“What’s in the case?”
The helo’s pilot, who’d introduced himself simply as Mark, didn’t even glance aside to see what she was referring to. Of course, she’d be referring to the flyfishing rod case strapped to the side post close behind his seat.
Pamela always made sure to open conversations with a question. It set folks at their ease because people liked talking about themselves. And she always found anything more interesting than talking about herself. She’d noted the well-worn case as she’d boarded the Henderson’s Ranch helicopter at the Great Falls airport. Two couples and she as the only solo, which had earned her the front seat in the Bell Long Ranger. His case had the rounded bulge at the very bottom end, indicating a fly reel rather than a spinner.
“I like that as a first question,” Mark offered an easy drawl after he was done clearing with the Tower and took them aloft. He had a nice deep voice—but a bright-gold wedding band—so out of bounds. “Just a spare so I have something to play with if I overfly a likely stream. It’s a nine-foot Sage 4-weight with one of their clickers. Nothing fancy.”
Dreamer, braggart, or actually good enough that a thousand-dollar rod-and-reel was his everyday combo?
On the golf course she’d seen weekenders with five or ten grand of TaylorMade clubs in the bag—same as Tiger Woods, you know—who never stroked par in their life. Didn’t they realize how many millions he was paid to play with those just to get folks to buy them? A fair bet that Tiger’s had every custom tweak the Tiger could ever want, no matter the cost. She’d tried them, but preferred her Ping clubs. And now that she’d had each club’s length properly studio fit, anything else felt wrong and added several strokes to her game.
Ignoring the flat plains as he climbed aloft and turned toward the distant hazy mountains, she tried to read the pilot. Most people were easy. Mark had a solid foot on her own five-three, broad shoulders that her first husband had taught her were the sign of a soldier who stayed fit. She was still sorry that he’d loved his top-secret command more than her but…
Pamela took a deep breath and let it go—again. She was never a big fan of looking back. But lately the view forward had been little better. When she wasn’t playing or scorekeeping a golf tournament, she felt adrift. Slinging on her pack and traveling somewhere new had shifted from lifestyle to… Pamela was unsure what.
Focus forward.
She had two weeks booked at a top-rated ranch. And nothing afterward. Focus on the present and she’d figure out what came next when it arrived. She looked back at the pilot.
After the nice shoulders, the parallels with her ex-husband fell apart. Mirrored aviator shades hid the pilot’s eyes—Ray-Bans rather than the flashier ones by Randolph Engineering. Staunch traditionalist, or a pretender who wanted to save a hundred dollars? The five-thousand-dollar Kobold Phantom Tactical watch said pretender, the hard-worn strap said traditionalist. The jet-black hair down to his jaw was neither military short nor rebel long. Just some helo jockey the ranch had hired for the summer folk. But that didn’t fit either.
“What’s in your case?”
She’d hesitated for too long. Pamela had counted on the dreamer still talking about what he’d catch someday with such a rod or the braggart telling fish stories for the rest of the twenty-minute flight. Instead, he had a Sage rod tied to the upright beside his seat where it would always be handy and didn’t feel a need to talk about it. Maybe he was simply that good.
“It’s a…” how had he known she’d brought one? It was inside her pack. Inside her soft-side pack that he’d loaded into the helo’s cargo space. Give him a point for being observant. “I brought an Orvis 6-weight combo.”
“How long?”
“Ten feet.” And here came the comment about such a big pole for such a petite woman and she’d—
Against expectation, he nodded. “Heavy for the local streams. We’ll get you up to the lake at the base of the Bitterroot Wilderness. Not much grows big enough even up there to justify a pole like that, but you might find something fun. Almost caught a moose there once but all I had that day was this four-pounder.”
He left her just enough time to wonder if he was joking but not enough time to ask.
“My Emma still teases me about the dent the bull moose made on the outer side down by your feet. Won’t let me fix it. That lake’ll be the best use for a big rod like yours. If you want to hit the streams, the ranch keeps a variety of poles, or I’ll lend you my spare seven-foot 4-weight.”
“Okay, Mr. Showoff. What’s your good rod?”
“Local guy just down the road apiece. Tom Morgan makes the sweetest rod ever shaped out of fiberglass. He has me on a 3-weight with a Hardy reel right now, but I’m not convinced. Yours?”
“It varies,” she dodged the question. Nothing as high-end as a pole from Tom Morgan Rodsmiths. They might be local, but she knew people who flew to Montana simply to pick up their custom-made rod. And she’d only fished with a Hardy reel a few times—positively lovely. And a 3-weight either meant that he only fished streams you could practically straddle or he really had that much finesse that he could use such a light line in heavier water without losing the fish. Perhaps he wasn’t blowing smoke.
