BY RALPH BARTHOLDT
Dan Mottern at the Idaho Fly Fishing Company in Avery asks if I want a coffee?
My fishing partner offered to spring for flies, line, anything I get because I tossed for gas and the rig to drive the 80 miles to our fishing hole.
We stopped at Dan's. It's halfway to where we're going and we like his ribbing and advice.
He overheard the payment plan.
"How about a triple Americano," he winked from behind the counter, his cheeks red as Santa's from sun and the wine and conversation with pals last night on the deck that overlooks the river and the mayflies hatching there.
"I'll put a chunk of ice in it for you."
Mottern is an aficionado of a lot of things: He knows Washington reds, Latin names of bugs, trout and how to find the perfect elk hunting spot using Google earth.
He can make sandwiches, scoop ice cream, spool a reel with his eyes closed and brew Joe -- the dark, steamy kind that keeps you awake as the yellow line of the road lays out like a cast into wind.
Coffee, he knows, is as much a part of this thing we call flyfishing as a garter at a high school prom.
It's the star wrench of a tire change on a basalt side hill overlooking 3,000 feet of mist and river; it's the juice under the straw, the punch in Hawaiian and it sips away the time as the miles slip under the big lug tires.
I’ve had my fill today, though, and we’re here.
Virtually.
The river is sun scattered and cold. If you miss the swing into the parking spot at Mottern’s you’ll drive straight into the current.
"I’ll have a double and a chip of ice and come back for the rest later," I say.
My arm? Twisted.
Driving from Coeur d’Alene there are coffee stops everywhere.
Les Vawter at the Junction Conoco at Rose Lake has the stuff that is pure caffeine, but his regular coffee is better. It goes well at 6 a.m. with the egg and ham breakfast patties. We drove over the pass once, Lookout, to hit the upper end of the Joe and stocked up. Made it as far as the Regis before we had to wet the line near DeBorgia and the coffee was still hot at that point.
So was the fishing.
Drive through the Maries where we’re from and the gas station at the edge of town called Ed’s has its own version. Bring the same cup back and a refill costs a quarter. We notch them to the visor with a bobby pin and dig the change from underneath the floor mat.
There’s a little tavern off the interstate at Enaville where the beer comes in cans.
They serve coffee in styrofoam cups and sell nightcrawlers from the same cooler.
"You flyfish?" a guy there once asked me while warming a Rainier on the bar with a paw of a hand like a catcher’s mitt. He used to, he said. It’s mostly spinners now.
"I can still see to thread the hook eyes," he said with a grin.
At Dewey on the Bighole and at Melrose, too, we followed guys with Wranglers and western hats into the taverns because that’s pretty much all there was. It was early spring. We wore rubber pants and stocking caps. Expecting at least one remark that compared us to DEVO, the bartenders simply asked if the browns were cooperating. One guy in pointed boots, Sunday polyester and brush popper buttons whose face looked like a geological survey said he saw some Callibaetis.
"They ain’t many," he said. "But they’s comin’ up."
We ordered big coffees and returned to the river where we tied on #14 mayfly imitations.
I have no preference when it comes to java except that it’s flavorful and there’s a lot of it.
If I get a 16-ounce cup of re-prod swill, the kind where they double pour the water, I ain’t comin’ back.
It happens sometimes in out of the way places where the person behind the counter marks your purchase as if with a pencil and paper, recounting, measuring, "You headed to Texas?" Wondering who they should call to turn you in and watch the fireworks.
"That’ll be $12.87 with the pennies for the guvuhnor."
The coffee is roof melt with tannins from the cedar shakes.
I will drive through another state to avoid the place. I can name those too, and dismiss that last statement as hyperbole.
"With these gas prices?!" I just stop at the good spots.
Ralph Bartholdt (Skookum Features) writes for the St. Maries Gazette Record
