---

 

This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book “I wrote this in the dark” Down in the Dirt, v207 (5/23) Order the paperback book:

Order this writing in the book 2023 in a Flash the 2023 flash fiction & art collection anthology		get the 298 page flash fiction & artwork & photography collection anthology as a 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

That Was Close

Fred Cheney

    Milan looked down the long stretch of road and saw, at the end of it, a jumble of cars and trucks, some with blue or red lights flashing. Oh great, he thought, the road’s blocked, and I won’t be able to get to the river. An ardent fly fisher, Milan had gone an uncharacteristically long time between visits to Dolores Canyon, and he didn’t need an accident to make it even longer.
    He got closer, and to his relief, he could see that the impasse was about a hundred yards beyond the trail head he’d be using. He parked his pick-up and got his gear ready. Out of the corner of his eye he watched the activity down the road. It just seemed to be a big wooden trailer on its side, no ambulance, so probably no injury, and lots of people in fluorescent vests, so they didn’t need any help from him. As far as curiosity was concerned, he had more of it for what flies the German browns would be taking than for what had happened down the road.
    Milan hustled along the trail down into the canyon toward some of the best fishing holes he knew. As the land flattened out along the flood plain of the river, the trail went through quite a long stretch of dense growth, scrub oak, mostly. Visibility was very limited along the twisting path, and the closeness had an eerie feel to it. Add to that, that Milan had that strange sensation of being watched.
    He’d felt it before. Sometimes he’d be fishing, and feel it, only to look onto the banking and see a deer or an elk watching him fish. Once he had felt it on a similar trail, and was stopped dead in his tracks by the piercing stare of an owl. Nothing prepares you for the eyes of an owl. And this time? Well, he felt it, and it would eventually show itself to be real. Or not. Either way, the river waited.
    He arrived at the riverbank, took his rod from the aluminum tube, and started assembling it when his cell phone rang. The one thing wrong with Dolores Canyon was that it got phone reception.
    “You’re not there yet are you?” It was his wife.
    “I wasn’t about to dawdle today. I’m here in the canyon and all set up.”
    “Well, this isn’t good because you’ve got to get out of there. There’s been an accident.”
    “I know all about that; it was down the road from the trailhead, and they had plenty of people.”
    His wife’s voice got an edge to it that told him his words and his tone were inappropriate. “Listen. That accident involved a trailer that rolled over with a bear in it. The bear was being transported to another zoo, but the trailer broke open, and the driver saw the bear run down into Dolores Canyon where you seem to be. It’s all over the radio, ‘Stay out of the canyon!’ They don’t know if the bear is hurt or what, and the other thing that they are saying is that they can’t get a search together right away ...”
    And then, for the first time in Milan’s memory, Dolores Canyon lost its phone signal.
    It didn’t matter because Milan had listened to his wife’s tone as well as her words. All that had been left for him to say was, “Don’t worry, I’m leaving right now.”
    Milan, it seemed, had his explanation for feeling as though he were being watched there in the dense scrub oak. He looked back at it, and it seemed even denser, now that he had to go back through it. If only ...
    Both upstream and down, the river pushed in against sheer rock walls, but the upstream side was not as steep as the other. It would allow him, after a fair climb, to get back up onto the open mesa. He repacked his fishing gear and prepared to climb.
    About halfway up, things got a little sticky, and he had a choice to make. Continue straight up where it was nearly vertical, or traverse across the cliff face for about 100 yards to where it would be less steep, and safer.
    Impatient to get out and opting for the vertical, he reached up and groped for a handhold on the ledge above. His hand, though out of his field of view, was center-stage for the large rattlesnake basking in the sun on the narrow shelf. The snake pulled into its defensive, striking posture, and issued a warning with its tail. Because of the sound of the river, the rattling was as lost to Milan as the presence of the snake.
    Milan withdrew his hand and reconsidered the side route. The snake slowly began to uncoil and retreat. Then the hand slapped down on the lip of the shelf once again, this time even closer to the snake.
    Time stood still as man and snake made up their minds independenty. Milan considered the ease with which he could pull himself up to the narrow ledge. Now, the snake could strike the hand, or not, but if he continued up, the snake would have no choice but to strike the face that appeared.
    Finally, the hand retreated and went to work securing the man’s traverse across the face of the cliff. The snake, having had enough drama, retreated into a crack.
    An hour or so later later, in the trailhead parking lot, Milan saw two highway patrol officers. “Any news on that bear?” he asked.
    “Yes and no. Turns out it was news that wasn’t news.”
    “How do you mean?”
    “Oh, seems that bear was like a puppydog with his handler. Makes sense that tipping over would scare the thing, so he ran off into the woods. Handler walked into the woods shaking a bag of the bear’s favorite kibbled dog food, and inside of an hour they came walking out together. Guy didn’t even put a leash on that bear. Wish radio stations wouldn’t rile people up so bad.”
    Milan agreed, thinking back to his avoidance of the scrub oak thicket. He shook his head. “Uh-huh. Seems like there’s a time to be scared and a time not to.”

Copyright of written pieces remain with the author, who has allowed it to be shown through Scars Publications and Design.Web site © Scars Publications and Design. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.

Problems with this page? Then deal with it...