The Moondance

Jim Baxter

We’d traveled east, my dog Buddy and me, on Highway 12 toward Montana, past the road sign, “Winding Road Next 99 Miles.” The road snakes alongside what my Bug Book calls the “highly oxygenated bubbling freestone flows” of the Lochsa River. I smiled when we passed by the old Duke Parkening place and got ta thinkin’ about him sittin’ on his lawn chair in the middle of the highway, clutchin’ his double-barreled shotgun––justa darin’ those ExxonMobil mega loads to pass through along that river. He played clarinet during the Big Band era of the ‘40s and retired to his place on the Middle Fork of the Clearwater River in 1968 to fly fish for steelhead. It was Duke who first got Ubaldo to dance––a shimmerin’ and a glitterin’ like ole Liberace under one of those mirrorballs––while playing his clarinet on a Harvest Moon.

I pulled in there at Dead Mule Flats, got out, put on my vest, grabbed my trusty 5-weight fly rod, and started walking upstream with my polarized sunglasses danglin’ from my neck and my best friend wagging his tail beside me, in search of The Great Ubaldo. Until recently, I’d been taught to fish upstream, since fish point upstream. The idea is, you can sneak up on ‘em because they’re looking for food floating down the river. They also enjoy the exhilarating feeling of water rushin’ through their faces––kinda like ole Buddy here, stickin’ his head out of my ‘99 Dodge Ram 2500 with the wind massaging his gums.

We were doing the Montana two-step when me and Buddy encountered the eddy. So now, to be accurate, a fish would be pointing downstream, since the water was swirling upstream, like a flushin’ toilet. To not be seen by a fish, and to buy time for contemplation, I hunkered down behind some tall reeds growing on the riverbank. Buddy hunkered too. That dog tickles me.

While hunkered, a big ole moon––it was a dandy––a harbinger is what they call it––began to rise in a saddle there in those Selway-Bitterroot Mountains. I remember thinkin’, what a fantabulous night for a moondance! And the wind blowing through those reeds whistled a slow foxtrot tune––“Moonlight Serenade.” I can hear it now, resonatin’ on that water. It was like ole Duke himself was standing there playing his clarinet with the Glenn Miller

Orchestra––right there on that riverbank.

The way I figured it, if we continued two-steppin’, a fish would surely see us. But if I fed my line in by making a cast downstream, which was really moving upstream, executing a snake like aerial mend in my line, my presentation would look like a well-plated dish prepared by the finest culinary arts school in the Pacific Northwest.

So, I executed the all-time greatest snake-like aerial mend of all-time––12 o’clock––stop––2 o’clock––stop––touche––drop––and watched my caddis go to work––drag-free. Float, float, float, drift, drift, drift––Kaboom! I’d hooked ‘em right next to the riverbank. That shifty, backflushin’, connivin’, slimy sucker had been sittin’ there all along. My strategy had worked!

He came out of the water once, twice, three times, and I could see he was a big’un––five pounds––maybe bigger. But it was not until he sashayed on the water a fourth time, looking like ole Al Pacino dancin’ the tango to “Por Una Cabeza,” that I knew I’d hooked The Great Ubaldo, who only takes the stage on a Harvest Moon. Buddy was a waggin’ his tail so hard his rear end started ta moving side to side. He was doing the tango too, right along with old Ubaldo.

And then Ubaldo rushed straight at me. I knew he would. So, I stripped, stripped, stripped my line. Ubaldo advanced, performin’ the quickstep. I quickstepped backwards, almost stumbling had it not been for my keen sense of balance, umnatched by most 70-year-olds. Once the line was tight, I wound ‘er in. I now had him on the reel. Oh boy!

Zeeeeeeeeeeeeeee––“Omaha! Omaha!” Ubaldo went in motion. My reel was smokin’ as he headed for the fast water. And then, all of a sudden, he reversed field, making another pass right by me––daring, fearless, exuding confidence. He burst out of the water a fifth time, doin’ the Ickey Shuffle end zone dance. He was dancin’ like a fish possessed by the moon. And I could see he was wearing a white jumpsuit with sparklin’ embroidery of a Chinese Dragon, and a studded belt with a big ole diamond buckle. He had a crooked smile on his face and his upper lip quivered like Elvis’s––fat Elvis.

Ubaldo went deep. He sat. I waited. I reached into my Orvis Ultra-Light basil-colored mesh fishin’ vest with my left hand for a refreshing Moose Drool beer. Using a one-handed technique, taught to me as a teenager by a Bali Bra salesman, I opened the bottle. Buddy just sat there, looking up at me. And he had this big ole smile on his face. You can just tell when a dog’s admiring

somebody.

Ubaldo was not some dang hatchery fish. He was royalty, from the order of Salmoniformes. His father was an Oncorhynchus clarkii in days when Oncorhynchus clarkii were Oncorhynchus clarkii. He was a fighter––a dancer extraordinaire––I’d seen it with my own eyes! And this was not his first moon dance. He’d danced the samba with the likes of Bob Jacklin, a world-class fly fisherman, fly tyer, and fly-casting instructor out of West Yellowstone, Montana. A member of the prestigious Fly-Fishin’ Hall of Fame. Yes sir, ole Bob could make that fly line sing “Mas Que Nada” better than I’ve ever heard it sung.

One time Duke’s son, Christopher, a virtuoso classical guitarist, came west for a fly fishin’ vacation. He was strummin’ the guitar strings to VillaLobos: Etude No. I in E Minor while Ubaldo was performin’ the paso doble in the moonlight. Ole Ubaldo pulled ‘em into the water at milepost 157, guitar in one hand, fly rod in the other.

And then there was the time in 1972, when Ubaldo performed a rich Cuban staccato number to that cha-cha classic, “Oye Como Va.” He did it for a state road crew at milepost 105. They’d been seal coating Highway 12 at the time, and the dump truck windows were rolled down. When the music began ta playing over the radio, ole Ubaldo started ta cha-cha ‘in, silhouetted in that moon. He did it just for the show.

All of a sudden, in the middle of chugging my beer, Ubaldo gave the most dadgum, doggonest death rattle you’d ever seen. My October Caddis popped out of the water so fast it landed thirty feet high in a buckskin tamarack tree. Dagnabit, I’d just lost the biggest ten-pound fish I’d ever hooked. C’mon man!

And then, just to rub it in, Ubaldo started ta moonwalkin’ across the eddy––lookin’ like ole Michael Jackson with top hat and cane, justa slidin’ along backwards in the spotlight. Then that rascal stopped in mid-slide and sniggered. A bait fisherman could have done better. And that basil-colored vest with those orange and blue wading boots? How tacky.

Buddy looked away. “Ain’t you ever seen a death rattle before?” I asked him. “There just ain’t nodefense for it.” When he finally turned his head back, he was grinnin’ like a possum eatin’ a sweet tater. He knew old Ubaldo had outfoxed me. That dog tickles me.

It was late when me and Buddy walked back to the pickup, along the

banks of the Lochsa, listenin’ to the sound of the river running wild in that canyon––free and untamed––just like ole Ubaldo. And I’ll tell ya, those pine needles were glistenin’ pretty in the moonglow. God’s handiwork, with striking natural beauty, outwittin’ the grandest of man’s creations. The kind of beauty that moves a man––deep within his soul.

Well, we pulled out of Dead Mule Flats and headed west, and when we finally got to a passing lane, I pulled over to let the maniacs get around me. Must be running the bastards outa Missoula, I thought. We drove a little further and when we went by ole Duke’s place, I got ta thinkin’. What if ole Duke hadn’t pushed hard for that Wild and Scenic River Act, and stoppin’ the Penny Cliffs Dam from being built below the confluence of the Selway and Lochsa Rivers? Hell, he even testified before United States senators, telling ‘em, “What is unique, priceless, and irreplaceable to Idaho and thereby the nation is not Idaho’s potatoes, cows, and logs, but the lasting quality of its beauty, terrain, rivers, woods, and wildlife.”

Yep, thanks to ole Duke, we didn’t miss the sound of the river in that canyon, or the pine needles glistenin’––we didn’t miss the dance. Yessiree Bob, me and ole Buddy had ourselves a sure ‘nuff zippity doo dah day.