by Will Keen
(3/14/01)

Emerging from the wooded shadows, I listened to the chant of the stream as it made its way down a long reach of gravel and rock. My fingers rubbed absently along the smooth bamboo surface of the rod as I weighed the decision to continue fishing. The sun was already high; soon the salmon would be wary of even my most delicate hand-tied flies. And it was one of those rare times when I had grown tired of lugging the tackle, when the solitary pleasure of the water's edge called me forward. I leaned the rod against a lodgepole pine and set down the heavy creel. Maria had been on my mind all morning, and I wanted to break the spell.

I knew what my body desired, but told myself it was just a craving for the sun on my bare back. October was half over, and in the backcountry Cascades this might be the last warm day of the year. I shrugged out of my shirt, dry needles cracking underfoot, as I approached the willow thicket guarding the shallows. Using both hands to clear a path, I stepped through to find a huge tree fallen bank-to-bank, lying level just above the surface of the water. I moved toward it instinctively, drawn to this natural bridge formed by the thick downed pine.

Reaching the trunk, with its tangle of upturned roots, I paused to shed my rubber waders before clambering up. I walked carefully out to the middle of the span and sat down, drawing my knees to my chest. The soles of my bare feet were alive to the rough bark. I basked in the brilliant light and heavy scent of pine that suffused the air, allowing myself to become drowsy. A hermit thrush sang from the shade of the forest. In the distance, otters chattered at play. The sun's warmth soaked into me, relaxing the muscles of my neck and back, making me more aware of the slight pull of the pendant I wore.

I remembered the evening Maria spent braiding strands of horsehair to hold the piece of abalone shell. The pendant was a small flame against my skin, reminding me that I was still uncertain of my path, whether I would go back to her, back to the coast. I had come so far from her, but she would not leave her home, and I had to move on. She tried to understand. Sooner or later, she said, men always set out on a quest. I laughed, teasing her that the only thing I quested was a steady job, one that suited me. But that was months ago, and there was no point in thinking about it now. Better to sit and enjoy the sun.

For a long while I watched the water, hypnotized as damselflies hovered above the shimmering surface. An endless stretch of translucent blue-green slipped past the polished bedstones; white riffles appeared, disappeared. I looked down, noticing for the first time a smooth round rock that barely broke the surface just a few feet upstream. The river wrapped it like a mantle, transforming it into a clitoris of rock, shiny and wet, its hood curved tight around the upstream edge, then flowing down into wavering inner lips. A small gyre swirled where water deepened on the near side.

I thought of her, how she used to lie by the driftwood fire and wait for me, listening for the whistle of the saw-mill at dusk, when I would come down to her. If the moon was in the sky, her black river of hair would reflect light along its length. I knew where these waters beneath me flowed. This stream at the headwaters of the Klickitat ran down through salmon spawning grounds to the wide Columbia, then coursed west for more than a hundred miles, past Astoria, to empty into the sea at Cape Disappointment. The Cape... where Maria lives, where the river passes the door I had walked through for the last time. In less than two days, this water would be close enough for her to touch. It would lap at the soft sand where we used to lay our blanket, share our breath, wrap our bodies until we quivered in the night.

As I watched, the water pressed against the stone and fluttered quietly. It sluiced around the base of the rock to create a hollow eddy, like the folds of pink skin that curved below her clitoris -- wavelets of moist flesh ending in a deep pool. I recalled the way Maria would touch between her legs, pull her lips apart until the hot rock of her clit jutted up, wet and expectant. Then I would lay my tongue to her, inhaling her scent as she moved against me, pressing to my mouth.

This was more than mere memory. My body tingled. Aroused, exhilarated, I stripped off my jeans and rose to stand naked on the tree trunk. The sun heated my skin and heightened my raw desire to have Maria once again. I touched my cock; it was alive, swelling in my hand with the rush of blood. I pulled back the foreskin, forcing the dark head to come out, to swim in the open air. Wetting fingers in my mouth, I worked a thin sheen of saliva into the stiff shaft and stroked myself, my right hand tightening, my left hand gripping the shell necklace and the memory it held. All of my energy was focused on making my woman real. I envisioned her face, her soft brown eyes, her breasts, each hard pointed nipple, the dark triangle at the shore of her thighs.

I stood erect and began to move my hips, thrusting, allowing my pelvis to swing freely as I balanced, centered on the massive log. The murmur of water became Maria's breath; her scent clung to the air and I inhaled her, my lungs filling with her sex. My eyes held the sight of her clitoris, fusing with the rock. My cock ached, fighting against the current of my hand. Heaving farther and farther off-center, I stroked harder, urgently, aiming for her ever-wet clit. I wanted to spill into her, to see myself float on that sheet of moving liquid, to send myself down the Klickitat. I kept my hand on my slick shaft, heels driving into the furrowed bark, scrotum pulling tight. Thrusting. Calling out her name.

I exploded high out over the river, my whitewater forming a graceful arc. Everything slowed, crystallized. The leading drop of my come glistened in the sun, suspended with perfect clarity above the blue rush. Suddenly, the deep nook near the rock clit churned. The surface flickered. Up came a magnificent red-flanked fish in a sparkling leap, a wild salmon vaulting free of the water. It twisted muscularly in space, diamonds of water and light shaking from its proud body. Every scintillating detail was revealed: scales gleaming, fins erect, an obsidian eye fixed on me. In that instant, the great hooked jaws gaped wide and snapped shut, swallowing my seed in mid-flight. With a splash, the salmon plunged sidelong into the water and flicked its tail, vanishing in the cool, fluid world.

As the waters resumed their smooth and endless flow, I lay half stunned along the trunk, breathing deeply, drinking the pure light. In this moment, I thought I heard a faint rush of words, eerie and rhythmic. Perhaps it was only the water tumbling over the rocks, or the roar of pressure in my ears. Or a voice rising from the heart of the wood beneath me, in a whisper that merged with the sound of the water. As the salmon is your totem, you shall return...you shall return...

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