No Misery, only a little death- A Columbia Fairytale

wadin' boot

Donny, you're out of your element...
WFF Supporter
Where the wind is blowing I go a strolling
The wheat field waving and the dust a rolling
The fog is lifting and the wind is saying:
This land is made for you and me.
This Land is Your land, Woody Guthrie, 1940​


Green Douglas firs where the waters cut through
Down her wild mountains and canyons she flew
Canadian Northwest to the oceans so blue
Roll on Columbia, roll on

Other great rivers add power to you
Yakima, Snake, and the Klickitat too,
Sandy, Willamette and Hood River too
So roll on, Columbia, roll on​


Roll on Columbia, roll On, Woody Guthrie, 1941​



Imagine a fine Queen Anne house, fish-scale shingles, gable roof, and a wrap-around-spindle porch. There’s a steeple, its windows open and curtains billowing. Now picture a girl, with long hair, strawberry blonde, you can make out the curve of her ample bust, backlit by a sunset, she’s leaning out one of those windows. Against a backdrop of the terraced-cuts of the Columbia Gorge, she’s looking upstream, waving to someone, perhaps the first suitor to arrive. This beauty is Abigail Anderson.

The year is 1941, and everyone has heard of her. Everyone at least in Hood River and Skamania county. Everyone downstream to Portland and Vancouver, everyone upstream to Kennewick, The Dalles and Pasco. Her name’s been swapped on steam scows, gravel skiffs, lime barges, can boats and log trains, hop farms and schooners, saloons and schoolyards, courthouses and orchards, crab boats and Indian camps. They’d heard about her in Seattle, more than once too, when she was a baby, and now when she’s a beauty.

You’d read about her in terms that gushed like Celilo falls in May. A dappled sprinkle of freckles, eyes as green as the Hood’s last pool, her mother’s fine teeth, and a figure all curves where they should be, and nothing more. A Venus, Aphrodite and so on. She’s the Orchard Queen, The belle of Hood River, the most beautiful girl in all of Cascadia, and her Shingle-king father is about to give her away.

Olaf Anderson did not, at first glance, appear all that intimidating. His teeth fell as a young man. He learned a repulsive and unbreakable habit of rubbing his gums together, and grew a blonde beard to hide it all on advice of his wife, Rose. Hers was the word he respected. His chorea hidden, his blonde beard aged white. Except for a patch that soon took on pipe smoke and kippered fish pigments. (Rose found no bleach or stain kept the beard white. Her life was summed up as a series of minor triumphs.) He walked with a limp from a lick of polio, wore an orthotic boot with a three-inch malay-rubber platform and fixed it all with a hinged knee brace, padded with lambskins. To cover that up, he wore one of three fine suits purchased in varying shades of black from Mister W. L. Hung’s on 3rd avenue.

Anderson once ruled a ten-acre block of Ballard, then a mud-spackled wood-street carbuncle on the ass of Seattle. He ran a shingle mill, and from 1905-1924 made a fortune from cedar shakes. When he kicked you with his mechanical clog and barked an order, you were bruised, physically, mentally, and all of it was hammered home in breath heavy with lutefisk. Workers in the split-yard referred to him as “Stinkpelt.” It was an efficient and unpleasant place to work.

But then tragedy twisted fate’s arm. Olaf’s wife died in childbirth and he’s left with Abigail, his first, his last child. Schooled by wet nurses (Olga, Helga, Gertrude all as appealing as their names may suggest) he found himself on the receiving end of scoldings, berating, and the temptation of large milky breasts not meant for his toothless gums.

But the ultimate humiliation, the failure to soothe a crying child, he conquers. It takes him three years, a slow weaning from fish and pipe, and an endless supply of boiled hard-candy mint treats, special-order, from a namesake sect of short-lived, abstinent, Minneapolis Lutherins known as “De är Suckers.”

So long as the logs made it to Salmon bay, Anderson’s Mill ran itself. And Olaf, weary of shingles, and no longer oblivious to his nickname, sold out, moved with Abigail south, to lands that reminded him of nothing. Not of Sweden, not of Ballard, not of Rose. He stopped as far as a highway would take him, to Hood River, and settled there in 1924. He built the finest house he could in a manner fit for a lumbar baron, a precious Queen Anne on a low west slope on the outskirts of town, and raised Abigail, weaned now to solids, at first on his own.

Schooling initially revolved around things they learned together. How to prune fruit trees, the keeping of bees, harvesting cherries, the nursing of sick animals, the pressing of grapes, the tending of tomatoes and bean vines and the quick strangle of clematis. They wove their way into their neighbor’s lives, watching, helping, asking questions. Afterwards Olaf would slip the man-of-the-house a handshake filled with crisp bills, and at least at first, Olaf and Abigail were “rich city folk.” It was a good place to be in the depression. Over time, they were remembered more as good people, and now that Abigail was famous, she was the “Hood River Hearbeat.”

Down time for Olaf and Abigail, was watching their neighbor stuff fish, deer heads, otter and whatever else that required his taxidermy. Their neighbour, a consumptive, hunchbacked Mexican named Lobo- like his canine shadow- lived in a small galvanized tin shack, and in it he made masterpieces out the mangled messes sportsmen left him. (Incidentally, if anyone deserved the nickname “Stinkpelt” it was Lobo- he shared no fondness for bathing, and little pieces of hide and meat often escaped his broom and ripened while waiting for the rats and ants to find them.) Jewel eyes, invisible stitches, odors of tannins and resins and tiny paints, it was a magical place, full of potential and rebirth.


Olaf showed particular aptitude, and Lobo, seeing in Olaf both benefactor and apprentice, insisted he copy all of his strangest works, using plasters and other molds. He coached him on paints, fillings, how feathers lie and the fragility of skins, ways to work color into metal, how a missed scale or two made the fish look all the more real, and how to mount a fish to make it almost move. While they worked, Olaf and Lobo asked Abigail to tell them everything there was to know about the creature they were stuffing. It meant a lot of trips to a library under-gunned for such an inquisition, and made for letters sent to experts on either coast, once they met Olaf’s tests of neatness, brevity and accuracy that is.

Abigail also learned how to catch whatever moves up or down the Columbia. Schooled by an Indian, Two- Pence Echohawk, a man with a hare-lip and origins that depended on his mood, sometimes Yakima, Sometimes Warm Springs, maybe Nez Perce, Abigail learned fast. Two-Pence had what we might call in this day and age a high-functioning autism tuned only to catching of fish. He saw no merit in smalltalk, stories, women, aspirations, firewater, possessions or routine. At least until Olaf stepped in and convinced him he needed some permanence, if only for a roof, a warm room, and a reliable source of food.

Olaf, egalitarian to the marrow, paid Two-Pence a whitefella’s wage and asked that he teach Abigail to fish. By the age of ten, she was proficient in baits, flies, nets, harpoons, dynamite, and traps. Just about anyway you could fish, she knew how to do it. At twelve, she rowed an October Columbia on her own, landing on the opposite bank perpendicular to where she started, and did the same on the way back. By the time she was fifteen, she could run a seine-net horse team on tide flats or flood surge, she could bring in two-hundred pounds of fish if the runs were right.

Of those fish, the strangest and the most peculiar, the loveliest and best, she would bring home for her father and Lobo to fix, stuff and mount. Which brings us to the beginning, and the suitors, who now arrive.

Around his gracious main drawing room, Olaf Anderson hung every manner of animal Abigail had caught and that he or Lupo mounted. There were Kings, jacks, steelhead, sturgeon, shad, and carp, coastal rainbow and redband trout, coho, chum, sockeye, northern pikeminnow, crappie, bluegill, bullhead, walleye, flouder, burbot, and cutthroat, catfish, crappie, eels, lampreys, striped smallmouth and largemouth bass and a dozen more- including sculpins, and sand lances. But none of the fish were named, and all of them were a little different than your standard. And that would be the task.

Olaf’s logic went something like this: Now that she was 21 she was a woman who should be set free. A man worthy of Abigail ought to at least know her language. And show some smarts too. The task was set, whoever could name all the 36 fish would have her hand. Although Abigail first bristled at the idea, she saw some of his logic and was not adverse. Young, beautiful and virginally naive, she figured if she could handle a horse team, a man could be no more difficult. And what else but of fish was there to talk of anyways?

It took the four of them- Lobo, Two-Pence, Olaf and Abigail a good three nights arguing about what constituted the name. Make that three of them, Two-Pence wasn’t one for fighting. Could you call it a chum, or was it better known as a dog? At what point was a rainbow a steelhead? Did a leather carp or mirror carp also count as a European Carp? Is a dolly Varden a Bull trout or are they different? All agreed latin names were out, they just meant trouble, not for classifying the fish, just that whoever used them was bound to have airs. They decided any common name would work, and between them chose the name they thought most apt. Abigail ordered engraved labels for the mountings, Olaf sent in for small ads in the Portland, Seattle and Spokane papers (and other lesser sites in between), chose a date, and waited for the buzz to carry with a Hood river wind.

Lobo and Olaf, meanwhile, continued work on the insurance.

In the 1930’s and 1940’s a long stream of young men were moving up through the Pacific Northwest. It was sort of like Alaska is always, lopsided in favor of men. There were men working the dams, the canning camps, the logging trails. All of them had a streak of opportunism, and pretence was rare. These were hard working men, young, skinny, and sinewy, and most of them didn’t stand a chance to win Abigail Anderson. Not because they weren’t bright, or capable, but because they hadn’t done the river time.

These men you could spot before they even made it a third of the way up the quarter-mile drive. For one thing they carried luggage, just as prepared to move on as to settle down, most of them had caps, and more often than not, they were a little lit and had no clue about girls other than their sisters. These men would later fight in Pacific and Atlantic theaters. Other than in this story, history does not dismiss them.

Word got around that no-one won her hand. All the way back to Portland and Vancouver. A Seattle Reporter, Willard Ross, got wind of it all, begged the story, proposed a week of interviews, and his editor loaned him his Indian, and he made his way south. Ross had been looking for a feel-good lead ever since the Nazis pushed into Poland. He had it in the saga of Abigail Anderson.


“Willard Ross, Seattle Post-Intelligencer, you must be Abigail Anderson?”
He was struck that the rumors really didn’t do her justice, not usually intimidated given his mastery of crime scenes, family interviews, tough questioning. Won a prize as a cub reporter: “Master of the Ghoul beat.” they called him. But this Abigail Anderson, she was immediately disarming.
“Yes, of course you are.”
And what of Abigail? Did she flirt? Had she snuck behind the woodshed with neighbor boys? Seduced married men? Boys to some degree, not men, and Olaf, most times still a hardass, remained vigilant.

Willard Ross though seemed different to her. He wasn’t there to win her, he was there to write about her. And that lack of pursuit suddenly made him interesting. She wanted to show him her world, if only a little bit of it.

“Do you mind if I ask you some questions?”
“Do you mind asking me them up there?” She pointed to the ridgeline above the town, over the Columbia.
“Ahh, what do you mean.”
“Here, follow me. We’ll take Ol’ Paint.”
“Ol’ Paint?”
“Yep, she’s my horse, slow, but so fine.”

Abigail saddled her up with a blanket and stirrups, Indian style, just like Two-Bit taught her. She drew Ol’ Paint up close to the fencepost and climbed on, and motioned to Willard to come on up. How could he resist, the creature (Not Abigail) smelled of horseshit and flies, a large bubble of crusted black gunk the size of a creosote bead or a rabbit turd threatened to drip form the corner of her eye, and damnit if she didn’t have horse-farts.

They made their way up a switchback trail, slow and torturous for Willard. For one his ass was already sore from ten hours on the motorbike’s saddle, a handspan of flimsy leather, and now he’s spreading his legs on a horse that might as well be a whale. But worse than that, the only thing he had to hold onto was the crest of Abigail Anderson’s hips, or her thin waist. All the while her warm butt pushed back, grinding against him, and depending on how she (or Ol’ Paint) moved, be it leaning forward or twisting or laughing, one of her breasts might graze his forearm. His hand might slip onto her belly, or between her legs. He never thought that twenty minutes after meeting Abigail Anderson, he would suffer the longest, most painful erection of his life. He was 24 years old, and in love, for the first time.

Will tried to fill the time with questions.

“What are your thoughts about tomorrow?”
“Well there’s two of them. One’s named Lewis from Portland. Owns a bunch of canneries, Dad says he’s wealthy and a good bet, says he’ll take care of me. Says he’ll likely die soon and I’ll be a rich Heiress. Can you imagine that?”
“Is he older?”
“About 45 he says.”
“good looking?”
“It’s all relative.”
“you serious?”
“Sure, I mean Two-bits’s good looking. Not his face mind you, but he’s strong and fit and there’s nothing mean or tricky about him. That’s good looking too. Ol’ Paint and Two-Bit are birds of a feather. Reliable, aren’t ya, Ol Paint.” She slaps Ol’ Paint’s ribs and her breast brushes his arm again.
“What about the other guy?”
“He’s the unknown, from Canada. A professor, supposedly of fish. Ever heard of that? He also flyfishes, wrote a book about Fish of the Fraser River. His book’s called “Greatest Salmon River in the world.” What do you think that is Mr Ross?” She points to the Columbia, a big fat blue ribbon rolling on below.

“Probably figures the river’s got the same types of fish in it, and maybe he’s right, I’ve never been up that way. I ordered his book, but it hasn’t come yet.”
“What’s his name?”
“Alaistair Nagle. It’s a funny name isn’t it? Nagle? Alastair Nagle. Sounds like a fish, like a sculpin. A Starnagle. Probably catch one by tickling their belly. Or you step on it and flick it out of your boot with a stick.”

She put her hand on his leg as she turned to talk to him. She had gone from story to a reality, warm and real and certain. Those moments were etched hard into his head in the way that memories are carved best- with pain and emotion. This was all good pain, good memory.

They made it to the top and looked over the vast river. Flowing between basalt ridges. Abigail jumped down, and turned to give Willard her hand. He reluctantly gave it and hoped that when he came down she wouldn’t see his hard-on. But with his thighs half asleep he hit the ground hard and kept falling, ultimately rolling onto his back and finding his legs asleep and useless. His dick was sticking up in his pants like a lodgepole. There was no hiding it and Abigail laughed at him.

She didn’t make him feel bad and he laughed too.
“looks like you need a little time to pull yourself together Mr Ross.”
She faced west, looking out down towards Beacon rock. Gave him some time to settle down.

“There are 36 fish to name.”

Will thought a minute, waiting for his erection to subside. He waited some more, his balls were awful blue. He didn’t want to move, and needed something, anything to take his mind off them. It didn’t take him long to ask.
“What are their names and what do they look like?”
She turned and grinned.

The next day Alastair Nagle and Archibald Rutherford Lewis arrived at the Anderson house prompt, just as their invitation suggested, at Six PM. An hour earlier Willard Ross had arrived, his sputtering motorbike losing momentum at the base of their drive. He was out of gas, and if the truth were told, there was a hollowness in his heart, a nagging, as though fate’s wheel was turning and his name wasn’t on it. Try as he might, he couldn’t recall the names of all the fish, he had no autodidact’s aptitude, no savant skills. He was a simple, straightforward square-jawed honest kid cutting his teeth at a local paper. He wasn’t so different from all the other chumps who had gone before.

As he pushed the bike up against their fence line, a string of onlookers and townsfolk, men, women, drunks, made their way past him on up the hill. One of them was carrying a mailbag.
“Hey Pal, you going up to Anderson’s place?”
“yep, we all are I bet.”
“take this for me? I’m running late and the missus is waiting….”
Willard took the box and a pile of letters from him, stuffed it in his satchel.
“Don’t you want to see it?”
“The girl you mean? Get given to an ass, no sir. This is a tragedy, a folly. Old man Anderson should be in Jail for what he’s doing, the girl must be a little simple to agree to it.”

Willard made a mental note, this would be the balance, the well rounded piece, the opposite point of view to all the others who were looking forward to the conclusion of this soap opera.

The parlor was drawn up with all manner of chairs and stools, and not one of them was empty. Lobo borrowed one of Olaf’s suits, and shaved and showered, was halfway respectable with his trousers cuffed. A plate of lingonberry crepes was over by a pitcher of hot tea, though no-one seemed interested. The collective gaze was pretty much all on Abigail, her apricot lips, her almond eyes, and that long hair against her wool cardigan and rose chenille dress.

The two men introduced themselves.

Archibald Lewis stood in the North corner a little over six feet. He’s older than Nagle, with a face that looked like a slab of corned beef, cracked in places and smattered with tiny spiders of broken blood vessels. Sturgeon ugly, he looked like he might be troubled with gout, round at the waist, and a sheen of white skin on his neck betrayed skin troubles elsewhere. He must of rubbed some lotions or crèmes on it, the patch looked moist and his shirt collar had taken up some damp. Or maybe it was just sweat anyways, dabbing at it with a handkerchief as he was nervous. Women always did that to him.

He told the crowd a little of himself. A boy who worked his way up through a can factory to shift boss, lead man, manager, and then in a bold move, set up his own cannery close to the Sandy. From there he set fish factories up and down the coast, into Canada and so on. Hailed from Portland, Oregon, and at Olaf’s insistence, weighed in at 245 lbs.
A small groan from the women in the crowd accompanied his admission.

“And what is the future you imagine with my Abigail?”

“Fish. Unlimited fish. This river will run with them till the end of time and I will be here as long as I live pulling them out and packing them off. We will catch them at sea and freeze them. We will hunt them all across the Pacific, we will breed them in pools and ponds. This fine creature, will enjoy all the wealth I have in the manner she deserves…”

He sounded a little crazy, but never one to criticize enthusiasm, Olaf let him speak.

“Are you a widower?”
“No Sir.” Lewis was blushing.
“How old are you?”
“I am 46 years old.”
Someone, not Willard, shouts out: “How will you keep it up with her?” A smattering of laughs.

“I’ll not tolerate our guests or my daughter being ridiculed!” Shouted, though with a touch of lisp on account of Olaf’s lack of teeth.

“And what of you?”

In the south corner, at 138 pounds, a mantis of a man, Alastair Nagel, six foot two and if he carried some more weight, potentially very handsome. As for now though, his cheeks were sunken, his bones prominent and accentuated by his devil’s goatee. He wore leathers, an ascot and spectacles.

“My name is Alastair Nagel. I am a fish biologist from London England. I am Canadian now.”

Hisses from the background, someone tells him to go home.

“I have angled all my life, and since a boy I have learned taxonomy. I have traveled widely, and have written books on Icthyology and matters piscatorial, and I plan to write more. Specifically about the sexual determination of anadromous fish via analysis of otoliths and scaling patterns.”

“Speak English.” Again, Olaf chastises the heckler, he doesn’t abide rudeness.

“ I am a graduate of Cambridge University, Trinity college, and took my letters there in 1932. I have worked and lived in Canada ever since. My father, Lord Nagel, is unaware of my being here.”

Olaf looked terrified. He could not imagine such a man with his daughter and it was writ on his face. And then to admit to having a relative that was of noble lineage. He had always loathed birthrights and entitlements. In fact, in that moment, an epiphany, neither man was a good match. These were men already hardened by life and full of dead ends and blind ambitions. Excepting the lineage part, these were men like he was, when he ran the shingle yard. He knew these fears and hopes and sadness and had buried them in 1921 with Rose on the bluff overlooking Shilshole.

But ever a man of his word, the event would go on.

Abigail seemed to share the emotions of her father, she wore a fixed grin that fooled no-one.

With a trembling voice now:
“Are you a widower?”
“No Sir.”
“How old are you?”
“34”
“And what is the future you imagine with my Abigail?”

He looks straight at her.
“She will type my manuscripts and bear my children. We will travel to places unknown and discover all manner of marvelous things. I should like five children. Boys. Boys have pluck and vim.”

Abigail mouthed the words, shocked, “boys have pluck and vim?”

“And what if you couldn’t have fish to work on?”
“I should think dirigibles are an idea whose time, despite the failures of the grand Zeppelin Hindenburg, have yet to fully come.”

A drunk shouts out: “His feet don’t touch the ground” Lobo moves fast and shows the heckler the door, whispers to Willard Ross, something that make Ross do a double-take.

And so the spectacle proceeds.

On a blackboard in front of the men were their names, they couldn’t see them. They faced away from each other and Abigail would model the fish for them. They were to write the name on a sheet of paper that Lobo would bring to Olaf. And in such a way, Olaf would tally their score. He would shout out if the answer was correct or not, nothing more, no names. Once scored, Abigail would show the next fish, and so on.

“You are not to make any noises, if you do, you will be immediately disqualified.”

The salmonoids stumped neither, nor did the bottom dwellers or the flatfish. It was the introduced that proved difficult. Nagel failed first, on #34, missing the pikeminnow, but Olaf, curious now, let him play on. Nagel almost walked, but Olaf insisted he stay. Lewis meanwhile scribbled on, a fat script with common names that needed no adjudication. He so far scored 35 to Nagel’s 34. There was one fish left.

Black and white gummed, white pectoral tips, a smattering of parr markings, both rose and other colored spots, worm like traces, and in a small scarlet band the same red of spawning sockeye. There was a generous kype, and in places scales there were not salmonoid, gill rakes belonged on a bass, and eyes that were unmistakeable to Lobo, at least, as “raccoon #4.” It was Lobo’s insurance. A practice fish, an early set piece for Olaf to learn techniques. It was no fish and all fish of the Columbia.

Lewis wrote: Bull trout, mutated
And Nagel: There is no such fish
The tally was tied at 35. The crowd gasped.

“Well, without further ado, unless there are any other challengers, I will call this meeting to a close, neither man correctly named all fish…” both men looked crestfallen, and Abigail and Olaf the inverse. His handgrip on Abigail’s suggested they would need to talk about the wisdom of continuing this folly.

“Wait.” Lobo points to the voice. It’s Willard Ross, satchel in hand. “I would like to try.”
“Abigail breaks into a bigger grin.”

“Who are you?”
“Willard Ross, Seattle. I’m a reporter.”
“Do you know anything about fish?”
“No. Not really. Just what your daughter told me.”
“When?”
“Yesterday. She told me about the naming game.”
“Did she school you?” Asked Nagel
“Well, answer him boy.” Lewis looked mighty angry.
“No, not really. Just about you, and you, and Mr. Anderson.”
Willard Ross lied. He was a good reporter.

“Very well then.” Olaf said.

Willard reached into his satchel, moved over to the chair, and sat down, he opened the box the mailman had given him, and took out all the labels that were within. The engravings had arrived. With them in hand he moved slowly up and down the tables of fish, putting his best guess down. The labels came easy at first, things like striped bass, eel and lamprey virtual gifts. But he worked his way through, searching back a day, high up on the rim of the gorge, when Abigail walked him through all the fish, how to catch them, where they lived, how they bred, what they tasted like, and most importantly what they looked like.

And aided by the names in hand, his memory came back strong, he lay the brass tags a little more comfortably. Each one Lobo giving a thumbs up for, and Olaf chalking up a point. He’s at 34 and nails the pikeminnow for 35, and all that’s left is the last fish name, the Olaffish. And he’s hit 36.

The room goes crazy and Abigail is ecstatic and Olaf is stunned, but not somehow threatened. This boy would take his child, a man of words, a man of his word, just like Olaf. And that, patient reader, is how Willard Ross won Abigail Anderson’s hand.


Copyright, 2007 Wadin’ Boot

1- thanks to Zen Piscator for advice on fishes of the Columbia
2- Murray Bail’s Book “Eucalyptus” takes this same backbone and turns it up to 11. He is a master author, and this knockoff is my tribute
3- No death, no misery…
 

seanengman

Trout have no politics
Great story. That's a lot of reading for one sitting in front of a computer, but great none-the-less.
 

Nate Dutton

I'm a teacher, I fish to eat!
That was Awesome Wadin Boot! I am in college and have to read text books and other manuscrips alike and this is like pure gold to my mind right now! God work! And i second that idea of you making a collection of short stories!
 

Manannan Mac Lir

Professional enabler
Damn Boot! I've read em' all and thoroughly enjoyed each one. Add a good editor to the mix and you've got the makings of a fine book of short stories. It would appear that you have found your muse. Keep em' coming.
 

wadin' boot

Donny, you're out of your element...
WFF Supporter
Hey thanks fellas. It's nice to know some of you get a kick out of these. If any of you know an agent or an editor who'd be intersted in this sort of stuff, feel free to PM me. It's not top of my agenda, I love my dayjob, and I've collected my share of grants, papers and project rejections and know how quickly annoying that can get. I do find the instant feedback of this forum in many ways way more fun than getting something into press and never hearing anything about it ever.

I got my first short story published today in the trade journal "Neurology" which is a little like getting a love sonnet in the Wall Street Journal. We'll see what happens with that. There's cusswords and fishing in that one, no boners or breasts like Columbia Fairytale though...
 

Citori

Piscatorial Engineer
Boot, I have no idea where it comes from, but you have something going on. Amazing, simply amazing. You have a gift.
 

Zen Piscator

Supporting wild steelhead, gravel to gravel.
Beautiful, better that I would have thought. Amazing! I really dig your style of writing.
 

Support WFF | Remove the Ads

Support WFF by upgrading your account. Site supporters benefits include no ads and access to some additional features, few now, more in the works. Info
Top