It might’ve been the summer they found Elvis on the bathroom floor, but I’d abandoned rock ‘n’ roll with the British invasion and one more dead, fat star made little impression at the time. What I do know is that the big fires two years before had killed most of the trees in this valley, the windfalls were enough to keep most fishermen away from some of the best trout water I’d ever seen and the biggest lunkers were in a place we called The Box, where the river had rubbed their fins off as they prowled below boulder-choked pour-offs. Once I made my way down those walls, I could count on catching a limit of trout that would bend your rod double when they hit the hook in the deep, fast water. Catching a limit was important that year. I was competing with two brothers, and bragging rights could even a lot of scores. Here I should state that our minds had not yet been troubled with any ethical harangues to return the exhausted trophies to the river for the next sportsman to hook and play, so we simply yanked them from the water, snapped their necks, slipped them onto a stringer and slung them off our belts for the scramble back up the cliffs to camp so we could fry them up in a little cornmeal, salt and pepper. Likely, this is where my thoughts were as I moved across a steep sloping stretch of rock above The Box. I remember hearing the river, and next thing I knew, my feet had slipped from under me.

Much later, I learned that my routefinding is called “attempting a problem,” and that having specialized shoes, a chalkbag and a crash mat (to quote Steve Long’s “The Climbing Handbook”: “Gone are the days when a climber might use an old mattress: nowadays purpose built crash mats are de rigueur.”) could have vastly improved my chances of surviving a misjudged “problem,” but I was likely wearing a pair of lug-soled work boots that usually served the purpose. What we called “scrambling” is the now-popular sport called “bouldering.” Long’s book says, “It is usually a very sociable activity, with climbers taking turns to attempt a problem and to provide protection in the event of an awkward fall. Successful spotting requires total concentration, because the boulderer might only commit to the move on the basis that a fall will be successfully fielded.” Having a spotter had occurred to us, usually in the form of one brother egging another into trying something that neither one was sure could be done. Sometimes it is best to concentrate, and this takes me back to my tale.

Face-down and desperate, I skidded toward the holes below, cussing and scrabbling while hanging onto the rod with one hand — and I know you’re thinking this is another “No shit, there I was…” comingof- age tale of a perfect storm of incompetence and stupidity, probably wondering why not just let go of the damn fishing rod; but this is more about grabbing hold when things are going to hell instead of dying tragically young or in a Vegas suite on your latest comeback trail. Developing an ability to improvise a way to survive totally fucking things up can’t be taught by the best guidebook or teacher, and must be field-tested to be trustworthy. The boots caught, my hand grabbed and the trout tasted especially fine that evening.

These days, the mountains are almost choking with remarkably skilled, socially adept, safety-conscious, unarguably wellclad “sport” climbing and fishing recreationalists, properly outfitted and able to quote sage advice and warnings at the first sign of things going to hell, but it’s been years since I tried to hook a trout. Because of air-borne contamination from coal-fired power plants just downstream, mercury levels in the fish are rated “unsafe for human consumption,” but this isn’t why I’ve stopped scrambling to secret holes in never-to-be-revealed rivers. What stops me is this nagging fear that the last wild lunker in a place we might call The Box is scrabbling its frayed fins against the rock that doesn’t give a damn; that I’ll be the one to yank it from the water and be left holding it in my aching hands and deciding whether I should do the “sporting” thing, subject it to one more run through the cruel charade, or if my understanding of survival ethics will demand that I slip my finger into its gasping mouth while wrapping the other hand around the fat back just behind the neck, in preparation for the long up-climb back to where my frying pan sits, ready to cook one last freshcaught supper.

Now I’ve left myself skidding toward a disastrous finish to this fish tale, not quite knowing whether it will be a plant, a ledge or the spotter of my dreams that will successfully field my fall. There is a mountain in Tibet that is closed to all climbing. It is sacred in local folklore, and the people walk around it seeking purification. The mountain is near a village re-named for the fictional Shangri-La to promote tourism. Maybe the walkers are seeking lessons in the art of preserving seed-stocks of uncaught lunkers, uninformed youth and other untamed stretches of imagined terrain. My free hand grabs at the rock, and it looks like it’s up to the reader to decide where the story ends.

Frequent contributor B. Frank’s last piece for MG was “Scouting the 5s,” which appeared in the Rivers Issue. His home range is the Colorado Plateau/San Juan Mountain geophysical/recreational playground/drinking area.