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the east and color was returning to the world. Off in the trees, the birds were thrilled by this development.
    A stillness lay over everything else. It was one of those brand-new mornings that make you think you’re somehow sharing in the creation of the universe. The grass, the earth, the lake, they were all frozen in time, waiting for the ring of the starter bell. The air seemed thicker, denser, and so did the water. It looked so solid that I felt I could walk straight across its flat silver surface.
    I decided to use the path instead. Realism, as usual, beating out romance.
    When I came to Daniel Begay’s campsite, I saw that he was already up, and had been for a while. He had lit another fire and it had burned down to coals. Warming by the side sat a cast-iron pan holding a few biscuits. The old man was sitting on the same log he had occupied last night, the brim of his hat tipped forward as he fiddled with the reel of a fly rod. I didn’t know much about fly rods, but I knew that this one was expensive. Eight or nine feet long, made of slender bamboo that had aged to the color of old ivory, it looked as delicate and as functional as a spider’s leg.
    He looked up as I approached, and smiled. “You hungry?”
    â€œAlways. But are you sure I’m not imposing?”
    â€œNot if you’re hungry.”
    â€œOkay, then. Thanks.”
    Nodding, he set aside the rod and rested it carefully against the log. Moving slowly, deliberately, he picked up his cane and walked down to the shore, then bent forward at the waist and used his right hand to grasp a length of rope that led into the water. He stood straight, pulling in the rope. Twitching at the end, the rope hooked through its gill, was a thick rainbow trout, at least two flashing pounds of fish. A bigger trout than I’d ever caught in my life.
    â€œNice fish,” I told him, feeling a bit like the straight man in a vaudeville act. Custer and the Indian.
    He nodded, dropped his cane, and reached his right hand into his pocket, pulled something out. A knife, it looked like.
    â€œYou want any help?” I asked him.
    He turned to me and smiled. “Oh, I think I’ll be okay.” A knife blade suddenly sprang, snick , from the front of his fist. Switchblade. He nodded toward the fire. “Have a biscuit.”
    As he squatted down to clean the fish, I strolled over to the fire. I pried a biscuit from the pan and sat down on the log. Took a bite of biscuit. Crunched at it. Crunched some more. It was a lot like eating fiberboard. But I’d be willing to bet that fiberboard has more subtle nuances of flavor.
    I sat there for a while, teeth sawing away at the thing, trying to produce enough saliva to soften it. Finally Daniel Begay limped up from the shore, the fish in his left hand, the knife and the cane in his right. He looked down at me. “Biscuit okay?”
    â€œGood,” I said around a mouthful of gravel. “Great.”
    He nodded, his face expressionless. “Biscuits aren’t my best thing.”
    â€œIt’s terrific,” I mumbled. “You’ve got to give me the recipe.”
    He smiled then. “Not allowed to. Old family secret.”
    I laughed and some biscuit dust shot from my mouth.
    In the camper he had everything he needed to fix breakfast: oil, flour, salt and pepper, blue enamel plates. He put the remaining biscuits on a plate, poured oil into the pan, set it on the coals. Before he dredged the fish with flour, he cut off the tail and tossed it into the fire. This could have been a religious observance, or it could have been a convenient way to get rid of a fish tail. After he fried the fish, the two of us ate it, drinking more of his good coffee out of the blue metal cups. The fish, flaky and sweet, was even better than the coffee.
    We didn’t talk much while we ate. I’m not at my best in the morning—I’m no longer sure when I am at my best, or even what my