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North With Doc--Photo Finish
Doc posed again with the fish, and I took four shots before he said, "That's enough if we want this beauty to live another day."
He eased it over the side, gently slid it back and forth to force water through the gills, and suddenly, with a huge kick of its tail that splattered both of us from head to toe, the pike disappeared.
Back in the cabin, after a series of high fives and toasts with an assortment of mind-altering fluids, I said, "Wait till the shot of you and your fish shows up in the Arizona Daily Star, Doc. I bet it gets picked up by papers all over the country."
"And what's in it for you?" the banker asked.
"Just about enough to buy a tank of gas and take my wife out to eat at Applebee's," I said.
"But it could result in other writing jobs?" the policeman asked.
"That's how it's supposed to work," I said.
Another three days of exceptional fishing, a short visit with Knobby on the way out, and the adventure was over for another year. I held on tight to the roll of film, even through airport security, and dropped it at a professional shop for developing.
Two days later they called, and told me the photos were ready. I ripped the envelope open in the parking lot and quickly shuffled through sunsets, pines reflecting in the water, fat walleyes, and several of the boys relaxing in the cabin with slickbooks pressed up to their bifocals.
Finally, there was Doc's fish. The focus was crisp. The lighting was excellent. The colors were brilliant. It was National Geographic quality. Except. What the? Right there in front of God and everybody. Right by the monster fish's belly. Doc's fly was open. And I don't mean just a little bit. This was a barn door. An aircraft hangar. A Carlsbad Cavern of an open fly.
But maybe it could be fixed. I took it back to the photo guy, and showed him. When he stopped cackling and slapping the counter, he said it could be scanned and digitally doctored, but the touch-up would be obvious, and do more harm than good. I thanked him for not laughing any more, and left.
I thought, hey, maybe the newspaper editor won't notice. Right. Fat chance. I was accepting the fact that the story would have to appear without the photo when the phone rang.
"Oh, hello, Doc."
"You sent that story to the paper yet?"
"Well, no," I said.
"How come?"
"There's a small problem."
"You're kidding," he said. "What is it?"
"Your fly is open."
There was silence on the other end for maybe a thousandth of a second, then I heard four grown men howling, stomping, and glass breaking. I later discovered the banker, attorney and policeman had gathered at Doc's for the payoff.
"Sorry about that," Doc said.
"It's OK," I sighed. "Sure was a nice fish, though."
"You should see my picture of it," Doc said. "It's a ring-tailed dandy."
"Too bad they're all the same," I said, looking at my four photos spread out on the kitchen counter.
"Well, almost," Doc said, and the caterwauling back in Iowa began again.
"What's going on now?" I asked.
"The one you took with my camera?" Doc said. "It seems to have the barn door closed."
I tried not to crush the telephone receiver in my hand, while also trying not to bite through my tongue. During my pained silence Doc said, "I made you a copy and sent it FedEx. You should get it tomorrow morning."
There are rare times in a fisherman's life when everything clicks. The fishing. The friendships. The fantastic goodness of it all. So I said, "Thanks, Doc."
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