Heading Upstream

Summer’s officially done. The dogs and silvers are running in Union River, way back in the alders.

Passing the football lazily back and forth in the upper pasture, Evers and I hear it, both at once, and pause to listen. The loud splashing is intense, periodic, and purposeful.

“Salmon’re running.”

“Seems too early.”

“Late August.”

“You notice how time goes faster when you get older?” I ask.

“Yeah, Sherlock,” Evers replies, “I noticed.”

“School starts next week.”

“Dang!”

The splashing explodes louder now, like a signal to resume passing.

“Dogs and silvers,” I say.

“The Indians call silvers coho,” Evers replies.