“Later in life, the death of a friend is no longer unbelievable because you’ve learned about mortality

the hard way, but that doesn’t make the news land any easier”- John Gierach

As life moves on, and summer drifts past us once again, our time at the river becomes less about

each cast and more about becoming a part of the current ourselves. We rush past new landscapes, find

ourselves stagnant in the slow waters only to take up speed again as we encounter rocks and boulders in

our way, wildlife that laps up a bit of our soul, and share a feeling that there is an end to this all but we

might as well enjoy the flow for a bit longer.

There is a spot up Myrtle Creek quite a ways that becomes more of a pain (and a danger) to get

to as I get older. When I was still in the early years of high school with a fresh driver’s license and as

much as a longing to get back away from the reality of life and deeper into the still wilderness, my

good friends Zach Callister and Cody Palaniuk and I would make our way back there to what we called

Mossy Bench.

Mossy Bench was a great sheet of rock that hung over the creek as it rushed about a yard under

our feet. There was room for all three of us along with a six pack of Rolling Rock and a bag of beef

jerky. Down below and upstream was a bit of a rocky beach that could host a few more people on some

downed redcedars as a seat. I have fished the Mossy Bench area a few times this year, and while it is

Myrtle Creek and that means that the rainbows will be plentiful but small, the fishing is still pretty

good. In some spots, the fish feed like bluegill. I would bet that they would eat a bare hook if I really

wanted to try. But around Mossy Bench, in a deeper pool with a steady current, the fish are as picky as

the cutthroat in late season North Idaho rivers that have been fished to hell all year. Creek diversity

such as this makes for a more interesting and engaging day of fishing.

As the years went by and we all moved from Bonners Ferry to live in Moscow and Lewiston to

attend college and attempt to grow up, our time at Mossy Bench was limited to maybe once or twice a

year. The six pack of Rolling Rock was accompanied by a flask of whiskey, the beef jerky with a pack

of Marlboro Lights, and the conversation transitioned from the average life of the high school student

to the average life of the college student (which, in reality, are just about the same conversations).

During the summers, we were firefighters for the Idaho Department of Lands together, and our off-time

was spent with family, girlfriends, kayaking and occasionally fishing.

Fishing together did not happen as much as one would hope, and it was never all three of us at

once. I had fished with Zach once out at his old house on the Moyie River. Cody and I had fished more

than that. From docks to riverbanks to kayaks, we would troll Deep Creek when it flooded and catch

bluegill at dusk at Perkins. It did happen, but it still didn’t happen enough.

Cody Palaniuk passed away on March 29th, 2021, in his home on a dark spring evening. Our

group of friends, which included much more than just the three of us, have not been the same since.

But not just in a bad way.

We were all close, but after a night in Spokane before Cody’s funeral, nearly all of the old gang

gathered together for the first time in years and had plenty to catch up on, plenty to reminisce about,

plenty of stories to pour from and drink. It is the extra dose of bonding that brings us together in the

worst times that makes them shine like some of the best. While we all dearly miss the man, the legend,

the gentleman that was Cody Palaniuk, I believe that if there is a heaven up there, he is looking down

on us all proud that we are anything at all still.

And he is probably smiling even more whenever one of us leaves a can of wintergreen longcut

on his headstone.

I have been in more contact with my old pal Zach ever since Cody passed away. We had slightly

drifted apart when I went to the University of Idaho and he left for the Navy and now we at least make

a passing remark to each other over the phone or in person once a week or so.

Pretty good for two busy fathers.

I have known that he was a fisherman, and a creek fisherman, for decades now but we only had

one day on the water together since we met in junior high. However, after sending over many pictures

of the beautiful cutthroat, rainbows, and brookies that I have been pulling out of the creeks up here, it

has been in the talks for a while to get him in the water with me. As he lives in Spokane now, it is not

too far of a journey for him or I to make, but then the fatherhood rears its ugly head. He has a baby, I

have a four year old wild boy. These things can put a damper on plans when they are made as any

parent will know.

I am bound and determined to get him up and in the water though. The icing on the cake is that

he wants to learn how to do it all on the fly rod. Now, as a two semester teacher of poetry and

playwriting classes for middle schoolers, I have learned that I am not a good teacher (which could be a

personal issue, or it could be the fact that it was an afterschool program…to middle schoolers). Yet

when it comes to getting someone into fly fishing, I will put ten toes down in trying to get them to

wave around a stick and catch some fish. I have plans to hit up the local creeks for some bigger trout to

catch with him, but I have been dwelling on the memories of our dear friend Cody and Mossy Bench

lately. Though the fish are small, they are hungry, and we do have to see if our fatherly butts can still fit

on that old, overhanging rock all these years later.

As a reader, you might be wondering why I am talking about this rather than what fish I have

caught recently (lots of beauties, though the big one in the Kootenai has eluded me twice more), or

rambling about the wave runner man, or God forbid talking about trash in the county for the umpteenth

time. I have been dwelling on the nature of death lately. Lot’s of fly fishing legends have passed away

this year including the excellent writer John Gierach, the influential Flip Pallot, and the fly tying master

(and much mentioned friend of Gierach) A.K. Best. You have probably noticed I have talked about my

late father numerous times in my column, and recent shootings including the Annunciation Catholic

School shooting and the Kootenai County firefighter ambush along with all the current mass death and

destruction around the world weighs heavily on the mind that even has a shred of empathy.

Through all this, the ones that are close to your heart are the ones that hit you the hardest, which

is how it should be. We know these folks well, have shared in the good and bad times together, and

most of the time we could be caught saying that we love them. Hug your family, your neighbors, your

friends as much as you can. Heck, go fishing with them. Life is great but who knows when the line will

break off. But while someone might be gone, their memory (and their influence) will always be there.

When I think of Cody or my father now, a smile comes to my face before a tear comes to my eye.

Tight lines out there, friends. And be safe.