Biers for Two

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The boathouse was a long, rotting hulk of a building standing out over the water like an overgrown bug on stilts. The old man’s cabin was set fifty yards away from the boathouse, on the hillside. I saw him standing in the cabin doorway when I got out of the coupé and slammed the door.

I stood waiting while he came across the clearing. I remembered him. Mac something-or-other was his name. Gnarled, beefy, with a chest that made him look top-heavy, and a wide, pleasant face with warm eyes, he moved toward me with a hint of rheumatism in his gait.

The day was warm and clear, the mountain air just brisk enough to put a tingle in your veins. Insect life made a soft, humming rhythm. The mountains were shaggy and majestic, the gorge down which the river flowed a thing of vast, high grandeur. I was looking out over the softly rippling water of the river, when old Mac came walking up to me.

“Howdy. Looking for some fishing?”

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