I retreat over to Bob, who’s talking with Boomer about Michael Moore and his speech at the Oscars.

“...shame on you Mr. Bush, what an asshole! Just accept your damn award and get off the stage. You have no right to turn your award into an opportunity to spout your political views. Besides, all that stuff he said about the war being based on false evidence is bullshit. We have plenty of evidence.”

“Have you read his book, that one about Stupid White Men?” asks Boomer. “It’s been on the best seller list for about forty weeks now.”

Bob is agitated now, his face is bright red, and his reply is just below a shout. “That book is the biggest piece of Liberal propaganda I’ve ever seen. He makes all these accusations and then he never backs any of it up with concrete evidence!”

“So Bob,” I say, “have you read it? It sounds like you have.”

Bob frowns at me. I’ve caught him, and we both know it. “I don’t have to read it,” he snaps. “I saw an interview with him where he talked about it. That’s enough for me to know what’s in the book.”

I’m suddenly reminded of presidential candidate Bob Dole, in all his resplendent impotence, ranting about the glorified violence and overt sexual content of movies that he never actually saw. I want to raise my arms in triumph and take a victory lap around the beach, but there is the rest of the day ahead of us, tomorrow, and then the trip home. I grab a sandwich and a soda from the cooler, and find a spot away from the rest of the group where I can eat my lunch in peace. Before long, Boomer joins me. He seems to have an intuitive knowledge of the conflict that has now broken the surface tension of our familial relations.

“You know,” he says, “I would never guess you guys are related.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you don’t look much like them. They’re both tall, over six feet, they’re thin, wiry. And you’re about my size, five seven or eight. Built like a bull. I think you can probably break your older brother in half. Plus, you can’t say that your personality is anything like theirs.”

“That’s about it. I love them, they’re family, but these trips get harder and harder. My politics are about the opposite of theirs, and that’s all they talk about. It’s like I’m not even here.”

“You know,” says Boomer, “my older brother and I are just about like you and Bob, oil and water, but my brother used to get real physical, beat on me, because he was always bigger. One day, about five years ago, he was being his usual asshole self, talking down to me, and I finally decided that I’d had enough. I laid him out with one punch, about twenty years of frustration behind it. About a month later, he called me up, crying, and apologized for being an overbearing asshole for all those years.”

“Must have felt good,” I say. I stand up and look down towards the boats. Everyone looks about ready to load up. Bob is just down river, he’s skipped lunch to fish the pocket water about twenty yards downstream. Snow has begun to fall on us, and I marvel at the quiet the snow has brought along with it. As Boomer and I reach our boat, I hear Dad ask Bob about his morning, how many fish he caught.

“I caught nine, mostly Browns,” Bob shouts, “four over fifteen inches, and I lost two others.”

“How many for you, Tom?” Dad asks.

“I don’t know, I didn’t count.”

Bob hears my answer, then adds to it. “He caught fourteen. Eight over fifteen inches, and most of them rainbows. He always catches more fish.”

I can tell that it pains Bob to admit this. Even fishing to him is a competition. It bothers him more that for me it’s not. The snow has built up in a thin layer across the bow of the boat. I look up to the ridge, watching the flakes scatter down to the shore, or melt as they reach the water. The pine trees stand like sentinels on canyon walls. Maybe I should say something to make peace, tell Bob that he’s a great fly fisherman, that Michael Moore is a self righteous idiot, tell Dad that I’d love to shoot a round of golf with him some day, but I am silent, like snow.

* * *

The hush of the snowfall has brought us all to quiet. Not much is said as we load up for the drive back to the lodge. Bob is driving, and he guns the Expedition up the canyon, towards the top of the dam. The road hugs the side of the canyon, and I look out the back window down to the river. There are still fishermen out on the water, casting to trout as sunlight fades behind clouds and canyon walls. There is a small contingent of security guards standing at the section of the road that leads over the dam, and Bob slows the car as we reach them. There are three guards, and one of them breaks from the group to approach us. He is wearing mirrored sunglasses, his hair is buzzed short, and he’s wearing a short-sleeved shirt, as if impervious to the falling snow. He gives a serious look through the passenger side window, and when he sees Dad, he breaks into a grin and waves us through.

Dad chuckles a bit at the sight of the guards, and then throws a joke,