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Show RIVER "I dunno. Natchez or Baton Rouge." Fred chuckled. "You don't have a motor on that boat, do you?" "No," I said, and he laughed softly and shook his head. "That/s a long row," he said. I laughed. We stood by the small fire and I warmed my hands. "You make your living fishing the river?" "I try," said Fred. "Been at it long?" "All my life," he said, and again, quietly, "All my life." He looked out over the Ohio and then across the park. "Is that your dog?" he said, pointing at Thor, who was pissing on trees and investigating garbage cans. I called him and Fred looked the animal over. Thor was a large yellow dog, a benign mix of German shepherd and golden retriever. He was big as an ox and dumb as a dinosaur. He'd just gotten his full growth, but he had yet to learn how to handle it. "I like a good dog," said Fred. He started patching up his boat and said if I needed a ride into town later I could go with him. I unloaded my gear under the barbecue roof and cooked ham and eggs. I asked Fred if he wanted something to eat, but he turned me down. I'd gained lot of respect for fishermen in the few days I'd spent in my boat. I'd seen them checking their lines in the early morning chill and knew that it was a cold, wet, dangerous job. The material rewards were hardly princely, either: every fisherman's truck I ever saw could have been the same work-worn, black '62 Ford. I felt foolish in front of somebody like a fisherman who actually made their living from the river. They knew how dangerous the river was: they knew - 6 - |