In the summer of 1997, a married couple from Arizona bought a fly fishing trip with a lodge on the Salmon River. I was hired to take them. Their plan was to fish for two days, take a day off to hang around the lodge, and then fish for two more days. They were both really nice people, around 30 years old, and the gal was a marathon runner (a tall slender blonde). She had taken fly casting lessons and was excited about the trip.

The first day we fished Horse Creek. For a runner, Kate did not have very good balance or coordination and was having a little trouble wading the creek. Both had good equipment, including felt-bottom wading shoes, so that wasn't the problem. I was staying pretty close to them, helping Kate wade some of the swifter stuff and giving them both some fishing pointers, and they were catching fish. We had just started up through what I call "The Canyon", and I was just a little downstream of them, when I heard a splash and looked up to see Kate sitting in the middle of the creek up to her waist. She had tried rock hopping and took a pretty good fall. Pete and I got her on her feet and she seemed OK, but by the end of the day she had a bruise the size of a small dinner plate on her thigh, plus a few other minor and assorted black and blue marks from other stumbles, garnished with Hawthorne scratches.

The next day, I took them in the jet boat to Chamberlain Creek. Kate was a little sore and stiff and was having a terrible time hooking fish. She was getting lots of strikes, some from beautiful westslope cutthroat, but her timing was off and she just couldn't hook them. I could take her rod and hook and land fish at will, and Pete was catching fish like mad. However, Kate just couldn't seem to put it together and was getting more and more frustrated and mad at herself, until it became a self-fulfilling prophecy. We fished all day, working a mile or so up the creek. Pete probably caught over 50 fish that afternoon and I don't think Kate landed more than 10. Both of them were wearing shorts, and wading wet. It was August, and the wild roses and Hawthorne along the unmaintained trail had really grown thick by then. By the time we climbed out of the creek and hiked back down the overgrown trail to the boat, they were both scratched to shreds and Kate looked like she'd been in a catfight. She was totally bummed out by her inability to hook fish and was convinced that some sort of curse had been foisted upon her and that she would never be able to catch fish again, was an inept and worthless human being, and promptly went into a blue funk. To get her spirits up a little bit, I let her drive the jet boat through the long quiet stretch above Lantz Bar, but the whole time (about 10 minutes of driving), she was sure she would probably wreck and sink it and drown us all.

The third day was lodge day. They slept in, had a late breakfast, and decided to go for a day hike up the trail. The cook packed them a lunch and they left. I went down to do some maintenance work on the boat. In about 2 hours, I looked up to see them coming back down the trail and Kate did not look good. It turns out, a couple of miles up the trail, out of nowhere, a wasp landed on her unbruised leg and stung her. It also turns out she is allergic to bee venom and is supposed to carry an injection kit, which she inadvertently left home in Arizona. Although she had a hell of a welt on her thigh and didn't feel too good, that's as far as it went and, thank goodness, she didn't go into anaphylactic shock.

Day 4 I took them to Bargamin Creek. It started out great. The day was perfect, the fish were voracious, and Kate was back in the groove, casting beautifully and hooking fish again. (Although bruised, scratched and stung). We fished all day, without any mishaps and just before it was time to head back she caught a gorgeous 14-inch cutthroat. I took her picture with it and we started down the creek towards the pack bridge. I was leading the way along the bank and the two of them were right behind me.

About 25 yards from the bridge I climbed out of the creek onto a small flat, looked back to check that they were still behind me and walked through the trees to the trail. When I reached the bridge I looked back again and they were not in sight anymore. I figured well, maybe one of them had to take a leak, so I sat down on a rock and waited for them to catch up. After 15 minutes went by, I began to wonder what the hell was going on and started back to see. As I did, I could see them coming through the trees. Pete was holding Kate up with one of her arms around his neck and his arm around her waist, half dragging and half carrying her. When I reached them he set her down and she slumped to her knees, pale and damp, dark circles under her eyes and close to passing out. I thought to myself, "now what!" but I didn't say it. I said, "what happened, you guys were right behind me?!". Well…they were following me and weren't more than 40 feet behind, when Kate hooked her toe on the edge of a rock and instantly went down hard, right on a pointed rock on the trail. It hit her right in the solar plexus, knocked the wind out of her, and to add insult to injury, busted her "favorite" belt buckle. When Pete was picking her up he saw the remains of the buckle on the trail, thought it was some old piece of trash and threw it into a rockslide, never to be seen again.

We weren't far from the boat, but every time we tried to get her on her feet she would start to faint. Eventually, we got her walking slowly down the trail, one of us on each side of her supporting her under her arms while she kept trying to keep her shorts from falling down because her belt buckle was gone. By the time we were at the boat she was coming out of it somewhat. I took her wading shoes and wet socks off her feet and gave her a cold Pepsi and her eyes started to clear. On the way out, I stopped at the hot spring and they spent about 20 minutes soaking in it, which pretty much brought her back to normal. It was her first skinny-dipping experience and although she got in with a bikini on, she eventually took it off. (I was down at the boat). It was her 31^st birthday.

Now, I had one more day with these folks, and I wondered what that would bring! Pete was fine, although he had been stung on his casting hand by a yellowjacket. However, Kate looked like she'd been dragged through a knothole. Our destination for the last day of the excursion was to be Sabe (Sabby) Creek. No trail.

Well, I was determined that I would do whatever I had to to prevent any final catastrophe, even if I had to hold her hand all day. I stayed with them like a shadow, helped them over the big logjam, made sure they ate their lunch on time and drank their Gatoraide and water, and gave her my wading staff while I carried her flyrod. It worked. We had a swell day, caught lots of fish, and other than Pete getting stung again on the same hand, suffered no major traumas. We stopped at the hot springs again at the end of the day and they went skinny-dipping without hesitation. I got them back to the lodge in fine style. I left that evening after dinner, they gave me a nice tip, and they left the next morning for Arizona. I imagine it took Kate a week or so to recuperate from their "vacation".

[The names have been changed to protect the participants].