suddenly felt like a prisoner in Ashland. He avoided the conference and went sulking through town in a rain shower. He purchased a day pass and sat in the darkened theater with the film-fest crowd. He committed to several documentaries in a row and found himself exhausted by mid-afternoon. He skipped his scheduled appearance at the roundtable discussion. Instead he lounged in the hotel hot tub, reading a magazine on local happenings—wine tours mostly—and silently begging not to be recognized by the academics who strolled along the grounds with their name tags displayed on their breasts: Vice Deans, College Ombudsmen, Executive Academics, and Officers of Strategic Planning. Housman pulled on a sweatshirt and snuck out to a tapas place where he drank local beers incognito. He waited for the call.
Logan was somewhat drunk when he walked into the restaurant. He brought to mind Guillaume Guillon-Lethiere’s painting “The Death of Cato of Utica.” In fact, the similarities were striking. Housman had shrunk, like the rest of us, while Logan had become enormous, Romanesque, bearded in the manner of longshoremen. And he had become a river guide on the Rogue, no less. His girlfriend, Windy, was clinging to his jacket. She was a tall redhead, perhaps half his age. She beamed at Logan as he looked around the room for Housman. Housman was alarmed at the size of Logan. He couldn’t get over it. The handshake, like working with stone and hammers, nearly caused the professor to shriek.
“Them guys who sold me the Bobcats made us stand around and drink their BS wine for about two hours,” he said.
Unimpeded, Windy lunged forward and hugged Housman for a long moment. Her perfume, her breasts against his chest, the honest smell of wine—none of it seemed real.
“Logan has told me so much about you,” she said.
Housman was instantly suspicious. What did Logan say about him—that he beat the guy in racquetball for five semesters? Housman made an effort to stand taller, to lower his voice in the style of Logan.
“Logan tells me you teach humanities,” said Windy.
***
They drank some more. It was decided, over the drinks, that Housman would jettison the whole conference and come to Rogue River with them. The wine was making them frenetic.
“Screw this place,” said Housman.
“Wait until you see my side project,” said Logan. He grinned.
“Do you think we can fish tomorrow?” said Housman, a little too hopeful, a little too pleading.
“We’ll see,” said Logan. He turned to Windy. “How about you, babydoll? Do you want to go fishing?”
Windy smiled widely. Her teeth were perfect.
“She’s badass on the river,” said Logan. “Catches more fish than the guides around here.”
They grabbed Housman’s briefcase, threw his button-downs in his duffle, and tossed the conference frass into the garbage. They collected his waders, boots, and fly rod, though Logan said that he probably wouldn’t need them. He said the river was murky and they’d be using bait. There was no arguing with Logan. On the way out to the car, Housman passed one of the deans from New Mexico State whom he had known over the years.
“Later, Jeffrey,” said Housman. “I’m off to parts unknown.”
“Take me with you,” sang Dr. Jeff Suell. “This humanities conference lacks humans.”
But it wasn’t to be. Jeffrey had to ride it out. “Ride it out,” said Housman.
They sped out into the night, Housman, slightly buzzed but not completely illegal, driving the little rental, Logan following in a huge diesel truck with so many aftermarket accoutrements that Housman didn’t know what their purpose might be. They dropped the rental car off at the airport. Housman had to use considerable effort to reach up to grab the handle of the truck and pull himself up from the pavement. The leather seats were slippery with polish. Inside, the truck’s instrument panel lit up with devices and gewgaws of all sorts.
“I know it’s stupid,” said Logan. “But I can’t help myself.”
There was a pit bull puppy in Windy’s lap. His name was Wormser, or Wormsley. He was called both on the short drive along Interstate 5 to Rogue River. As they descended into the valley, the hillsides lit by yardlights and the twinkle of dairies, Housman caught the unmistakable whiff of marijuana drifting in through the windows.
“It’s everywhere, man. That’s what you should be writing about,” said Logan.
Logan’s house sat on a hill surrounded by towering Pacific firs. There was a sports car in the driveway and a shop with big double bays. There was acreage. Every light in the house was on. There were bags and bags of Fishy Peat, a type of local potting soil. There were pallets of it. But you couldn’t smell decaying fish or peat. All you could smell was pot.
“I have a small operation compared to the other dickwads around here,” said Logan.
Housman didn’t know where to stash his duffle. The rooms were full: camping gear; rifles and scopes; mounts of bear and deer yet to be bracketed to the walls; expensive tables and chairs, some still ensconced in bubble wrap; a fly-tying desk with an enormous variety of hooks and materials. Fly rods and bait casters stood in every corner of the house. Commercial art was sitting on the carpet with no indication that it would ever find its way to the walls. There was a hot tub for eight burbling endlessly and wine racks full of an impressive wine collection—mainly Oregon and Washington reds. One room was full of weight machines and a bench press, a rarely used spinning bike for Windy, and a plasma television on the wall. Every room had a plasma, now that Housman could focus. The newly built deck sprawled out into the damp Oregon night. There were two chrome grills. Housman accepted a beer from Logan and stood out on the porch while Wormser gobbled a bowl of kibble.
“You can see that I had a visitor. Cost me over 30-grand because I ran my mouth too much and they knew when I’d be away,” said Logan.
“They got your plants?”
“Yep. They smashed my security cameras with a rock and hopped the fence. I was days away from harvest. But oh well. It’s a learning process.”
Logan said he thought he knew who it was, but wasn’t 100 percent sure—otherwise he’d handle things himself. He said he had moved his operations inside and had a little something for the thief if he tried again.
“And by the time I put plants back outside, Wormser will be 100 pounds. He’s cute now, but he’s a working dog, sure enough.”
The smell was so intense inside that Housman worried he’d get damaged just by standing in the living room. Could it seep through his skin? There was a holy glow coming from the basement. Inevitably, Logan led him down the stairs while Windy played tug-of-war with the puppy.
They donned cheap sunglasses before opening the door. And then Allan Housman, humanities professor from Casper, Wyoming, two-time winner of the Ballard Excellence in Teaching Award, author of three books and one chapbook of narrative poems, and the state’s sole representative to the National Humanities Foundation, discovered himself surrounded by over 100 female cannabis plants, replicas of themselves, five-and-a-half-feet-tall, their stems drooping with the weight of flowers. There was water moving somewhere—Logan’s automatic watering system. The timer kicked off, and the fans came on and began oscillating over the pungent nation of marijuana plants.
Logan explained that his grow was tiny compared to some of the others. He followed one text, Grow like a Pro, and never freelanced or changed the recipe. It was, in his words, “legalish” to grow this much pot. He took in over a quarter of a million dollars a year, all in cash. But like so many other entrepreneurs in the valley, he could not deposit the cash in the bank. He had to stash it—or buy things.
“That’s why I have two badass boats and that ridiculous truck,” he chuckled. “It’s all a joke.”
Lying in bed, Housman thought about how Logan, college dropout and sorry athlete, had transformed into a purveyor of cannabis and a top river guide. Housman envied him because he was only able to be himself, Professor Allan Housman. He had no vehicle to change it. Yet he, too, could grow pot and get rich. How hard could it be? He grew tomatoes in Wyoming each summer, for god’s sake. But then again, Maddy would never allow him to take such risks, especially in Casper where they were 30 years behind the lax attitudes toward marijuana. He thought about the thief who ripped out Logan’s outdoor plants. What if he returned for the rest? Housman got up and crept through the house. He rapped on Logan’s door.
“Logan? Should I have a pistol or a shotgun or something?” he hissed.
“Bro, I’m trying to make love to my woman. Go to bed.”
***
They didn’t fish. Logan put on a new shirt, one of the styles Housman saw his students wear. Windy wore knee-high leather boots and a tight sweater. They toured the valley wineries, sampling the various vintages, sipping from taster glasses, talking about steelhead fishing and spey rods. Logan had scads of photos on his phone—primarily pictures of happy clients holding the torpedo shapes of a steelhead. One photo was a nude of Windy standing among flowering cannabis. She was unaware of what Logan was showing to Housman. She was dreaming already, her eyes glazed over like the gliding Applegate.
Housman was let down that they wouldn’t be swinging flies. He hid his disappointment. He wanted only to fly fish so that he could go back to Casper and show Bill Mayor and the rest an image of himself with a steelhead, the fly rod resting over his shoulder like you see in magazines. They would be side-drifting, explained Logan. They’d use globs of cured roe for bait.
“Right now it’s the only way we’ll see a steelhead. Flies are a waste of time. The water is too dirty. Trust me.” Windy nodded. They drove the backroads to several wineries, indulging in Logan’s last crop, smoking it in the form of a cigar-sized doobie. The cabin of the truck fogged up. The puppy nibbled Housman’s fingers until they bled.
In Grants Pass they went to a bistro and ate lamb chops and drank two bottles of Oregon red. Windy complained bitterly about people from Portland coming to rural Oregon and ruining things. They voted incorrectly, she said.
“But I bet those voters are the reason the marijuana laws liberalized—the people around here would have us praying in school and rounding up Muslims,” said Housman. He realized his mistake too late. Logan leaned back in his chair and squinted at Housman. His chest looked carved from marble—that painting again.
“What do you know about it?” said Logan. He launched into a jag about the government making it hard for the everyday guy, like himself, to make a living. He griped about taxes, about the media. He was the only one who talked for 20 minutes. Windy caught the waitress and ordered another round of drinks. When the check came, Logan stared at Housman. Housman took the cue and reached for the check. The amount was staggering. But he was getting a free fishing trip and staying at the man’s house. Housman used his personal card, not the university’s, because he didn’t want any questions from Dean Sadler.
The next morning, awake in the fugue of marijuana vapors, Housman thought about the fish that swam out in the sea among the seals and whales, the fish that swam upstream past gill nets and duck shanties to make its redd in little creeks and rills. It did all this, and then went back to sea. He had never caught a steelhead. He had only read about them.
It was raining. It was 40 degrees. Logan had some wool pants and a wool jacket for Housman. They reeked of Kush Crush. There was no way around it.
Housman needed coffee. He was unable, though, to work the Italian espresso machine that had arrived the day before. “I told those losers to set it up,” Logan said. He was back and forth to the garages, loading the boat, making leaders. Windy tried to get the chrome machine to produce coffee. It only belched steam. After a while, they gave up and drove in the darkness, with the boat rattling behind, to a Dutch Bros. Logan paid for their coffee with a hundred-dollar bill and tipped the girl $20. Windy bit her lip and pouted.
“What’s your problem?” said Logan. “That girl works her ass off.”
***
The Rogue was all it was said to be: wild, tumbling, shocking to look at. The trees were budding. Wild turkeys gobbled from the desperate cliffs and inclines. The water had a bluish tint.
“Hell, it’s clearing. Maybe we could have thrown flies,” said Logan. Housman had forgotten his Sage. Logan put his oars in their locks. The boat had the image of a salmon on the bow. The insignia said “Bruell’s Outfitters.” Wormser sat in the boat and chewed the anchor line. Housman, the wool pants sagging in the rear, hopped in and took his seat. Logan handed him a spinning rod.
“Follow my instructions and you might do okay,” he said.
Logan rowed expertly through a series of rapids and chutes. He told them to “hold their fire” as he navigated the boat by feathering the oars. He rowed with confidence, power, and a dash of insouciance the other guides didn’t have. The others hacked away at the surface of the river while Logan let the river do most of the work. Windy hooked a fish as soon as Logan told her to cast out the left side of the boat. The drag screamed. The silver fish leapt four, five, six times. It was what Logan called an “upriver” fish. It had yet to spawn, so it was hefty and gasping when they finally netted it. Logan was tender with the fish, his big, chubby fingers deliberately cradling the fish and removing the hook.
“See you later, girl,” he said as he released it. Windy swooned.
***
The amount of gear they were leaving on the bottom of the river troubled Housman. Nearly every fourth cast, Housman lost either his hook, his lead weight, or all of it. He couldn’t tell the difference between the bottom and a strike. He baited his own hook and Windy’s, using bits of sticky orange roe that Logan had cured himself. Windy, an experienced angler, hooked and landed four steelhead before Housman had his first bite. Housman’s fish leapt once and departed.
“You have to let him take some line,” said Logan. He adjusted the drag on Housman’s reel.
It was nearly noon when Housman caught his steelhead. There was an elbow in the river, and a back eddy. Housman casted his glob of roe into the swirling waters. His line ran, and a fish broke the surface. Housman held on for dear life as the steelhead ran upriver for several moments, then turned and burned back downstream. Logan brought the drift boat to a sandbar where Housman was able to tire the fish out. Logan deftly netted the steelhead and removed the hook. He, not Housman, held the fish as Windy snapped a photo with Housman’s camera. Housman leaned in close to the fish like an idiot. Then Logan slipped the fish back into the river.
***
They partied after Housman’s fish. There was Kush Crush enough for everyone—even the other river guides and clients, if they wanted. There were magnums of champagne and pink grapefruit juice for mimosas. Pop! The plastic stoppers came out of the bottles with force and landed 40 yards away in the middle of the river.
“Dammit, I probably shouldn’t do that,” said Logan. He rowed and netted the stopper and flipped a friendly middle finger to a guide he knew.
Back in town the party continued. They drove over to Grants Pass. The parvenus and newly promoted grow experts swarmed the boutique bistros with Alaska Airlines Gold Cards and little knives clipped on their jeans. They all had girlfriends they didn’t deserve, observed Housman. There was duck confit, white asparagus flown in from Germany, sushi incorporating local seafood shipped over that very day from the coast. Windy ordered a cup of cioppino with ling cod and fresh octopus. She hardly touched it.
They changed locations several times. There were bottles of wine and local beers that carried potent alcohol levels. Logan had a huge appetite from rowing all day. He ate his portions and most of Windy’s. She was there and not there, texting back and forth with her daughter who needed a ride. It occurred to Housman that he’d have to teach an extra summer class to pay off his credit card when this was all over. They climbed into the towering truck and growled out into the night to find more places with food and drinks. They smoked more. They didn’t know what to talk about, all of them stoned and staring into their cell phones.
Back at the house, Wormsley crapped in the kitchen on the newly installed bamboo floors. Windy was texting from the couch. Logan was putting the fishing gear away. He asked Housman to clean the floor. He said he owed him that much, at least. He gave Housman—two-time Ballard Award Recipient, author of several books and a chapbook—a roll of paper towels. He said he had to go into his basement to check on his plants.
***
At 5 a.m., Logan drove Housman to the airport in Medford. They stopped at the Dutch Bros and the same girl attendant flirted with Logan. She said she had a boyfriend at the moment.
“That’s okay, girl,” said Logan. “I’m a patient man.”
At the airport Logan shook Housman’s hand so hard the professor nearly squeaked. He told Housman not to write about his operations in Rogue River. Then he thought for a moment while the truck gurgled. “Go ahead and write about this if you want. I’ll be living in Mexico by the time anyone publishes it.”
“No one reads anymore,” said Housman. He was feeling sorry for himself. He had at least 10 more years at the outreach until he retired. It was snowing in Casper. He checked the weather on his cell every 10 minutes. But he had his photo of the steelhead, even if he didn’t catch it on a fly.
He twisted an ankle jumping out of the truck. Logan spun his wheels on the wet asphalt. Housman dragged his stuff toward the terminal. His luggage looked puny and insignificant—stuff you were free to leave behind, cheap second-hand stuff. He limped into the airport, his mind not quite right, his fingers still smelling like salmon roe and pot. He feared his computer bag was permanently impregnated with the smell of cannabis. He worried people would report to Dean Sadler his absence from the conference.
Housman sat in the lobby and watched the rain streak down the glass like fish moving across a wide and undiscovered river. All this will end up in the Rogue sooner or later, he thought. Jets rumbled and shook the whole airport as they took off to parts unknown.
The rain was coming steadily now. A woman standing near the ticket counter moved away from him and sighed. She could smell the Kush. She glared at Housman. People were already tired of the marijuana revolution. They liked it better when getting caught was a felony. But not their kids—no, not theirs. This kind of confusion leads to dictators and mass executions, thought Housman. It’s the kind of thing that caused Cato of Utica to tear out his own guts.
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