OPEN WATER EVAC CHARLIE RIGHT “Like it or not, flyfishing is a blood sport, as we were reminded on this float through Colorado’s Western Slope. A home-tied streamer did a little more damage than we would have liked.” Photo: Copi Vojta Words: Stephen Zakur Charlie Bascombe was mauled by a griz while taking a dump in the woods. There’s irony to that situation given the perennial question about ursine woodland behavior. While Charlie relieved himself, I sat at the edge of the river basking in the noon sun. The boat swayed on its anchor. I savored the nub of a Nat Sherman. Fishing had been crummy. A storm was building in the west and it wasn’t clear whether it would get stuck in the mountains or come into the valley before dark. There’s a spot in the brain that viscerally responds to the sound of a man crying for help. I’ve been told it’s tied to the fight-or-flight instinct. Most folks flee from the sound of danger. It’s understandable. A self-preservation thing. Some folks run toward it, ready to do what needs to be done. It’s not a choice, it’s wiring. Half a year at Fort Sam Houston and two tours in the foothills of the northern Afghanistan had wrung the flight instinct from me. I dug out my trauma pack and leapt into the scrub. I wished I had my M4 carbine. The air among the willows and aspen was calm and warm. Charlie’s sobs steered me. Ahead a form moved away, massive pale brown yielding to green. Charlie lay on a patch of ground that looked like a bloody tornado had torn into it. His gear was scattered. The willows were broken. Charlie lay on his belly, one hand grasping his mangled ass and the other in front of him, clearly at his crotch. He gasped for air roughly but it didn’t seem to be an airway problem. The wild look in his eyes. The blood. This was shock. Charlie was wounded in several places, including those that are dear to a man, though most of the damage was to his glutes. It seems being fat-assed had provided a better target for the beast than what set in front. Months from now, jokes would be made at Charlie’s expense. The scent of the forest had been replaced by the heady stink of bear and blood. That metallic smell is the thing that sticks with you. It’s the thing that tugs at memories. It took a few moments to get 036 THE FLYFISH JOURNAL
The Flyfish Journal Volume Eight, Issue Four: Page 36
