Ralph's Arc

Chapter 4 of 4

By the third stream, Ralph knew the single pole was failing him. The cub had grown. Its shoulders stood higher against his leg now, and its ribs pressed harder when it leaned. One pole pulled up six fish an hour. The bear ate four before Ralph swallowed a bite. He watched the gray cub lick the bank clean and then turn its purple eyes on him, waiting for more. A hungry bear this size, he thought, might not wait gently much longer. He needed to double his catch. One line was not enough. He studied the pole in his hands and the fast water below. Then he cut a straight branch from a spiral pine with his knife. He split the end and unraveled a length of cord from his pack. He tied it tight and bent a spare hook from a bit of wire. A second pole. Rough, but it might hold. He planted both poles in the mud bank, butts wedged under stones. He baited each line and cast them into the current. Then he sat between them and waited. The bear flopped down beside him, nose working at the water. The left pole bent first. Ralph hauled it in. A fat fish broke the surface. He swung it to the bank, and the cub fell on it. Before he could rebait, the right pole bent hard. He grabbed it and pulled. Another fish. He strung that one on his cord. For the first time, he kept a fish for himself while the bear still chewed. He worked both poles through the afternoon. One hook caught while he rebaited the other. The rhythm held. By dusk he counted the catch. Twelve fish. Six went to the bear, and its belly rounded out full. Six Ralph strung and hung in a cold pool to keep. The cub did not whine. It did not watch him with that sharp, waiting look. It rolled onto its back in the ferns and slept. Ralph leaned back against the pine and breathed. Two poles fed them both. The bear was fed past hunger, and the danger in its eyes was gone for now. He could walk the rest of the trail to the hall without fear of the animal turning on him. But the cold pool gave him a new thought. He pulled the strung fish up and looked at them. Six kept in one day. At this rate he would carry more than he could eat before it spoiled. Dried and smoked, that surplus could feed him for days at the homestead, where no streams ran close. He could stop buying food. He could stop depending on Lewis and the chance of his bell on the trail. The trail no longer only led to the tools at the hall. It fed the home he meant to build. He coiled both lines, shouldered his catch, and looked down the trail toward the place he would clear.