Banner Elk Breeze

by Ed Robinson

  “You got something against him?” I asked. “Or is it just disdain for people in general?”

  “I got respect for the man,” he said. “He done them cabins right. The one you got is hundred-year-old wood from this very mountain. He respected the land when he was building. Put ‘em far enough apart so the neighbors won’t bother each other. Found a way to blend them in with the landscape. He’s a good man, but he’s strictly law-abiding, a good citizen and all. He would not approve of my crop, nor my lifestyle.”

  “He’s been a good neighbor so far,” I said. “Nice enough to us flatlanders.”

  “He’d want to protect you from a dirt bag like me,” he said.

  “I see what you’re saying,” I said. “So let me get this straight. You live up here in the woods someplace, rarely have contact with other humans, make a good payday once per year, and nobody knows you’re alive?”

  “I got a sister down in town,” he said. “I haul my load down to the road in burlap sacks. She picks them up and makes the deal for me. I give her a small cut. She only does it to keep me from asking for handouts the rest of the year. I done that a few times at first, but she don’t have much and she shouldn’t have to worry about feeding me too.”

  “So other than that you’re totally independent?”

  “As much as a man can be I figure,” he said. “I take small game when I can. I can get my way into most of these cabins up here when necessary. I like to fish for trout but I ain’t very good at it.”

  “I’ve been studying the creek since I got here,” I told him. “Specifically looking for trout. It’s not a good trout stream, but there’s a few around if you know how to find them.”

  “Maybe you got a use to you after all,” he said.

  “I can catch a fish in a mud puddle,” I said. “There was a time when I either caught a fish or went hungry.”

  “Alluding to your mysterious past again,” he said. “If I cared what you done before I might be curious.”

  “There’s only so many places a trout can tolerate,” I said. “They want to stay out of the rushing water. They need a place to hide and wait for prey. Start with the deeper pools. Look for a bend in the stream or an overhang in the bank. Ambush points with still water. The good news is they haven’t been fished. They’re suckers for a dry fly if you can present it to them without being seen first.”

  “I ain’t exactly got fly fishing gear,” he said. “I got a stick with some line tied on it, hook on the end. I use grubs and worms.”

  “As quiet as you can walk these woods, you ought to be able to sneak up on them,” I said. “Just let the bait float naturally in the current until it passes in front of the fish. Don’t stay in one spot. Keep searching for those pools and likely hiding places.”

  “I been doing it all wrong then,” he admitted. “I just sit on the bank and wait for a fish to swim by. Gets boring sometimes.”

  “Once a trout finds a good hideout, he doesn’t move around,” I said. “High water forces them downstream, otherwise they stay put.”

  “You have been studying the creek haven’t you?” he said.

  “I’ve got water and fish on the brain,” I said. “I spent many summers fishing the Chesapeake, and years fishing Florida. Still adjusting to freshwater, but I’ll master it.”

  “You made some good observations,” he said. “Now translate that ability to the woods. Keep your ears and eyes wide open. Your sniffer too. Most city folks can’t tell the difference between flowers and bear scat. I can tell you what kind of flower it is blindfolded. Same with the scat.”

  “Move like smoke,” I said.

  “Not in those boots,” he said, pointing at my feet. “Too heavy, too rigid. Save them for the snow when you’re shoveling your driveway.”

  I looked at his feet. What he wore was some type of moccasin. They looked homemade. They were soft and pliant like slippers. They made no sound when he walked.

  “Deer hide,” he said. “Left the fur on but put it on the outside. They let my feet form to a rock or a log. Don’t step on dry twigs. Don’t leave a tread mark.”

  “Don’t your feet get cold?”

  “Socks is easy to come by,” he said. “When it snows I don’t move around. Can’t help but leave tracks in the snow.”

  “You just hole up?”

  “Snow don’t get that deep here,” he said. “Them ski resorts gotta make their own snow most of the time. Usually only last a few days when it does fall.”

  “I’ve got a lot to learn,” I said.

  “You seem sharp enough,” he said. “But why do you care? You got a nice home down there. I’m sure you got all the modern conveniences. Why traipse around the woods?”

  “I’ve spent the last decade moving from one adventure to the next,” I said. “Most of them unintentional. I fed my wanderlust until I had my fill. The travel was never-ending. Now I’m putting down roots. I live on this mountain. No disrespect to you, but I want to make it mine. I want to know its ways. If I can feel its spirit, I can stay in touch with mine. If that makes any sense.”

  “We’ll see how long that lasts,” he said, chuckling. “You’ll get tired of playing mountain man once winter sets in.”

  “You could be right,” I said. “We’ll see. I better get headed back down. It’s been good hanging out with you today. Thanks for sharing some of your knowledge with a greenhorn.”

  “Come back with quieter shoes,” he said. “Maybe bring some of them dry flies.”

  “How will I find you?”

  “I’ll find you, son,” he said. “At least till you learn to move like smoke.”

  Two

  Brody was full of questions when I finally made it back to the cabin. She was busy homemaking so she didn’t mind me being gone all day. She had a nice country dinner going, something we never did when we lived on a boat.

  “How did my mountain man make out in the woods today?” she asked.

  “Apparently I’m a bumbling fool,” I told her. “An embarrassment to nature.”

  “What happened?”

  “Pop Sutton appeared out of nowhere,” I said. “Said he’d been tracking me for miles. I never knew he was there.”

  “That’s kind of spooky, don’t you think?”

  “He opened up a little today,” I said. “Tried to teach me how to be a better steward of the woods. Passed on some mountain knowledge.”

  “Did you find the source of the creek?”

  “Thanks to Pop’s assistance,” I said. “In exchange, I plan to teach him how to catch fish.”

  “Nice to see you making a friend,” she said. “Even if he is a homeless, weed growing hillbilly.”

  “He’s an interesting character,” I said. “I offered him assistance or a hot meal but he refused.”

  “Maybe you can take him some food or something next time,” she offered.

  “I don’t think he’d take it,” I said. “I want to get him a cheap fly rod and some flies instead.”

  “Lots of fly fishing shops around here,” she said.

  “And I have to get different shoes,” I said. “So I can walk like smoke.”

  “Walk like smoke?”

  “It’s how Pop describes his movements,” I explained. “I can walk right behind him and never hear a sound. Meanwhile, I’m cracking twigs and kicking rocks. Scares off the wildlife apparently.”

  “Far cry from walking on a beach, huh?”

  “I intend to master it,” I said. “Maybe I’ll start seeing some critters up there.”

  “We had turkeys in the yard this morning after you left,” she said. “The deer were down here eating crabapples again. I saw a possum by the creek the other day. You can just sit here on the porch and see all kinds of wildlife.”

  “I’ll do that too,” I said. “But I still want to follow through on my lessons with Pop. At least until it gets too cold for me.”

  “Don’t forget to split the rest of that wood,” she reminded me. “Let’s get it up on th
e porch so it can dry out before we need it.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said. “A mountain man’s work is never done.”

  I helped her with the dishes after dinner. We snuggled up on the couch and watched TV, also something we never did on the boat. I looked around at our little cabin. We had furniture, room to stretch out, a fireplace, and real showers. Brody had a whirlpool tub, washer and dryer, and a dishwasher. We had changed our lives so dramatically that it was hard to take it all in. I loved sitting out on the porch and watching the creek roll by. The water was clear and devoid of Red Tide, Blue-Green Algae, or dead fish. We’d given up our boat life to escape the toxic waters of southwest Florida. We’d also escaped any possibility of some anonymous bad guy finding us. There were any number of nefarious actors who may or may not want to take revenge on me for my actions. They couldn’t find me here if they wanted to. I wasn’t running anymore, or constantly looking over my shoulder.

  Brody and I had shunned electronic devices in order to avoid someone tracking us. We did have a high-tech phone that was encrypted and allegedly impervious to hacking, but we left it turned off and hidden away. We made quick excursions into town for food and booze, but mostly we just hung out in our little hollow, enjoying our new cabin.

  We drove down the mountain the next morning to Mast’s General Store. They had a large shoe department full of fancy hiking shoes and boots. Everything was expensive. I asked a clerk for something affordable that would do the job.

  “Out behind the store is our Little Red Schoolhouse,” he said. “That’s our outlet store. There are discontinued models and unsold stuff that’s been discounted. Right now everything is fifty percent off.”

  Back outside we went to the Little Red Schoolhouse. They had tables, separated by size, of assorted leftover footwear. I found a nice pair of Merrell shoes for fifty bucks. They were light as a feather and extremely supple. They had an aggressive tread pattern, so I’d leave tracks, but I wasn’t about to wear dear hide on my feet. I finished the purchase and we drove to the nearest fly shop in Boone. The salesman talked me into buying a nice five weight trout rod that broke down into four pieces. It came with a soft-sided carrying case. It was probably too nice to be giving to a homeless hermit, but I bought it anyway. I paired it with the cheapest reel they had in the store. Pop wouldn’t need the latest technology to reel in twelve-inch trout.

  Before I delivered the new fishing gear to Pop, I wanted to practice with my new shoes. Instead of walking up the mountain towards the pot farm, I climbed up towards the road, paralleling our driveway. It was steep and heavily wooded. I concentrated on careful placement of my feet. Instead of brushing branches out of my way, I ducked under them or dodged around them. I avoided dry sticks and twigs. I paused and listened frequently. It took an hour to cover the quarter-mile hill. I came to the road and stepped out into the sunlight. Just around the corner was a nice mountain view. I rested, catching my breath, and took in the scenery.

  On the way back I crossed over my driveway and entered the woods on the neighboring property. The cabin owners there had dogs. If they heard me they would bark. I was trespassing in order to test my fledgling skills. I kept telling myself to move like smoke. I tried to make myself a human mist, wafting through the trees in silence. Halfway down the hill, I stepped on some dried leaves. I froze in my tracks, waiting for barking that didn’t come. The sound of the creek must have drowned out the noise of my mistake. I doubled my concentration. I planned each step, keeping one eye on the ground below me and one eye on the low hanging branches in front of me. I made it to the bottom without alerting the hounds. It was a good first step, but I needed more practice.

  I spent the next three days making similar excursions through the woods close to home. I split wood for a few hours each day and spent some quality time with Brody. I thought my absence might throw Pop off. It might give me an edge when I tried to sneak up on his turf. Finally, I was ready. I set out at first light for his part of the mountain. I went into silent mode immediately. I moved with stealth and purpose. My first encounter was with two raccoons. They were washing off apples in the creek and didn’t hear me coming. I stopped and watched for a minute before moving on. I saw a few chipmunks and squirrels along the way. I spotted a red-tailed hawk on a high branch. The woods were now alive with creatures big and small.

  I stopped and attempted to heighten my sense of smell. The odors ranged from decaying earth to wildflowers. I swear I thought I could smell wet fur, a deer maybe. I hoped it wasn’t a bear. I hadn’t seen any bears yet, but of course I’d been stumbling clumsily before now. I thought maybe I should carry a sidearm in the future. Pop had one, maybe for a reason.

  Before I got anywhere near the weed plot, I slowed and tried to become invisible. Like Smoke, Breeze. I was confident in my silence. I hadn’t screwed up on my approach. I knelt behind a fallen log and stayed still for a long time. I could feel my own heartbeat. I made a visual sweep of the opening where Pop’s plants grew. There he was. He was wearing all gray and sitting with his back against a gray rock. He was motionless. I’d done it. I’d successfully snuck up on him, or at least I thought I had. Before I could make my presence known, he spoke.

  “Not bad, greenhorn,” he said. “You was good and quiet, but I smelled you coming.”

  I revealed myself and walked towards him.

  “Not only are you wearing deodorant,” he said. “But aftershave too.”

  “What? You didn’t smell my new shoes?” I asked.

  “Guessing you dirtied them up before coming up here,” he said.

  “Indeed I did,” I admitted. “I’ve been practicing.”

  “A great improvement,” he said. “But that fancy perfume you got on is a worse tell than your natural body odor. Nice freshly washed clothes is a dead giveaway too.”

  “So I should smell like dirt and B.O.?”

  “Works for me, but I ain’t got no shower facilities,” he said.

  “I brought you something,” I said, handing him the fly rod.

  He took it out of the case and assembled it. When he was done I handed him a little pouch full of dry flies. He gave me a long look and shook his head.

  “I can’t remember anyone doing such a nice thing,” he said. “But I don’t know how to cast or even tie these little buggers on the line.”

  “I’ll teach you enough to get by,” I said. “If you can tolerate my rookie ways.”

  “I think I can make an exception in your case,” he said. “I see that you’re trying to learn. Taking it seriously.”

  “Now I’m going to teach you how to catch a fish,” I said.

  First I showed him how to tie the fly on the line. We skipped the casting lessons. Instead, I stood alongside the creek, stripped some line out, and plopped the fly in the current. I let the creek do the work. It carried the fly downstream. When I ran out of line I let some more out. I handed the rod to Pop and he did as I had done. Before the fly drifted around a bend he reeled it back in. We walked the bank looking for likely trout hideouts.

  “There, see that bathtub shaped pool?” I said. “The bank is washed out. Drift your fly in front of that hole.”

  He plopped the fly in the creek and stripped off some line. It floated temptingly downstream, but too far away from the target area.

  “Next time use the rod to steer it closer,” I instructed. “It’s eight feet long. Get out on the rocks if you have to.”

  He nodded and tried a second time. The fly bobbed along in the current, approaching the cut-out in the side of the creek. I saw the swirl of a tail just as the fly disappeared.

  “Set the hook,” I called.

  Pop brought the line tight and gave the rod a quick jerk. The trout flopped around in protest. I saw a smile on the hermit’s face as he reeled in his catch. The fish was about fifteen inches long, a good eating size. After unhooking it, he placed it in a sack he carried on his side.

  “Mighty fine teaching,” he said. “And it’s a nice rod. Sure beat
s a hickory stick. I’m much obliged for your kindness.”

  “You’ve got enough to increase your odds,” I said. “Add a little more fish to your diet.”

  “I suppose I’ve played around enough for one day,” he said. “I need to get some water on those plants.”

  “I’ll give you a hand,” I said.

  We walked quietly back to the weed plot. Pop reached behind a rock and pulled out two makeshift leather bags. The seams were stitched together with rawhide. They were coated in some kind of grease. Each had a rope handle.

  “Quieter than a bucket,” he said. “And they hold up a lot longer.”

  “Those things hold water?”

  “They leak a little bit,” he said. “But if you don’t dilly dally there’s still plenty left.”

  We went over to the creek and filled our bags. I lifted mine by the handles and hurried back to the plants. The leaky seams dripped water on my feet, but I still had a good two gallons to irrigate some plants. Pop instructed me to put about a half-gallon on each plant.

  “Put too much on them and it just runs off,” he explained. “We’ll let that soak in and come back around with more, later.”

  We returned to the creek and repeated the process until each plant had been serviced. Pop sat down and leaned on the same gray rock. He blended in perfectly. I was wearing blue jeans and a blue flannel shirt. I didn’t blend in at all.

  “Guess I ought to get some different clothes for up here,” I said.

  “Don’t go buying no fancy camo shit,” he said. “Maybe some khaki or light green for now. Brown when the leaves change. Leave it outside and let it stay dirty. Goodwill’s probably got something that will suffice.”

  I felt a hint of satisfaction that my new friend had accepted my presence on his mountain. He wouldn’t advise me on clothing choices if he didn’t want me to come back. Maybe he was lonely. Maybe he could use an extra hand come harvest time. Whatever his motivation, I was glad to have another man to talk to. Over the past several years, I’d been with Brody and she’d been my only conversation partner. Before that, it was other women. Male friends were hard to come by, and I didn’t often see the few I had. Now I was in a new place. The only other person I’d met was Richard, but we didn’t visit or hang out.