BURNHAM Six LOW WATER by Reed Coray IT was the year the river got so low. By August it was I only a couple of inches deep in the wide places, and there was only one place where we couldn't wade it. That was up by the Dean's place, where Len and Whitey and I went swimming. Len is my little brother and Whitey is one of the Hale's who live up the road. It was three summers ago, so I guess I was going on eleven. Most every day Len and I would go holler up Whitey and we'd go somewhere. Sometimes we went up in the mountains, or tried to catch squirrels, or tried to find caves, and once we found an old trapper's cabin and Len killed a big pack rat, but mostly we went fishing. It wasn't very good fishing because the water was so low. The fish were awful scary. We didn't care much though. When we got tired of fishing, we'd stab bull heads and craw fish, or build water wheels, or just sit under the willows and talk like all kids do, I guess. One afternoon about a week before the big rainstorm that lasted three days, we were down by the river. We hadn't seen a fish for two hours. Whitey wanted to build a dam, but after all he was a whole year younger than I was, and I couldn't let him think he was smart, so I told him no, we had ought to see how far up the middle of the river we could wade with the water so low. He didn't want to, but he knew he'd better. He said he would if we would build the dam the next day. That was all right with me. We cached our fishing poles and shirts and socks and shoes in a hollow tree we knew of, rolled up our overalls as far as we could, and started out. We took Whitey's big fork because Dad had said he wanted some bullheads to go trolling on the lake. We started out just where the pipe line crosses the river. Where the bottom is sandy it felt rough and good, but where there are rocks, it was bumpy but slimy with moss. The water was warm becaus it was so shallow, but the tops of our legs were cold where water dried on the skin. After we had gone about a quarter of a mile, we decided to stop and see if we could find any bullheads under the rocks. It was right by Brady's and the Long Island. The water was so low that it only flowed on one side of the island. On the other side, near the middle of the island, was a pool that the Brady's used for swimming when the water was high. It was only about knee deep then. Down at the foot of the island a little trickle of water ran down through the rocks to join the main river. The trickle must have seeped up through the ground because you couldn't see where it came from. We sent Len to see if he could find a can to put the bullheads in. I took Whitey's fork and went to work looking for bullheads. The way we did it, you go along with the' fork in your right hand. With your left hand you turn over the rocks easy so as not to stir up the mud. When you see a pretty good sized bullhead, you stab down quick at him with the fork. I missed a couple of them because the points of the fork were so far apart that the bullheads got away between them. Finally I stabbed a big on. I took him off the fork and held him in my hand. He was kind of gluey to touch, and his fins had spines that scratched a little. I stood up to yell at Len to hurry up with the can, but I never got around to it. About five feet in front of me and a little to the left, Whitey was standing with his eyes bugged out and his mouth open. His face was the same color as his hair. "Jeez," he said. It was a whisper only louder. "What's the matter?" I asked. "Come here and see for yourself, but don't make any noise." He didn't even turn his head toward me. I went up to where he was, splashing as little as I could. "Look up there, under that rock," he pointed. For a second I couldn't seen anything, then I made out what he was pointing at, and I gasped. Up ahead of us a ways was a big rock. Beneath that rock the current had scooped out the sand till there was a hole below it. In that hole was the biggest fish I had ever seen. He was lying there, about three feet of him it seemed to me, headed into the current, as pretty as anything you ever saw, flicking his tail slow and moving his gills fast like fish do when the water is warm and the fish can't get mush air. He was what we called a "Native" trout. (Continued on page 16) Seven