No one knew much about Thompson, which is unusual in a town the size of Pray,
Montana, where everyone not only knows each other but, annoyingly, each other’s
business. We didn’t know what he did for a living, but there were plenty
of small town rumors-protected witness, gun runner, ex-CIA spook, pilot for
the Medillin Cartel. These had some foundation, at least in the minds
of the locals. Thompson didn’t seem to work. He disappeared for
weeks, sometimes longer. And when Ollie North did his little patriotic
song and dance in front of congress, explaining the illegal sale of arms to
Iran, Thompson was off the radar for six months. In hiding, was the
general consensus. Or dead. We weren’t even sure his name was
Thompson.
But I knew he was a poacher.
I knew because I’m a poacher myself. That’s not brag, nor apology. I’ve
had a life-long obsession with fly fishing, and like any obsessive/compulsive
I found myself wanting more. More in my case was access to the private
streams fronting million dollar log homes built by Californicators who came
to Montana to raise taxes and close down the hunting and fishing on ‘their’
land that had been available to us for generations. I don’t feel bad
taking that back. And that was how I met Thompson.
I was fishing a pristine mountain stream after cutting a hole in a barbed-wire
fence meant to keep dirtbags like me away. It was dark, and I was fishing
a big muddler by feel alone and hooking huge brown trout. I turned and
there was Thompson at my side. I hadn’t seem him approach, didn’t hear
him either. I thought he was a guard, and I almost ran but I didn’t. Like
I said, I wasn’t ashamed of doing this.
“I’ve taken some very nice fish from here,” he said.
“It’s a beautiful spot,” I replied.
“Too bad we have to act like thieves to fish it,” he responded.
“True. It’s not right,” I said, “but in a way, more fun.”
We stood for a few moments in silence. “Well, good luck,” he
said, and disappeared into the woods.
After that I would bump into Thompson now and again while on my midnight rambles. It
seemed more than a coincidence that we would be fishing the same private water
at the same small hours of the same day, and I couldn’t help but think he
was following me. It didn’t bother me, though; I enjoyed his company,
however briefly. Soon I began getting notes in my mailbox-short cryptic
messages that alluded to good spots, sometimes with dates that I took to mean
days when owners were away. These tips never failed, and I caught many
a rich man’s trout.
Then one day I was in the local diner when Thompson slid into the seat across
from me. He didn’t make small talk; started the conversation with “Ben,
I got a place” and proceeded to tell me about a 2000 acre fortress 25
miles outside of town with trophy trout swimming in front of the trophy home.
“It’s tricky. There are guards. But that will make it better. I’m
going tomorrow night. You can join me if you want.”
Tomorrow was a Wednesday, a week night, and to your average working stiff
that might mean something, but I wasn’t at the mercy of a boss and a time
clock. Fishing was what meant the most; it had ended my marriage and
extinguished any aspirations to make it in the 9 to 5 world. I was an
over-educated shade tree mechanic, a damn good one, and if customers had to
wait an extra day for a car because I went fishing, they would. My work
was top notch, my prices were fair, and they were willing to put up with delays.
“I’m in,” I said.
“Good. I’ll pick you up at your house at one. Wear dark clothes. You
won’t need much-a box of streamers, a six weight, some tippet material, make
sure it’s at least eight pound test. Don’t bring anything that will
clank.”
Thompson was in my driveway at exactly one, which I liked. I’ve had
fishing dates where my partner has shown up anywhere from 15 minutes to an
hour late. Now I give them sixty seconds, then leave. This is serious. My
gear was ready to go and I threw it into the back of his SUV. But to
call this an SUV was a misnomer; it was an urban assault vehicle-four wheel
drive, oversized tires, flat, dark paint, and every electronic scanner and
GPS available on the market.
“Here,” Thompson said, handing me boot black to rub on my face.
“Why the face paint?” I asked. “We’re not planning on
being seen?”
“No. But if we are we won’t be recognized.”
It took us a good hour to get from the hole we cut in the fence to the river,
telling me this millionaire was, if possible, more selfish than most. I
estimated that he must have fenced off more than 300 acres of prime Montana
riverfront to build this little memorial to his greedy ways. I could
see the log mansion overlooking the estate. From what Thompson told
me it was just one man and his wife. The dwelling could house fifteen,
easily. This is why I don’t feel guilty. I followed Thompson and
he led me to a nice run without hesitation. “He’s been here before,” I
thought.
“Tie on a big streamer, anything will do, and hold on tight,” he
hissed.
I tied on a matuka, cast upstream, mended line, and followed the drift with
my rod tip. At the end of the drift, when the line went tight, there
was a savage strike. I didn’t need to set the hook. Line flew
from the reel, and, in the dead of night, the buzzing seemed as loud as an
industrial drill.
“You need to play him quick,” Thompson whispered. “Remember,
there are guards.”
The big brown, it had to be a brown, zig-zagged through the water, and in
the dark I could feel the rod being pulled first this way then that. I
played the fish on instinct alone.
“This might be the biggest trout I’ve ever caught,” I said, turning
to Thompson. Only Thompson wasn’t there. I was talking instead
to a big, burly, rifle-toting thug in a security uniform with the bling and
braids that make rent-a-cops feel important.
“Put down the fishing pole,” he said (who calls it a ‘pole’ I thought), “You’re
under arrest for trespassing and destruction of habitat.”
I stood looking at him, dumbfounded by the metamorphosis of Thompson into
a guard. Before my brain grasped the situation enough that I could respond,
I saw Thompson silently rise up behind the guard. In a swift motion
he had his arm around the guard’s neck, and though he didn’t seem to throttle
or choke him, the guard sank slowly to his knees. Thompson lowered the
now innate guard gently to the ground.
“Land the fish,” Thompson said (I’d forgotten about the vibrating
rod in my hands), “and let’s get out of here.”
“What about him?” I asked. “You didn’t…” I couldn’t
say the rest.
“Kill him? Hell no. Just cut the oxygen to his brain so he
can take a nap. He’ll be fine. Now land that fish and let’s get
going.”
You would think after that experience my poaching days with Thompson would
be over. It was the opposite. We went on an angling vendetta,
hitting every millionaire’s private water from Livingston to Missoula. And
with each new exploit, the longing grew worse.
Soon after, my phone rang and it was Thompson. He didn’t say ‘hi’ or
identify himself, just said “come over to my house tonight at seven” and,
not waiting for an answer, hung up. He knew I’d be there.
Thompson lived back in the woods. I had to get out of my car,
unlatch a heavy gate then drive down a washboard road to a rustic cabin. I
noticed there was no name on the gate, or on the mailbox. I took the
three steps on the porch in one leap and knocked on the door. There
was no answer.
“Hey,” Thompson said, standing behind me. I jumped.
“Damn, will you stop doing that???!!!” I scowled.
“Sorry. Habit. Come in.”
The simple exterior of Thompson’s cabin belied a lavish interior. There
were antiques from, I guess, all over the world, original western bronzes
and paintings, leather furniture and oriental rugs.
“Nice,” I said. “What do you do for a living again?” I’d
asked him before. He didn’t answer.
“Never mind that. Have a seat.” I sat at an ornately
carved oak table with lion paw feet while he disappeared down the basement
stairs. He returned carrying a bottle of Cristal and two glasses. While
he was gone I absent-mindedly shuffled through the accumulated mail that he
must just throw on the table. I noticed that they all were addressed
to different names, none of which was Thompson.
“Leave those alone,” he said, taking them from my hand. He
cleared the table and went to an old roll top desk. He reached his hand
beneath the drawer, disengaged some kind of a latch. I poured us both a glass
of wine. A panel beneath the desk opened, and he removed what turned
out to be a map.
“This isn’t around here,” I said. The cartography was unfamiliar. In
fact, the map was like none I’d ever seen before. It was a huge satellite
photo, crystal clear, with no markings as to manufacturer or location. But
I did recognize, snaking down the middle of the photo, a river. “Where
is it?” I asked.
Thompson smiled.
“Guess.”
“Looks to be somewhere in the East.”
“You’re getting warm.”
I gazed at the map but it was unfamiliar.
“I don’t know.”
“It’s Camp David,” he said. “We’re going to fish it.”
“What???!!!”
“Camp David.”
“Are you nuts???!!!”
“Hear me out. It’s the president’s playground, right? Part
of that playground is an excellent trout river, made more so when Roosevelt
had it lavishly stocked. But think about it. Who has fished for
those trout? W? He wouldn’t know which end of the rod to put the
reel on. Clinton? He’s interested in trollops, not trout. Bush
senior? Maybe, but he sure as hell didn’t catch any. Reagan? Fishing
isn’t regal enough for Nancy. The last person to seriously fish that river
was Carter, and that was 25 years ago. You have trout in there that
haven’t seen a fly in 25 years. It’s the ultimate poach.”
I should have quickly and firmly said “NO” but obsessive types aren’t
rational. Maybe I didn’t believe we’d actually do it. More likely,
I hoped we would. We began making our plans. We’d meet at Thompson’s
and he’d produce more mysterious maps. The detail was amazing. We
could see every fence, every guard station, hell, every pebble.
We’d enter the compound from the west, as far from the main building as possible. The
river widened here into a big pool. I could picture it, a nice slow
run with undercut banks and brown trout as long as my leg. I realized
that I was more enthusiastic about this crazy escapade than Thompson was. We
forgot about all other fishing, met a few times a week, planned for months,
choosing the following April for our trip. Thompson said the President
would not be in Camp David at that time and security would be lax. I
asked how he knew the President’s schedule. He didn’t answer.
“It’s going to be a long walk from here,” Thompson whispered, “and
we have to do it in the dark.” We were on the perimeter of the
Camp, arriving after miles of bushwhacking through dense forest. He
led me along a tall, razor wire fence until we reached a spot where the wire
had been conveniently clipped. We passed through the opening, stumbled
another 100 yards or so, and came to another large fence. We followed
that one until we came to an opening cut in the wire. This ritual was
repeated once again.
“We’re getting close. Listen.”
I listened. I could hear the cacophony of water rushing over rocks. I
had to suppress the urge to burst into laughter, instead chuckling softly. Thompson
giggled, too. We stumbled forward until we came to the river. Even
though it was dark, I could still see, no, sense, the splendor of this place. And
we’d be the only plebeians to ever fish it. We’d be legends.
I tied on a large hopper pattern. Common sense would say it’s not a
good pattern to use at night, but I figured anything that would land with
a ‘plop’ would arouse these fish. And I was right. As soon as
the heavy, deer hair fly hit the water it was snatched by a fish as if it
had just ended a Lenten fast. The reel buzzed like a broken door bell,
and I could see the line zig zag through the water. I turned to Thompson
to see if he was watching, but he was busy playing a fish that had his fly
rod bowed down to the cork grip.
I’d say the fishing was great, or tremendous, or spectacular, but none of
that would be true. There were no words to describe it. Hemingway
once compared elephant hunting with a small caliber rifle to burning the taste
buds off of your tongue when, while drunk, mistakenly drinking the lye product
Eau de Javel instead of bottled water. His point was extremes like elephant
hunting and lye drinking will leave you unable to savor anything less heady.
And now I had to wonder if I hadn’t permanently seared my fishing taste buds
for anything but this river and these fish. We caught huge trout, broke
off more than we caught, and even that made it better.
I was concentrating on playing yet another big trout and was barely conscious
of a noise that sounded like a ‘click.’ Then I was blinded by flood
lights, but even in the glare I could see shadows rushing toward me. I
could also see that they were carrying large weapons.
“DOWN! DOWN! GET ON THE GROUND,” a dozen voices shouted
at once, and before I could move they were on me. They threw me to the
wet bank of the river, and the muzzles of three automatic weapons were pressed
to the base of my skull.
“I was just fishing,” I stammered.
“SHUT UP!” said a baby-faced sergeant. “SHUT UP OR I’LL
BLOW YOUR HEAD OFF!” He couldn’t have been much more than 20. I
didn’t speak. I was patted down while still on the ground, roughly hauled
to my feet, cuffed, and pushed to an armored hum-vee. As I was being
jerked along, I looked for Thompson. He was gone.
The hummer sped over the rough terrain, stopping abruptly in front of a low,
dark, concrete building. I was pushed out of the vehicle, grabbed by
both arms, and hurried through the doors and down a long, neon lit corridor
to a room with a metal chair and table. I noticed that both were bolted
to the floor. A soldier removed the handcuffs.
“Take off you clothes,” the young sergeant said.
“What?” I asked.
'TAKE OFF YOUR CLOTHES," he screamed.
“All of them?”
Without seeming to move, the sergeant punched me in the stomach. I doubled
over as the air gushed from my lungs. When I was able to breathe again
I shakily stood and removed all my clothes. Another soldier gathered
them up and left the room.
“Sit down,” the sergeant said, a bit more gently. I think
he felt guilty about hitting me. I sat down and was handcuffed to a
metal bar welded to the table.
“I was just fishing,” I said.
“I’m not telling you again. Shut up,” he said, but without
the yelling.
They left. I don’t know how long I was alone in the brightly lit room,
the mind having a way of turning minutes into months in situations like this. I
wondered what had happened to Thompson. After a while, I don’t know
how long, the sergeant and the two soldiers returned. With them was
another soldier in a haz-mat suit. He was carrying my waders and vest.
“What’s this?” the sergeant demanded, holding up the waders.
“Waders. For fishing. They let you walk in the water without
getting wet.”
“Or maybe a chemical suit,” the sergeant said. “What
about this?” he asked, holding up my vest.
“It’s a fly fishing vest. I told you I was fishing.”
“Empty it,” he told the soldier in the haz-mat suit. He began
emptying the pockets, and I have to admit that with all the gizmos and gadgets
I had in there it did look like something McGuyver could fashion into a nuclear
device.
“What’s this?” the sergeant asked when haz-mat removed a clear container
of silicon powder.
“It’s silicon. It’s for floating a dry fly.”
“How do I know it’s not a biological agent? Anthrax?”
“Test it,” I said.
“Oh, we will. Believe that.”
This went on, with me explaining each item they took from the vest. Some
of them I’d never used, and I forgot what they were for. On the one
hand I felt this wasn’t looking very good for me; on the other it seemed more
like practice to them. I had to assume if they really thought I was
a terrorist with biological agents they would all be wearing haz-mat suits. They
left. I sat for hours naked on the cold metal chair.
When they returned they brought my clothes, which was a relief. There
are not many things that put you at more of a disadvantage as being naked,
no matter how manly you are. They uncuffed me and let me dress.
“Come with me,” the sergeant said, more gently than before. They
didn’t put the cuffs on.
I was lead to another, more comfortable room. As we walked down the
corridor I glanced up the hall and thought I saw Thompson. He was drinking
coffee and speaking to an officer with lots of military baubles-a colonel
at least, maybe a general. Before I could get his attention I was ushered
into the room.
“Sit down,” the sergeant said. I sat in a comfortable leather
chair. The colonel or general who had been talking to Thompson entered. He
sat at the table across from me.
“Mr. Hart, I won’t play games. Do you know you could get 25 years
in prison for what you did?”
“I was only fishing,” I said, getting a little too confident now
that I was clothed. “What jury would give me 25 years?”
The colonel or general chuckled.
“Jury? You infiltrated a level one military facility. I could
classify you as an enemy combatant, subject you to a military tribunal that
could send you to Gitmo without anyone ever knowing what happened to you. You’d
spend the rest of your natural life studying the Koran. And it could be worse. You’re
damn lucky you weren’t shot. So, please, don’t get A.C.L.U. with me.”
I looked down at the table.
“We have decided that you are telling the truth. What you did was
incredibly stupid, but we’re not going to pursue charges. We are going
to let you go. But you must never talk about your little escapade to
anyone. Not that anyone would believe you. Is that clear?”
“What happened to Thompson?” I asked.
The colonel or general looked at me hard.
“Who?” he asked. It wasn’t a question.
“Thompson. The guy I was with. The guy you were talking to
in the hall.”
“You’re mistaken,” he said. “You were by yourself. If
you insist you were with someone I’ll need to hold you for a psychiatric evaluation. If
you are found to be delusional, we might have to have you committed. Do
you understand?”
I didn’t, but I said I did.
“Good. We’ll be giving you a ride to the airport. Again,
it would be best for you not to talk about this. Believe me, you don’t
need the kind of troubles that could bring. You’ve caused us considerable
embarrassment, and the United States government does not like to be embarrassed. Do
you know what the government can do to a single individual like you?”
I continued looking at the table.
“I’m sure you do,” he said. Then, calling to the sergeant, “Take
Mr. Hart away.”
I was home about two weeks when the phone rang. The caller gave no salutation.
“Go to the pay phone in the diner,” a voice said. “Be
there in 30 minutes.” I was pretty sure it was Thompson.
The phone in the diner rang in exactly 30 minutes.
“Hey, that was something, no?” Thompson said, laughing.
“Jesus! It scared the hell outta me,” I said. I should
have been annoyed; instead I was manic. Thompson had that way. “What
the hell happened to you?”
“Never mind that. It’s a shame we can’t tell anyone. You
haven’t, have you, Ben?”
“No”
“Good. The colonel meant what he said.” I wondered how
he knew what the colonel said, but didn’t ask. “Enough about that. I
have a great business opportunity, but I need a partner. You interested?”
Against all reason I said, “Go on.”
Thompson laid out his plan, a fly fishing resort in Cuba.
“But we don’t have diplomatic relations with Cuba. There is an
embargo,” I said.
“It’s going to be lifted the second Castro dies, and that won’t be long. We’ve
been trying to lift if for years but old weird beard won’t let it go.”
“That doesn’t make sense. It’s his country that suffers.”
"For a fisherman, you really don’t see beyond the surface. If he loses
the great white Satan he loses support. Once he goes, his successor
will welcome us with open arms. And Fidel isn’t gonna last much longer. He
has one foot in the grave and another on a plantain peel. He won’t make
two years. That will give us plenty of time to get the resort up and
running, and when relations resume we’ll be the only game in town. The
fishing is fantastic, the women are beautiful, and everything is cheap. We’ll
make a killing.
“I need you to get on-line and start ordering equipment-rods, reels,
lines, leaders, fly tying stuff. I’ll give you an address in Canada
to send it to. It can be shipped from there to Cuba. Are you in?”
Every instinct in me screamed NO. Instead I asked “Why me?”
“Because you’ve proven yourself.”
I write this from an airport in Toronto as I await the boarding call for my
flight to Havana. I am traveling on an authentic Canadian passport issued
in my name that Thompson provided, I’m not sure how. I don’t expect
to return to the United States for some time, which is the only reason I am
sharing this story.
Despite the threats, it is too good of a story not to share.
Originally published September 14, 2009 on Fly Anglers Online by Dave Micus.