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Fishing wasn’t about chasing. It was about stillness.
The world narrowed to the movement of the line, the slow pull of the current, and the occasional flicker of tension that told me something was curious but not quite committed. And then—if you were lucky—the tug. A sharp pull, the sudden weight at the end of the line. I let it take for a breath. The fight was a good one—the fish pulled hard, the rod bent, and the reel hummed as I let the trout run just enough to wear itself down before reeling it in.
It was a good-sized trout—about fourteen inches, a solid pound and a half. Big enough for a meal, maybe even leftovers if I wasn’t too hungry. It had taken nearly two hours to get one on the hook and a good thirty minutes to land. A stubborn fighter, darting and diving, testing my patience and skill. But I’d won in the end, and with brown butter, the spoils were going to be damn good.
I carried the fish up from the creek, its slick body firmin my grip, the speckled scales catching the afternoon light.
There was a cleaning station by the cabin—nothing fancy—a rough-hewn wooden table stained from years of use. A bucket was nearby to catch the scraps. The table sat in the shade of a pine tree, close enough to the creek that I could still hear the water moving.
I laid the trout down and reached for my fillet knife, the handle worn smooth from use. I worked the way Nash had taught me.
"First, cut along the belly—steady, no sawing. Then slide the blade just below the gills and run it down toward the tail in one clean motion."
I made the incision, and the trout’s warm insides spilled out into my waiting hand, fresh and briny, smelling like the creek itself. I tossed the guts into the bucket, already knowing the coyotes or raccoons would get to them by morning.
Dipping the fish into a bucket of clean water, I gently swished it to remove any blood.
"Descaling ain’t brute force, Lena,"Nash had told me once, demonstrating with the back of his knife."It’s rhythm."
I worked the blade over the fish’s skin, the tiny silver scales flaking off, catching in the setting sunlight before sticking to my hands and shirt. No matter how careful I was, I’d find them later. I always did.
With a few precise cuts, I removed the head and tail, then butterflied the fish open, pulling out the spine in one smoothmotion. I cleaned it a little more before taking it inside to the tiny kitchen.
Because when I said the cabin was barebones, I meant it. Maverick had built this place for himself and those like him—people who didn’t want luxuries, just a quiet spot to fish, hunt, cook, and be.
"All it needs is salt and pepper—just enough to bring out the flavor, nothing else. This is fresh Colorado fish; it don’t need nothin’ else,"Nash would say as he laid fillets over a cast-iron skillet, whether we were cooking over an open fire or in the bunkhouse kitchen.
I rubbed the trout with salt and pepper, just as he had taught me, working the seasoning in with steady hands.
Then, as the fish rested, I fired up the pan.
Soon, the rich, familiar scent of sizzling fish and butter filled the cabin, mixing with the faint smokiness of the wood-burning stove. I waited until the skin crisped to a perfect golden brown, the edges curling just slightly, before flipping it with a fork.
I threw together a salad with what I could find in the fridge. Maverick always kept this place stocked to the gills—maybe not with luxuries, but with damn good liquor and enough fresh ingredients to cook a Michelin-star meal if you knew what you were doing.
Case in point: the fresh black truffle sitting in the fridge.
If Maverick were here, he’d insist on shaving that overpriced mushroom onto the fish. But I was a purist. Butter, salt, and pepper were all fresh trout needed, just like Nash always said.
"You know why this tastes so good, Elena?"
"Why?"
"‘Cause you caught it. That’s the food that tastes best—the one you grow yourself, the one you catch."
"Is that why our steaks are so good? Because we raise the cattle?"
"You got it, pretty girl. You got it."
After I lost Duke, I lost Nash. And then, in some ways, I lost Mama. The truth was, after Duke, I lost myself.
I finished eating and cleaned up, which wasn’t hard. Mav’sbarebonescabin did come with a few luxuries, including a dishwasher, and I wasn’t about to complain about that since I hated doing the dishes.
As dusk slipped in, I sat outside on the porch, a glass of Mav’s good bourbon in my hand. It was early spring, so the mornings and evenings still carried a bite.
I fired up the outdoor fireplace. The fire burned low, embers glowing red-hot beneath the stacked logs. The scent of charred wood and pine resin threaded through the crisp evening air.
Beyond the porch, the wilderness stretched wide and quiet. The creek murmured in the distance, winding its way through the valley. The towering pines stood like dark sentinels against the deepening sky, their branches rustling softly in the breeze.