Stockmarket was the dark horse. He didn't quite fit. Other than that, he was probably the luckiest person I ever knew. Maybe even the most successful but in retrospect, success can't always be measured in just dollars and cents. His real name was Carter and he wasn't yet 40 and already retired. Granted, he wasn't obscenely wealthy. He drove an old Toyota van and shopped the sale racks at JC Penneys but he no longer had to work. We had nicknamed him Stockmarket because whatever he touched turned to gold. I think he could have stepped in a turd, convinced someone else to scrape it off his shoe and then sell it and the shoe for a tidy profit--not that that is an especially admirable quality. Carter had been a carpenter. Maybe he had a few dollars to begin with. I don't know. I had met him later in life. What I do know is that he had gotten married, bought a house, remodeled it and promptly got divorced. Amazing how many divorces are caused by remodels. Anyways, he apparently was better at remodeling than he was at relationships because he sold the house, somehow paid off his ex and managed to walk away with a mountain of cash.
At which point, he bought another house, remodeled that and once again sold it for another mountain of cash. You could say he had a knack for real estate although he insisted it was all about understanding women. He was convinced every woman on the planet needed closets and kitchens. Lots of closets --and a kitchen that stretched from one side of the house to the other. Somehow I think women are far more complex than that but he was the one making all the money so what do I know? Of course, the ultimate irony was that he never seemed to stay married very long.
Carter--or if you prefer to call him Stockmarket continued to buy and sell houses but the novelty had worn off a long time ago. He took it for granted that he was going to make a few dollars so he began dabbling in the stock market. You wouldn't be too far off the mark if you described him as a compulsive risk taker and a gambler but he managed to make money in the stock market as well. ...and he continued to play in the real estate market but only half heartedly. That would be about the time we met. His days mostly consisted of managing investments and then finding something else to do for the rest of the day. He struck me as rudderless with no real direction other than making money but he had taken up fly fishing. Now rudderless isn't always a bad thing and anybody who fly fishes is probably okay so I assumed it was safe to go fishing with him. I guess I ignored more than a few warning signs but he was always willing to drive.
Our first trip road trip together should have been my first clue. I can't say I remember where we fished. I remember all the places we didn't fish though, and one incredibly attractive bartender--and I remember breakfast. We had, however, set out with the best of intentions. We were on our way to the Fall River to fish the celebrated Hexagenia hatch. The Hexagenia--or hex as some fly fishermen like to call it is the B-52 of the aquatic insect world. It is a huge bug as far as bugs go and it drives trout to madness when it begins hatching. Hatching is a funny and misleading term, though. The insect is there year round, spending most of it's life looking like some alien creature and burrowing in the mud of a lake or slow moving river. At some point it swims to the surface of the water, sheds what the entomologists call an exoskeleton and gracefully sits on the surface of the water until it's wings can dry--or a trout eats it. That's the part any self respecting fly fisherman lives and dies for. We dream of being on the water at that exact moment when that beautiful and delicate insect is turned into dinner. We can only hope that we have a fly that, if one squints hard enough or stares into the sun long enough-- that somehow it will match. At least we think, we tell ourselves, and we want to believe it does; and that some trout will attempt to inhale our fly. Hope springs eternal. It sustains us in the face of incredible odds and all this anguish for a fish most of us will probably release.
Okay. That is just a really long winded way of saying Fall River can be really really tough to fish and there is never a guarantee that anything will hatch on any given day...or evening. It's just a minor detail but the hex comes off right at dusk and hatches well into the evening. Stockmarket and I had arrived early in the afternoon so naturally we talked ourselves into heading to the local bar to kill time. He was buying. This would have been a mistake no matter who was buying. Yes...it was "local" but the owner of said establishment catered to a generally well to do crowd from the Bay Area and it was rumored that it was always snowing inside the bar. Snow--as in cocaine. The easy way out would have been to blame Stockmarket for everything but I was curious as to just how wild the place was. It was often said that the owner could provide women of ill repute. It was also said that he counted the sheets of toilet paper the guests used and charged them accordingly--along with drinks they hadn't actually ordered. It's hard to keep secrets in small towns.
I'm not sure what I expected. It was after all a bar in the middle of nowhere and it was late afternoon at precisely the wrong time of year--unless you were there for the Hex hatch. In other words, it was dead, except for the buxom redhead behind the bar. She knew she was stunning and we were her only customers at that point so she worked it. Stockmarket was a pro at this sort of this thing as well. He sat opposite the bar sink where she was washing the few dirty glasses leftover from the prior evening. She didn't just wash the glasses, though. She lingered over that sink, bending low in a revealing top and caressing every glass. We were hypnotized. I, being one of only a few available straight men in San Francisco, had seen plenty of breasts but I had never seen glassware so lovingly cleaned. She did have truly magnificent melon colored breasts though and Stockmarket was transfixed--glued to the bar. Somehow, I knew we wouldn't make it to the river that night...
I suppose it could have been the alcohol but I have no idea where we spent the night. This much is certain: It was not with the redhead. What I do remember is breakfast the next day, though. Stockmarket was married again at that time to a woman who could have been a supermodel in a previous life. I have no idea what she was like except to say that they fought almost constantly. I only bring any of this up because Stockmarket was at the moment, making a pass at a waitress that was the antithesis of "supermodel". She in another life might have changed truck tires but she had a cherubic face and a personality to match. ...and she epitomized everything that we believe to be good about life in a small town. ...and she seemed interested in Stockmarket. He was not a bad looking man, by the way, and he was quick with a smile...
All of which had me wondering: Do mates stray because a spouses behavior is so toxic or is it the philandering that brings the venom to the surface and the bared fangs? However, it is not my place to sit in judgment or decide a persons moral code unless fish are involved so when Stockmarket pleaded with me to stop him, I shrugged and said "You are on your own this time". I was still miffed about missing the evening rise as it was. In retrospect, it was Stockmarket who was the thorn in the side of any relationship. He was a thoroughbred, wound far too tight and running in circles. Type A Overachiever. Amazingly enough and against my better judgment, though, I continued to fish with him.
It was all driven home one winter when Stockmarket called me, pleading to go fishing.
"Dave, I gotta go fishing" "Carter, the weather is dicey. There's a chance it will rain, it's cold and the season is closed except for steelhead" I said. "Let's go fishing for steelhead" "You've got to be kidding" "No. I gotta get out of town". "What do you mean 'you gotta get out of town'?" "I gotta get out of town. I'm taking a beating in the stock market".
I have no idea how getting out of town would improve someone's financial returns but I grudgingly agreed to throw my gear together and meet him in Santa Rosa. I was living in a small town on the Russian River at the time so we'd have to pick up groceries and whatever provisions we needed on the road. We met, piled my gear into the old Toyota and headed north. I don't think we'd made it as far north as Ukiah when he insisted on stopping. "I need a drink, Dave". "Come on, Carter. We have another 3 hours of driving to do." "I need a drink. I can stop at a liquor store and get something." "Jesus. Okay." "Well, I'm all worked up."
That was an understatement. Stockmarket found a liquor store, jumps out of the van, and is back in minutes with a half gallon of Captain Morgan and a six pack of Coke.
"I'm going to make myself a rum and coke. You want one?" "No!" I testily replied. He made the drink and gulped it down. He then promptly filled a pipe with some pot and lit the pipe. "Carter, you know the sheriffs office is on the next block?" "Yeah. I'll be cool."
I will never be a candidate for sainthood but I'm pretty sure sitting in a parking lot in a little redneck town with an open bottle of rum on the front seat of your vehicle and clouds of pot smoke fogging up the windows doesn't qualify as cool--at least not in those days. I was never so happy to be back on the road--even if he did have a little bit of a buzz. Stockmarket was at the wheel and thank goodness we were in the middle of nowhere on a deserted highway because he was soon steering with his knee and making himself another drink. "Carter, how about letting me drive?" "No, I'm good." "Carter, I'm fresh. I can drive. You take a break." "No, I'm okay." Okay lasted about 20 minutes before he filled the pipe again.
Now I was really uncomfortable. Stockmarket had refilled the pipe one more time and I was beginning to wonder how sober he was. We were on Highway 101 winding our way through the redwoods. It had, sure enough, begun to rain. That road was tough enough in the daylight. At night and in the rain, it's dangerous and if you are smart, you slow down. The fog and mist blanket the road, hiding the next curve or the rock that tumbled onto the blacktop... Deer will spring out in front of your vehicle. It's not the kind of thing I want to do while intoxicated--pardon me-- with an intoxicated driver, but Stockmarket insisted on driving. The universe or some higher power must have been looking out for one or both of us because Stockmarket finally pulled over. "I can't drive anymore, Dave." I think we had passed Piercy which is a town in name only, about a half hour earlier. There are three or four rundown buildings there and unless some are hidden in the woods, not much else, so finding a room was not an option. I volunteered to take the wheel. "No. We can stay here, sleep in the van." I was done. Arguing with him or trying to convince him of anything at that point seemed pointless so I said "Sure..."
We woke up the next morning up to the rumble of a passing logging truck, which, when you consider the alternatives or last nights driving, wasn't so bad. He had found a decent sized pull out, big enough to be safe, and overlooking a sweeping bend on the Eel River. At that point, Stockmarket was on my short list for asshole of the year--until I looked down at the river. The river had gouged out a sweet hole at the base of the cliff opposite us and it was filled with bright salmon! I was already excitedly unloading my rod and my waders when Stockmarket suddenly blurted out "I can't fish here." I was speechless. Dumbfounded. I was probably contemplating crushing his skull and then trying to make it look like an accident and all I could do was to stutter "Wwwhat?" "I can't fish here. The water is dirty." "Carter, you are kidding, right?" The rain had indeed colored up the river a little but it was still very fishable with just a hint of brown to it. "No. Let's go downstream. The water will be cleaner." Of course, if you have even the most rudimentary grasp of hydrology and erosion, you will realize that won't ever happen. You will have a better chance of picking back to back winning lottery tickets. Hell will freeze over and the IRS will apologize for ever having bothered you and refund every tax you ever paid before a river runs clearer as it flows downstream. Quite the opposite. It is warming and picking up more sediment and more muck... Unfortunately, it was his van and the State of California frowns on crushing anybody's skull no matter how annoying they are so we were once again back in the van and heading north...and downstream. I can't gloat--not about being right on something like that but soon the Eel was a sea of mud and getting worse the further north we went.
It is at this point that one begins to wonder if either the friendship or the fishing trip can be salvaged. I suppose Stockmarket had enough redeeming qualities that I suggested we continue even further north to Highway 299 and follow it as it winds along the Trinity River. The Trinity is a very different watershed, more rock, decomposing granites and less prone to erosion. Nor had it been rapaciously logged like the Eel. Hydraulic mining had decimated the lower reaches of the Trinity at the turn of the 19th century but the upper reaches were intact. Redwoods only grow so far inland as well so it had been spared the worst of the loggers unquenchable appetite. There was a chance that it would be running clear enough to fish. Stockmarket knew he had blown it so he sheepishly agreed to the plan.
Truly great fishermen don't actually plan, though. They seize the opportunity and deal with the hand they are dealt. One cannot predict a hatch. You might be able to narrow it down to a certain time of year and certain weather conditions. One cannot predict the upstream migration of salmon or steelhead to a day, unless the run is so incredible that the entire river is filled with fish for months on end. We can however narrow the window in which we think these things will happen and rule out those that cannot happen. That being the case, and perhaps it was more intuitive than anything else, I suggested we detour and at least take a look at the Mad River. We were going to be driving right past the turn off and the best sections were not that far off the highway. It made sense...
This too is the story of Stockmarket. The man bought a few acres in Wyoming which at the time made absolutely no sense to me. Obviously, I know nothing about real estate or Wyoming because a year later he had divided it and sold half of it for what he had paid for the entire parcel. He had turned his back on a pool filled with salmon so fresh that they looked chrome plated in search of clean water and hit the kind of pay dirt that other anglers only dream of. The Mad River was filled with steelhead! Filled. The tide had turned and the rain had brought the water levels up, which on a short coastal river is enough to bring the fish in. In fact, steelhead were pouring into the river in droves. Stockmarket was still relatively new to fly fishing and even newer to steelheading but even he managed to hook a few steelhead. I was hooking an obscene number of fish. Hooking was the operative word as a big steelhead fresh from the salt and well fed is more than a worthy opponent. A fish hooked is not always a fish landed, especially on a fly rod. How epic was the fishing that day? Well, the steelhead is sometimes referred to as the fish of a thousand casts and some anglers will go years before they catch their first one. Even the most skilled anglers might go a year between fish, especially if they are chasing the big winter runs. However, the Mad River has what is known as a hatchery run so it is not unusual to find fish--along with crowds there. The incredible numbers we were seeing and hooking that day, though, were a once in a lifetime experience. The usual mob of anglers were absent as well and we had some runs all to ourselves.
These are the kinds of experiences that become burned into our memory and the root of all legend. Left out though is the "how?" How could a trip that had all the makings of a disaster and the potential for great bodily harm end on such an upbeat note? Stockmarket knew almost nothing about steelheading or the area. I suppose I knew more but chasing steelhead is hardly an exact science and is at best an educated guess combined with a reading of the tarot and a hint of vodoo. I guess he was just one very fortunate individual. Lucky, you might say.
I finally stopped fishing with Stockmarket, though. He continued to make more money. Everything he touched turned to gold but he was also becoming more mean spirited and avaricious; and obsessing over money. It --or he hit bottom a few years later on a trip to the Klamath River. A group of us had met up there to chase half pounders. Most of us were trout bums, passionate about the sport to the exclusion of all else--and near penniless. ...and most of us drank whatever beer was on sale. Stockmarket on the other hand, drank some pricey imports, not that any of us really cared. Steve had asked him for a beer --only because Stockmarkets ice chest was closer. Something in Stockmarket snapped though and he locked himself in his van, telling Steve that he had to drink cheap beer if he couldn't afford a good beer. It was an ugly awkward scene, Stockmarket locked in the van and furiously puffing away on his pipe. I think that we all realized at that exact moment that the one thing that hadn't turned to gold was Stockmarket's heart
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