The Way They’re Made.
Elliot Drake-Maurer
It is October, and the leaves of the maples along the banks of the Bois Brule River blaze a striking gold, illuminated by the late
afternoon sun. The river spills over the rocks exposed by the dry autumn, a sonorous rush and whisper of falling water. In the
bed of a truck parked on a gravel angler’s landing, Vince and Will are dozing after a long day of standing up to their thighs in
the cold water, casting spinners into the current in hopes of hooking one of the salmon returned from the deep waters of Lake
Superior to spawn.
They’ve been drinking all day and Vince awakens from his nap with a fierce ache in his bladder. Swinging his boots
to the ground, he walks to the edge of the slight bluff overlooking the river, and unzips his pants. His stream of urine arcs over
the clumps of grass and splatters somewhere out of sight down below the parking lot in a stand of alders. Vince lets out a sigh,
staring out over the autumn scene. That’s when he sees the wolf.
It trots along the opposite bank, a casual pace, comfortable and at ease. The wolf follows a small trail down to the water
and splashes through the river’s shallows to stand up to its chest in the current.
“Will…” Vince whispers, trying not to startle the wolf. “Psssst!”
Will doesn’t move, his Packers cap tilted over his eyes against the sun.
“Will!” Vince tries again, then looks back to the wolf. He can see the animal’s yellow eyes staring into the current. The
slender snout moves back and forth, sniffing, selecting. A flash of silver, and the wolf lunges forward, burying its muzzle in the
water. When it resurfaces, a Coho salmon squirms in its jaws.
The wolf splashes back through the shallows, and then lopes up the embankment, turning upriver and away into the
woods, a dark shape against the glowing autumn leaves. Vince watches until he can no longer see it.
Behind him, Will sits up and snorts, spitting a wad of mucous over the side of the truck. The sunlight catches in his
beard, lining his face with a golden gleam.
“Whatcha’ doing with your pants down, Vince?”
“There was a wolf.”
“So? There’s lots of wolves here.”
“It caught a fish.”
Will reaches into the cooler and cracks open another can. “That’s bullshit, Vince. Wolves don’t catch fish.”
Vince continues to stare after the animal. “No, I’m telling you! It came right down to the water, nabbed a salmon and
took off.”
Shifting into a seated position on the tailgate of the truck, Will swigs the beer. “That’s bullshit,” he repeats. “Wolves eat
deer. It’s the way they’re made. Everyone knows that. Now pull your pants up.”
Vince complies, zipping up and buckling his belt. Will hands him a beer, and they sit on the truck, boots dangling
over the gravel. The river rushes onward, the sun sinks down below the glimmering treetops, and the salmon struggle upstream
to spread their milt and eggs among the rocks where they were born. It’s the way they’re made.
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