One of the tragedies in my life was when the coolest fourteen-year-old kid in the world I knew back in Anchor Point bent down to take a drink and killed himself when the .41 caliber magnum Ruger Single Six fell out of the holster in the pistol belt he had slung around around his shoulder and discharged when it hit the ground.
He was something really special to everyone in the small local community.
I'd moved to the Anchor River after I came back from Vietnam. There were quite a few drafted veterans who found their way to the Kenai Peninsula in those days. Many, including myself would open carry. I'd get up every morning and belt on a Ruger Security Six, double action .357 with no more thought than you would put on a pair of socks. I suppose he had snuck out with his stepdad's pistol imitating our example.
He was small for his age. Maybe looked ten. Grew up on the Anchor River. Best fisherman I ever saw. And what a showman. When the river was open for king salmon fishing he'd borrow a pair of his boots almost as tall as he was and carrying a beat up old fly rod he would edge his way into the Anchorage visitors lining the bank who had been futility flailing for hours. Luckless Dudes equipped with thousands of dollars and this tiny mini-kid shows up. They smile in a condescending way. Until he starts and suddenly it's fish-on. Lucky kid they think. The first time. But then it's one hook-up after another.
Some people just have the touch when it comes to fishing. But he was way more than that. It was almost as if the salmon had been waiting for him. And once he was hooked up was the best part. He just worked the fish using the tension of the line through his fingers instead of a mechanical drag. No net, he'd fight them to exhaustion waving away any offers for help. Choosing instead to work them down to a sandy bank and drag them ashore. And then release them. To people who had driven five hours to experience a weekend of futility that was the worst part of all. This little mini person nonchalantly nudging a forty pound fish back into the river. And then rejoining the lineup to repeat his show. Again. And again.
He used to call me 'over-the-hill'. I was twenty-eight then. Now I'm seventy.
He is buried in the cemetery by Stariski Creek. I never went to the funeral. I moved to Anchorage a few years after he died. Never fished the Anchor again. Still have the Ruger pistol but never wore it again. Someday I may go back and visit him. I drove by a few years ago during a visit to Alaska on the way to Homer but it was getting late and cold and windy and gray. So I didn't stop. I'm getting a little long in the tooth and my life is pleasant. But one of these days, maybe in late May when the kings are running in the Anchor I'll go back and fish one more time.
And visit his grave on that lonely knoll.
His name was Roger. He is the little boy who will never grow up.
