I’ve been in the valley a long time. I know where the bodies are buried. Hell, I was the pall bearer for more than a few. I don’t know if that makes it home, or if it means it’s time to be moving on. It all started in October. I was heading up to Fools’ Lake. It’s tucked into the foothills, but there’s no real trail to it, and it’s tiny, a couple of acres max, so I don’t know anybody who fishes it. But I heard there were goldens in there years ago, and I thought the exit creek might hold some spawning bulls late in the year. At least if there were no fish, there would be no other fishermen.

Now, I hate the clear-cutting bastards as much as I hate poachers, but in this case, I don’t think I could’ve gotten to the lake if it wasn’t for the clear cut. In fact, it was seeing it from the road that gave me and my friend Mikey the idea of making the hike one day coming back from the Pass. The logging road should take us within spitting distance of the lake, and if we didn’t do it, somebody else would beat us to it.

It was late in the month and some of the first snows had come and gone. The day was bright and crisp. Just the kind of weather when the fish become as selective as drunks at closing time as they tried to pack a few more calories in before freeze over. I had a good feeling about this.

I pulled off the highway onto the forest service road and drove up it until it turned west and began to get steep. I parked in front of the gate, settled my pack on and started bushwacking across the clear cut with my Rottie male, Goblin. His markings are kind of muddy and he’s kind of houndy looking, but I got him at the purebred rescue for a song.

Basically, I just kept the pass that drained the lake in sight and tried to head as straight for it as terrain would allow. The foothills here are the curdled cream of glacial run off, lumpy, and bumpy, and steep, and you never know what route you will eventually have to take. We’d been at it about ten minutes, Goblin ranging around but never far away, going straight up hill as if he were on the level, while I sweated away under my float tube and other gear. We crested a near horizon and dropped down into a little gully when I noticed Goblin pawing at something. I didn’t think too much of it, but I didn’t want him rolling in puma shit, or any other stinky thing, as he is wont to do. A dog rolls in one dead salmon in the fall, and you smell it every time he gets wet until the next salmon season. We all have our bad habits. I called to him, and walked over to see what it was.

There on the ground was something wrapped in black plastic, about the size of a hay bale. I didn’t have to see the individually wrapped bricks splayed around it out of its broken end to know what it was. I’d seen lots of these floating off the coast of Maine when I used to lobster as a kid. The drug runners would come in at night, float a bale just below the surface attached to a Chlorox bottle. The next day some lobsterman would pick it up while he was hauling traps and bring it to shore with his catch. Simple as pie, clean as can be, and lethal as hell if anybody caught you messing with it. In Maine, they kept a spotter on the beach to make sure everything went alright. Suddenly, the hairs on my neck stood up.

“C’mere boy.” Goblin is a very well behaved dog. I don’t ask much, and I’m never unreasonable, so he generally agrees to what I have in mind. He’s got a penchant for stuffing things into his sizeable maw, however, and this time he came right over – carrying a brick. I just bent down like I was petting him and took it, holding it tight to my belly so that nobody behind me to could see what was going on. Then I just kept right on going, up to the lake like nothing at all had happened.

Turned out to be pretty good, too. I caught a golden (a Fools’ golden, if you will), though I didn’t land it, and a bunch of surprisingly fat cutties. I didn’t have time to fish the stream, but I figured I would be coming back. Whole way down, though, I thought about that dope and the brick stashed in the bottom of my backpack.

Once the sun goes behind the ridge, it gets dark fast, and cold. We got back to the truck just at dark, I loaded up and drove down the road back to the highway. I live in a little trailer, like a camping trailer, up off the main road. It’s parked right on the edge of a ridge and it’s got a hell of a view of the Cascades and the Sky River. I unpacked the gear on the tailgate and put it in a little shed I use to keep the trailer from getting too cluttered. I looked at the brick for a while and then for some reason walked over and put it in one of the cubbies in my drift boat. Seemed like I should hide it and that’s the best I could think of.

I walked in and said “Honey I’m home!” to the picture of the sweet little woman sitting on top of my TV. It was long over between us, if you consider “long over” to be the weight of a semi sitting where your heart used to be, but nobody can say I’m afraid of commitment. It’s just what I can commit to, which did not include a “career” and a white picket fence. Although late at night I do sometimes revisit those decisions.

I made a Spam and Velveeta omelet, gave Goblin some raw chicken – he gets a leg quarter twice every day, morning and night. Then we each had a beer or two out by the fire in the yard. I really wanted to fish that lake, but as long as that dope was there, it just didn’t seem prudent. But I really wanted to fish that lake. It went around like that for a while.

I don’t really have anything against dope. You never hear of some guy getting stoned and beating his wife or crashing the car. Teenagers don’t do bong hits and shoot up malls. Nope. I’m all for the free market aspects of it, in fact. Quality keeps going up, and the price is practically inflation-proof. Seems like there should be a lesson there for other international trade, is all I’m saying. Eventually I figured a way to make it work out and then I went to bed.

Next day, I loaded up my gear and the Goblin and drove down the road until I got cell reception and called my friend Mikey. Mikey, from his telling, used to deal a lot of dope. Then he discovered fly fishing and it turned his life around. I kind of believe him, too since he occasionally shows up with some poor soul whose life he is trying to turn around. That and all the guns and fast sleeper cars he has lying around.

He prefers RX-7s. Fast in their time, with tons of aftermarket mods available, but they wouldn’t raise an eyebrow now and you can buy them by the six pack and have your own parts store. Mikey says, “Sometimes, when the devil knows you’re dead, but you haven’t spent your hour in heaven, you just gotta run for it.” I like that. A guy who always has a plan B.

I picked him up and started back up to Fools’ Lake. “I thought about it a lot yesterday, and this is how I figure it,” I said as I pinned it through the potholes. (My theory on rough roads is if you drive them fast, the wheels don’t have time to fall into the holes and it smooths them right out. Mikey is one of the few people who doesn’t argue with my application of the theory.) “A plane in BC files a flight plan to come to the states and then goes through customs. After that, they do a fly-over some field and snag a cable on the ground, just like the old postal planes used to do. Then they winch in the dope and keep right on their flight plan, coming over the border and dropping it here where a spotter picks it up. They land in the US, clear customs, and go about their business.”

“Yeah, I used to get all my good shit from BC,” Mikey says as he pets Goblin absently. “That does make sense. Why do you figure it’s still there, though?”

“I been thinking about that, too. Either they just dropped it, and I came along all dumbass before they could get it, or they lost it somehow.”

“Case A, it’s not there today and we have a good day fishing,” says Mikey.

“Case B, Lord deliver me from temptations,” says I.

“Ayup.”

Goblin looked out the window without a care in the world, and I kinda wanted to trade places with him.

We parked and packed up, taking a little more time checking gear and making a production out of it, and then headed back up the ridge. Once all this dope stuff was taken care of, I thought, I’m going to have to take pains to hide the trail so other people don’t fish the lake out.

Goblin put his nose down and lead us unerringly up the ridge, even though visibility was only a few hundred yards in the morning mist and I couldn’t see the pass. As we came over the swale the dope was still there. Mikey might not have even seen it for as cool as he was and we kept straight on to the lake, too winded and preoccupied with the hike to talk.

As we were rigging up our rods Mike said. “Dude, there is a lot of money back there. You know, don’t you, that Mary Jane sells for more per ounce than gold? That was a hay bale back there, probably 50 kilos. You could definitely put that addition onto the trailer.”

“I was thinking maybe get one of those above ground pools, too.”

“That too,” he said and then gave the rod a few wiggles before heading down the east side of the lake.

I put a big old terrestrial pattern on, and went to a point on the other shore. See these lakes don’t have squat for life in them. But the winds from the valley blow the bugs upslope and that’s mostly what the fish eat. Makes fishing for them pretty simple. Put a sheet out, see what lands on it, fish that pattern. I caught about a dozen more cutties, then finally hooked and landed a golden, my first, before it was time to head down. I still hadn’t gotten to the trib, but hopefully there would be another time.

We got back to the truck and loaded up.

“That was real nice, I want to thank you for sharing that,” Mikey said.

You don’t show all your friends all your fishing holes, but generally Mikey and I had a one-for-one trade off, and an unspoken agreement: I knew he would never come back here without me, and that he would never tell anybody else about it. That’s what makes a good fishing friend. What makes him an even better general friend is that, unlike ninety-nine percent of the people you meet, he thinks and then he talks.

I reached under the seat, grabbed two Dead Guy ales and handed them to him. “Opener’s in the glove box.”

“That dope was a pretty sweet find, too, he said, handing me back a beer.” I figure it’s about 50 kilos, or just over 100 pounds. Two of us could pack it out.

“I guess it’s Case B, then.”

“Yep. Definitely. There was some rain splatter on the plastic, so that had to have been there at least since Tues. I think they lost it.” Here I was thinking he might not have even noticed it.

“You gotta figure they are still looking for it. Or sending another shipment, though. I just get real nervous even being near that stuff.”

“I can’t figure that either, but I tell you what, when I get home, I’ll make some calls and get back to you. Hey did I tell you I caught a golden up there! Actually, landed two of them! That made the whole trip worth it.”

And we talked fishing all the rest of the way home.

I stayed off the mountain the next day, fished the Sultan instead. I went through every egg-sucking pattern and white leech I had, and finally in desperation switched to a purple leech and landed two bulls in ten casts. Still can never figure those damn things out, for a whole year, they only took white.

The next day, Mikey drove up the hill in this little Toyota four-by he had, just about as stripped down and built as one of those Baja racers. Goblin seems to remember how a vehicle sounds, because he just paced out and stood on the trailer’s stoop without barking at all.

“Hey Ninja warrior, I hope you’re sober. We got some work to do.”

“You figure?”

“Yup. I can move that stuff as soon as we get it.

“You know, I’m pretty happy with my life. Don’t got much, don’t need much. Good dog, nice view off the manse here. Some money left over for beer once I get my Vienna sausages.”

“I hear ya. I quit the dope game a long time ago, for good reason.”

“I mean, it’s a risk-reward thing here. We could be risking everything, and for what?”

“A little trail maintenance.”

“And an above ground pool. “

“That’s about it.”

“Well, you are a damned fool without my years of wisdom, and I am not going to let you do this alone.”

“Kinda figured it your way.”

“I’ll drive, there’s no seat in that thing for Goblin.”

“Shit. I forgot, sorry.”

My grandmother used to say “In for a penny, in for a pound.” In for a brick, in for a bale I guess might be how to look at it tonight. I was of mixed emotions on this venture but once we started out, I figured to see it through. Mikey had brought some gear with him and we sorted it all out and talked over the plan. We had a few beers around the fire and around one thirty headed out.

The moon was in its last quarter, but the night was clear. I pulled off the highway and turned off my lights, then we sat there for ten minutes while our eyes adjusted, and I drove up the road in the dark. We didn’t talk at all. I know my gut hurt from the knots and I was afraid if I opened my mouth I’d start blathering and either talk him out of it or get talked out of it. Besides we had a plan, all we had to do was keep to it. In my experience, once you get that far, you should just stop thinking before you screw it all up.

We geared up and started over the clear cut. The shadows from the moonlight were blacker than Goblin, but in between it was pretty easy going. We hiked to the swale and stopped. We looked around where we thought the dope should be, but there was nothing there.

“Souk!” I said to Goblin. That's "seek" in German. Most people don’t know it, but Rottweilers are darn good trackers. It’s their all-around utilitarian nature, plus their friendly demeanor, that makes us get along so well. Normally, I would give him something to scent off of, but in lieu of that, he was smart enough to bring back anything unusual. “Souk!” I said with increased urgency and he began to whine as he coursed about our position. I knew it was unfair and he just wanted to please me, but I was frustrated. How could we not have the sense to get a GPS bearing on this shit?

Suddenly, I had an idea. “Did you fuck me?”

“Likewise.”

“Yeah, I guess that was kind of dumbass. If you did, why would you be standing here with a target on your back?”

“Likewise.”

“Had to ask. How could we miss this?”

“We didn’t miss it, even if we did, Goblin wouldn’t have missed it. It got harvested. Somebody beat us to it.”

“Damn shame to come all this way for nothing. Woulda been a hell of a night for night fishing, too.”

We both laughed and I have to tell you, I was actually pretty relieved. Only times I’ve ever been happy was when I was poor. I don’t know why I keep fighting it. We double-timed it back to the truck and I drove down with my lights on, us laughing and telling stories the whole way.

“Damn, dude, I almost got back in the game. You are one dangerous fishing partner.”

“What came over us, we were like kids!”

When we got home it was almost dawn. We were both pretty wired, but Mikey left. He didn’t like to leave his beautiful wife alone too long, and I understood that only too well.

“Watch your back,” he said as he got into the Toyota.

“Hi honey, I’m home,” I called and reached for the Bourbon.

Some time that morning the rains rolled in. My trailer sounded just like it was being run through a car wash. There was to be no fishing that day. I tied some flies, I drank some, I played with the satellite dish and watched some soccer. I poured over maps making plans for future adventures. I just about completely forgot about the dope.

Good sleeping weather, though, especially once the Bourbon runs out. Next thing I know, Goblin is barking at the door. I was just sitting up when I heard a tremendous crash and the whole trailer lurched. The octagonal-cut pint glass I favor for my bourbon came off the shelf above the bed and cut a nasty gash on my scalp. Now I was pissed.

I rolled out of bed onto my feet and the trailer lurched again. There weren’t too many more of those before Goblin and I took a little bobsled run down the ridge. I stumbled to the door and just got it opened when there was a final crash that brought me to my knees. Goblin tried to break past me, but I got him by his chain collar, wincing with the force the links cut into my finger tendons.

“Come on out Jarl!”

Well hallelujah, and who could that be? I was a bit fuzzy, but coming around fast. I stood up and walked out the door, only to fall flat on my face since my stoop was about ten feet to my left. Fortunately, I was too dazed to let go of the dog. I got up slowly, high beams in my eyes. Some fuckers had been ramming my trailer with a big old Dodge four-by. It was raining so hard it was hard to see.

“What the fuck?” Goblin was going ballistic. “Sitz!” I barked in German, and he sat right down next to me, although I could tell he didn’t like it.

“Where’s our dope, dirt bag.”

“Dope?”

A man walked into the light and dropped me with the stock of a shotgun, just like that. There was no holding Goblin back after that. He hit him in the inner thigh, targeting the femoral artery and the guy went down screaming. “Shoot him! Shoot him!” But there was too much confusion and the dog was between us. “Aus!” I screamed, although it was against my best instincts, as it seemed that Goblin had the better handle on the situation. I was finally able to pull him off, and put him behind me. “Platz!” He laid down, providing what I hoped was an impossible target, his muddy coloring and pouring rain blending him in with the shadows.

“Shoot that fucking dog!” The guy was screaming over and over again.

“If you do, you better shoot me, too.”

He had crab-walked back to his partner.

“Shut the fuck up, both of you.” His voice was way too rational and cold for the situation. He stepped forward. “Where. Is. My. Fucking. Dope.”

I was wiping blood out of my mouth.

“I don’t…” I started to say, when he dropped an 8 x10 glossy color photo down on the ground in front of me. There was my truck, and my license plate broad as day.

“I know you took it. You were there three times and now it’s gone. I’m going to ask one more time, then I am going to shoot the dog, and then blow your arms and legs off one at a time until you tell me where it is.”

Did I mention I love that dog? My gears were pretty rusty but most of them were still there. “I’ll get it for you.” By now, I was on my feet. Goblin was still behind me. With his mouth hanging open and his tongue out, he actually looked kind of jolly. He loves this shit. “But it’s not here. I’ll have to get it tomorrow.”

“Can you believe this guy?” He looked back to his friend with the shotgun. “I’m not fooling around. I want my shit.”

“I told you I would get it for you!”

“Okay, I warned you.” He shrugged his shoulders. His buddy pumped the gun and blew a hole in my boat parked just to the right of me.

“Jesus!” I screamed as a piece of shrapnel caught me in the thigh.

I hobbled over to the boat. I heard the gun pump again.

“Easy Tony Soprano,” I said, and pulled the brick out from the compartment. “Like I said, it’s not here. It’s on an island in the river. And now it looks like it’s going to be a while before I can get it.”

The smart guy’s eyebrows went up. “Now we’re getting somewhere. He handed me a card. Tomorrow. Get it, call us.”

“Whoa. Not so easy. First there is this.” I waved vaguely at the boat. “Second, there is this,” I held my hand out to the rain. “First flood of the winter. The river is impassable.”

He looked daggers. “Hey,” I shrugged, you don’t want to go through all of this and dump it in the river do you?”

“When?”

“When the river falls.”

“You got two days.”

“I’ll call God and get him right on it.”

He walked right up to me, nose to nose and grabbed the wound on my thigh.

“Ungh!”

“Two days.” He turned and walked back towards the truck. I was bent double but kind of pissed.

“I don’t suppose there is a finder’s fee?”

“I don’t like wiseasses,” he pointed at Goblin, “and I don’t like your dog.”

His buddy limped over to the driver’s side and got in, wincing. They backed out and I stood there watching. Then I turned to Goblin and said “Break!” and passed out.

This is part 1 of a 3-part story. Part 2 will be published tomorrow.