The Fire Triangle, A Zootopia Fanfiction -- Part One: Fuel - 38

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle-A Zootopia Fanfiction

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Part One:

Fuel

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Chapter 4 - The Wizard of Chaos

(Continued...Pt. 7)

"There it is, fox."

Erin Hopps was pointing towards a blue-and-white sign about 20 yards up ahead.

Springwater Cove County Park

1/4 Mile

"About foxin' time," Conor Lewis thought but did not say. He had his arms crossed and was hunkered down in his seat; a little fox cub who doesn't WANT to go visit his Grandma today. Sweet Cheeze Lou-WEEZE, how the heck had he ever let Little Miss Snowdrop jack him into this?

A river...they were going out on a river-on the water! And he couldn't say anything; Erin would razz him from here to doomsday. Noooo, there was nothing for him to do but shut up and ride it out.

They had been on the road for less than half an hour, but to a certain, young silver fox it seemed as if they'd pulled out of the warren the day before yesterday, an impression that wasn't helped by the fact that they were riding in the clunker that passed for the Hopps Family Farm Truck. (And when it came to driving at speed, Stuart Hopps Jr. was no Dale Ermineheart Jr.)

A few seconds later, Junior turned right and down a wide road flanked by low rail fence, coming shortly to a T-fork and two more signs, 'Campgrounds' and 'Boat Launch - Day Use Area' with arrows pointing to the left and right respectively.

Junior took the right turn and just around the next bend, there was the boat ramp.

It wasn't much to look at, only a short concrete slab, ending on a hard-pack, gravel bank. The river beyond was teal-green and moving in stately fashion, the water topped here and there by delicate, lacey patterns. Lined up along the shoreline were a variety of river craft; kayaks, inflatable pontoon boats, drift boats resembling square stern dories, and the ever-present whitewater rafts, looking like heavy-duty life rafts with the ends canted upwards.

"You see 'em yet?" Junior queried from the driver's seat.

"They're here somewhere," Erin answered, rolling down the window for a better look. She scanned the riverside for few seconds and then let out a short whoop. "Wait, there they are, Hiyeeee!"

"Hiyeee, Erin!" Terri Blackburn's voice pealed from beside the river. Conor pulled himself up behind the young bunny, peering over her shoulder. Yep, there was Erin's GF, and drawn up against the bank directly behind her were a pair of whitewater rafts in cadmium yellow, one much larger than the other. There was blue lettering on the sides of each one, but the young silver fox was unable make out what it said; with the craft turned at this angle the words remained unreadable.

"Okay let's get over there," Junior told her.

Exiting the truck, Conor caught sight of a young ferret girl, coming their way in company with an adult mink, Terri's stepdad according to what Erin Hopps had told him

She had been more than a little nervous about it; mink were another species with a less than savory reputation.

"You...don't have a problem with that I hope, fox?" she'd asked him tentatively.

There was no way Conor Lewis was going to pass up an opening that juicy. ("Shanghai ME, will you, Snowdrop?") Frowning deeply for a second, he had solemnly informed the white-furred bunny, "One of the biggest jerks I ever knew back in Zoo York was a mink," (actually a sea-mink, Junior McCrodon.) And then after letting her stew for just the right amount of time, he had grinned and added, "And also one of the greatest guys I ever met," (another sea-mink, Kieran McCrodon.)

Erin had slapped him upside the head with her hat for that one; "Oh, you!" (Conor hadn't cared it had been worth it.)

But then his mind had begun to connect the dots. Burrows County, a rafting company, a mink in charge; could it possibly be...?

Well, he was about to find out, because now he could see what was written on the side of the smaller raft, Trask Whitewater Excursions.

Holy Foxtrot, this was the outfit!

No time to think about it, the young fox needed to recover quickly from his surprise before Erin noticed-to say nothing the girl ferret and the mink walking beside her.

He put it away just in time.

"Hiyeeee!" Erin and Terri squealed again, giving each other a sisterly hug.

"So I see you brought the fox." The young ferret nodded at Conor when they were done; it wasn't said in a derogatory fashion and he took no offense at her words. Then she spoke to him directly.

"Conor, this is my stepdad, Wilson Trask," she said, indicating the mink with a wave of her paw. Like her, he was dressed in shorts, rafting sandals and a hat that looked like something an old-time parson might have worn. His upper frame was encased in a yellow-on-black flotation vest with the same lettering on the front as the pair of rafts. He had a spare, wiry build, with not an ounce of fat to spare.

"Yes, I remember you from onstage last night." he said, offering a paw. "That was one killer solo, kid."

"Hey thanks."

Conor instantly decided that he liked this mink; Will Trask seemed to have the same perpetual twinkle in his eye that Kieran had always owned.

With the introductions out of the way, he escorted the young fox and bunny over to the smaller raft, (the bigger one was reserved for larger species.) Now Conor could see that the air-chambers were braced by a sturdy, lightweight metal framework. There were rows of seats along either side, a cooler box in the center of frame and, much to his surprise, a pair of flyrods and a landing net.

"We gonna do some fishing, too?" he asked, immediately wondering if he had just posed a stupid question.

Erin seemed to think so, rolling her eyes skyward, but Terri's stepdad simply took it all in stride.

"That's the plan," he said, "Cutts are hitting really good right now."

"Cutts?" Conor's ears went up and his head tilted sideways.

"Cutthroat trout," the lanky mink explained, "If we're lucky we might hook into a steelie, too...errr, a Steelhead Trout that is." He was clearly well versed in dealing with neophytes.

On the advice (read, insistence) of Erin Hopps, the young fox had changed into shorts and a linen shirt for the expedition. He had brought no footwear, but that wasn't necessary, strictly speaking. He also had no headgear suitable for a river trip, so Wilson had Terri fetch him one from their SUV, a carbon copy of the 'preacher hats' perched atop their heads. That was something he would need, and the other item of clothing the mink furnished was de-rigeur; a floatation vest with four interlocking straps. Conor offered no objection when told to put it on. In fact he was very happy to have it-for a reason he absolutely didn't want a certain bunny to know. He was considerably less sanguine about having to be sprayed with bug repellant, something that Erin seemed to find highly amusing.

"Oh quit being such a baby, it's not that bad." She said.

"Easy for you to say, bunny," the young silver fox rejoined, blinking and trying not to cough, "Some of us have a serious sense of smell." (To him it felt like he'd just been doused with a mixture of ammonia and shellac thinner.)

Will Trask's homily on the subject was infinitely more effective than hers. "Trust me son, it beats getting eaten alive by the skeeters." He directed the young fox to a seat on the left side of the raft, second from the front, with Erin directly across from him and Terri sitting behind her. With that settled, they set about getting the beast out onto the river, everyone grabbing onto the rope running along the side and giving a yo-heave- ho! Conor braced himself as soon as his foot touched the water, but it was at least 10 degrees warmer than he'd expected.

Clearer, too; he could see the bottom nearly all the way out to the center of the river. As soon as the pair of rafts began to float free, everyone climbed aboard and took their seat. That led to another short delay; while Conor's raft continued to remain buoyant, when the larger animals boarded their craft, it caught on the sand again and had to be pushed free. It only took one short heave, and then both rafts were moving out into the current.

The set up was that each passenger had their own paddle-except for the smaller rodents on board, they wouldn't be able reach the water except with a paddle at least twice their own height, (and even if they could, it wouldn't have made a difference.)

Will Trask was sitting perched on a raised platform at the very stern, in charge of a pair of oars that looked long enough to vault a prison wall; these were actually more for steering than propulsion, (so were the paddles, true for telling.)

As soon as they began to move down the river, the mink gave everybody a brief orientation.

"The Alsetz isn't a particularly hairy river, folks-at least not this section; we'll run into a couple of sets of class 3 rapids but most of them will be class 2. Just remember; if we need to turn right, we paddle on the left and vice versa. Okay now everyone, let's go."

And with that, he straightened them out with the oars and they were off.

For the first couple of miles the river moved at a dignified pace and the young fox was able to take stock of his fellow rafting companions. In addition to Erin, Terri, and Terri's stepdad, there was also a pair of marmots on board, husband and wife twentysomethings by the look of them. Next there came a family of badgers; Mom, Dad, late thirties and a son and daughter, middle to late teens, plus several species of smaller rodents, ranging in size from pack-rats to deer-mice. How many of these were sharing the raft, the young fox couldn't quite tell.

Erin was the first one to sense it; just past the third turn in the river, Conor saw her ears go up. Wilson too was on the alert; although he knew what was coming from simple experience.

"Heads up everyone, here comes the first whitewater."

A few seconds later, the young fox also heard it, the hissing churn of foaming rapids. And then, coming around the nest bend he saw it, a long carpet of rough-cut water, stretching away for a hundred yards.

"Okay folks," Will Trask called, "grab your paddles and here we go."

A second later, they hit the rapids, the raft rearing up and bucking as they shot through the whitewater. All around Conor, everyone was whooping up a storm-and so was he, unable to resist the adrenaline rush of the moment. The wind and spray in his face, the jouncing and bouncing, and especially the sensation of speed; it made the roller-coaster back at the Carrot Days Festival look like a kiddie-car ride.

And this was only the first set of rapids...and also one of the easier runs.

Coming out of the cataract, they came to a section of the river that was almost still-water. Here Wilson instructed everyone to ship paddles; he wanted to wait for the other raft to catch up with them.

And besides that...

"This is some good water here." He said. At first, Conor had no idea what the mink was talking about; this section of the river was practically a pond.

He got the idea when Wilson extracted on of the flyrods from its holder, and began to cast back and forth, stripping out line at he did. On the end of his leader was a yellow-and-red streamer, bright and loud as a signal flag. Though the young fox had never fished in his life, he couldn't help but wonder, how the heck did he expect to get a bite on anything that ugly?

After letting out perhaps 15 yards of line, the mink laid on a smooth, forward cast, dropping the fly almost delicately on the backside of an eddy. He let it sink for a second, and then gave two small jerks with his finger. At once the fly-line responded in kind, snapping taut and pulling the rod into a dancing 'C' shape.

"Oooo, nice fish." The patriarch of the badger contingent commented, and at once it demonstrated the accuracy of his statement by breaching the surface in a shimmering leap. It was a cutthroat trout; slim and sharp-nosed, with a galaxy of spots running down its polished bronze flanks. A soon as the fish hit the water again it took off in a long, breezing run, and then abruptly the line went slack. Conor thought for a second that the fish had spit the hook, but then it shot off upriver again, taking the line with it. Expertly, Wilson turned the fish back towards the raft, and commenced to bring it in. The cutt made several more jumps and another run, but the outcome was never in doubt. When he brought it in close to the boat, the badger-dad did the honors with the net. After holding up the fish for a brief inspection, the mink slipped it into the cooler in front of his perch

"There's dinner," he said.

Just then, the second raft caught up with them.

The next set of rapids was a bit more dicey that the first; here the Alsetz was pinched like an hourglass between a pair of gravel bars, producing a series of low humps in the water.

"Okay, folks." Wilson told them, "It's too narrow for the oars through here, so you'll need to steer us through." To prove it, he pulled in the oars and shipped them. "Everybody get ready to paddle. Ready? GO!"

This cataract was way more exciting than the first one; Conor whooped and fox-screamed as the raft leaped and bounded over every crest of the whitewater; it felt almost like he was flying.

They came out of the second set of rapids into more slow-moving water. Once again, Wilson got his fly rod out, offering the other one to the senior badger. This time however, there were no take-downs, but the bear in charge of the second raft-which had managed to stay with them this time-boated a fish that even from ten yards away was clearly bigger than the one Wilson had caught, something the mink seemed to find quietly annoying.

From there, they went into another carpet of Class 2 Rapids, a fast if not especially bumpy ride, and then more still-water with the rods coming out again. This time the badger's son took a turn, hooking two fish, losing one and bringing in the other, a ten incher that joined the first trout in the cooler.

Then Wilson made a brief announcement to the crew.

"All right folks; the next set of rapids is where things get interesting. If you've got anything on you that can't handle getting drenched, you'll want to put in the storage compartment here inthe . Make sure you've got your floatation devices on nice and snug, and get your hats cinched on and all your fursonal belongings secured. Okay...it's about another thirty yards down river to the whitewater. Everybody grab your paddles and hold on tight."

Everyone did; if not right away, then certainly after they got look at what was ahead of them.

Directly in front of the raft, the river came to a high-rolling boil as it narrowed between a set of high cliffs on either side of the water. This was no straight shot like the last set of cataracts but a snaking, double S-curve slalom-with whirlpools, eddies, and the whole shebang.

"All right everyone, here we go." Wilson shouted, and pushed them into the canyon with the oars.

Even before they reached the first cliff, the raft kicked sideways in the current. The mink countered by ordering everyone on the right side of the raft to paddle hard. Conor gave it all he had but at first it felt like wasted effort; he was unable to get any purchase in the back current. Finally, on about the fourth or fifth stroke, he felt the water begin to resist and the boat angled skittishly back to the left. What followed was what he would later describe as 'Mr. Tod's Wild Ride'; the raft slewed, yawed, bucked and pitched as it hurtled through the slalom. At one point they almost banked vertically onto the canyon wall, and twice the raft was almost completely swamped when it plunged headfirst down the backside of a rapid. (Will Trask had been sooo right to order everyone to get their great stowed.)

Then the raft dove under the water a third time, going deeper, much deeper than before...and Conor felt himself begin to float up out of his seat. At once a cold panic began to rise within the young silver fox, cold, much colder than the surrounding water. He should have said something before they started; now it was too late; even with a floatation device, there was no way he could survive in this roiling water. Hang on Mom; I'm coming to join you...

And then the raft came up swiftly again beneath the young fox, slapping him in the rump as if in admonition for harboring such foolish thoughts. He was still on board, a foot or two in front of where he'd been sitting before the raft had crash-dived, but guess what, he was still here. He hurriedly pushed himself back into his seat before they hit the next rough spot, (unfortunately not quite fast enough to avoid seeing the expression on the Erin Hopps' face. 'What's the matter fox, can't handle a little WATER?' she seemed to be saying.)

Except this wasn't little water it was BIG water, and here came the biggest water yet; a high, roiling eddy that looked almost like a maelstrom. The instant the raft entered, it began to spin like a top. Luckily, Wilson Trask was a longtime veteran of this river. At exactly the right moment, he ordered everyone on the left side of the raft to pull hard, while at the same moment, back stroking with his right oar. Conor had no idea how, but it worked; the raft straightened up and spurted out of the eddy into a long, rolling rapid.

And then, just like that, all was smooth if not quite placid. They were out of the canyon-into more fast moving water still, but this time it came with a flat surface.

Everyone raised their paddles and the craft erupted in a cacophony of whoops, screams, whistles, and in the case of the rodents, squeaks and shrieks. Everyone was celebrating the simple joy of being alive. And if anyone who thought they were being overly dramatic, then why was Will Trask taking a head-count, answer me that!

Conor cheered too, letting out a raucous fox-scream-but the truth of the matter was, this had been far from his closest call in life. What had happened to him upon his arrival at Granite Point Youth Facility, his later escape from the joint, and then making it out of Finagles one step ahead of the goon squad; on those three occasions he had come way closer to the end times than he ever had just now...even with his nearly going into the water.

And yet...

In none of those previous instances had he felt such a thrill of exhilaration as he did now. Okay, maybe not the first two times, but how about after his escape from Zoo York, when he'd rolled up the window shade and gotten his first look at Zootopia, the city that was to become his new home? Oh yes, he'd felt it then. (However, since he'd been flying on board an airliner at the time, there'd been no such thing as giving vent to his feelings. Later, on a train platform in Sahara Square, he'd finally felt free to express himself, performing an impromptu victory dance.)

They came out of the fast water into a another long slough, and once more Wilson took the opportunity to pick up the fly rod, offering the second one to the girl badger; between the two of them they netted three fish, none of which were quite as big as that first one and all of whom went into the cooler. More rapids followed, meaner than the first set, but not even close to the canyon they'd traversed a short while ago. Even so, there was no shortage of whoopin' and a-hollerin' as they made their way through the whitewater.

At the end of a short, narrow chute, the Alsetz took them into more placid water, a crescent bend of the river fronted by a carpet of baseball-sized rocks on one side, and high, soaring cliffs on the other. Here the water was opal green in the shallows, becoming a transparent cobalt-blue as it deepened away towards the bluffs on the other side. It seemed to Conor that the pool was almost bottomless.

As before, Wilson got out the fishing rods again. It was time for someone else to have a turn, but the mother badger wasn't interested; and so he offered the second rod to any takers. The marmots, Erin, and Terri all declined, and he was just about to put the rod away when Conor felt his right paw shooting up.

No one was more surprised than him-except perhaps for Erin Hopps.

"Huh...? What do you know about fly-fishing, fox?"

Conor considered his options for a moment. If this were a cartoon, he would have said that he knew fishing like the back of his paw, Mr. Expert, that's me...and then of course it would have ended with him making a complete mess of things, perhaps even ending with a dunking and then him stalking off in a huff.

Well, this wasn't a cartoon, it was real life and besides...they were on board a raft and in the middle of a river; there'd be no such thing as stomping off anywhere right now.

"Not a darn thing," The young fox shrugged as he took the rod, "but I'm itching to give it a try." And it was only after he'd spoken the words that he realized they were true.

They were also wise words; upon hearing Conor's admission, Will Trask took the opportunity to give him a quick lesson in the art of casting a streamer.

"When you strip the line out, keep your rod pointed at the spot you're trying to hit; imagine that you're pointing with your finger. When you've got enough line out, slow down your arm and just let the line lay down gently on the water; like you're laying down a sheet on the bed."

Conor nodded; it sounded simple enough-although it probably wasn't. "Where should I aim for?" he asked.

Wilson pointed with an oar towards the cliff-side bank.

"See that foam, where the ripple meets the smooth water? That's called a seam, try to aim just above it and let your fly drift inside, and then give it a couple of short pulls.

Raising the rod and taking a shallow breath, the young fox commenced to strip out the line, making his gamest effort. His first cast fell well short of his target, but at least he didn't put a knot in the line. His second cast went a mite too far, laying itself down on the water well above the seam; that however was good enough.

"That's okay, just let it drift." Wilson told him. "That's it, reel in your slack. Yeah, that's good. Okay, little more...little more. Okay, give your line a couple of short jerks."

The young fox only managed one short jerk before something jerked back-hard! And then the rod bent almost double and the line was singing off the reel.

"Holy Crike, that's a steelhead!" Will Trask cried out excitedly, "Hold on to him, kid."

He turned quickly, dropping a pyramid shaped anchor into the water. It caught almost immediately and the raft began to waggle in the current. Then he turned his attention back to Conor, who looked as if he was going to lose not only the fish, but also the rod and his breakfast at any second. For half a second, he considered relieving the young fox of his burden but then decided swiftly against it. Fifteen years of river guiding had taught Wilson Trask to recognize the different types of clients...and this kid looked like the type who'd rather lose a fish himself than give it to someone else to bring in successfully. So instead the mink grabbed his own fly-rod, using it as a demonstration prop.

"Conor, hold it like this," he said, laying it flat above the water, "and use your fingers as a brake to slow the run."

The young fox did as he was told, (what the heck else could he do?) At the first application of pressure the fish leaped up out of the water, jumping higher than he was tall. Several animals gasped and the elder badger let out a low whistle. Conor nearly dropped the rod; this thing was a freaking Troutzilla, at least twice the length of any of the other fish they'd brought in so far, and with easily four times the weight. It had broad-shoulders and a green-back and was built like a living torpedo, with flanks as bright and silvery as a newly-minted dime, decorated with a stripe like the insides of a watermelon.

"That's in the teens at least." Wilson commented cryptically as the trout hit the water for another run. This time, after only a short sprint, its strength seemed to peter out.

"Okay Conor, start bringing him in," the mink told him, "Raise your rod and then reel in as you lower it, like this." As he spoke, he pantomimed the action using his own rod, and the young fox quickly followed suit. He had managed to recover about half the distance, when the line turned and began to sweep in the opposite direction.

"He's going to run again, let him go." Wilson's voice was sharp and fast. At once the line straightened and the steelhead darted away from the boat at high speed, this time moving downriver with the current to help him.

"Careful, that's only six-pound leader." The young male badger advised, and Conor got the message right away. You didn't have to be the secretary of weights and measure to know that this fish came in at more than six pounds. The second run was shorter than the first and the young fox had just started to reel in again, when the steelhead rocketed straight up out of the water, twisting and shaking in the air for a good six feet. On the other side of the boat, he heard a repetitive clicking noise, and from the corner of his eye he saw that Mrs. Badger had a long-lens camera out and was busily snapping away.

When the fish hit the water again, the line went limp for a second and Conor felt his heart sink. But then abruptly it tightened again; the fight was still on.

The next twenty minutes could only be described as a see-saw battle; reel, run, repeat. Once, the young fox managed to get the fish close enough to the raft for Wilson to grab the net, only to have it take off upriver when the shadow fell over the water. It was as if the steelhead knew what was about to happen. Several more times during the contest, the big trout performed an aerial ballet, each time to the accompaniment of the mother badger's clicking camera.

But with every run it made, the steelhead seemed to be losing ground; each flight was shorter than the one just before it. Conor felt that he was finally starting to get the upper paw when the fish turned and made a sudden dash for an eddy on the far side of the river.

"Conor, don't let him get in there!" Wilson jabbed a finger at the swirl in the water. "There's a sunken log, he'll tangle you and break off."

The young fox tightened up the line, holding the rod sideways, the way the mink had shown him earlier. The line continued to strip off the reel, the steelhead moving closer and closer to the submerged log and freedom.

There was only one thing to do Conor decided; tighten up on the drag all the way. The fish would either break off or else he'd turn it away from the snag, but there was no way he was going to just sit here helplessly and let the steelie take him into that logjam.

He pressed down on the line, the rod bent further and further; the tip shimmying like a divining rod. He couldn't hold it; the steelhead was going to...

The line swept away from the eddy, towards the center of the river, and the fish came up again, this time rolling sideways on the surface of the water, its energy finally spent.

"Hurry Conor bring him in before he recovers!" Wilson Trask cried, and the young fox moved quickly to comply.

It was almost anti-climactic, the steelhead came to the boat with only a few more token flips of its tail, and the badger scooped it easily out of the water with the net. That was when Conor learned that the net had a built-in scale. "15 pounds, NICE one," the badger-dad declared, passing it over for him to see. A round of cheers and a quick series of pictures followed, with Conor holding up his prize while Mrs. Badger snapped away with her camera again.

"Okay Conor, give it here." Wilson Trask was holding out his arms.

The young fox duly gave him the fish...and then watched completely flummoxed as the mink slipped it back into the river and let it swim away.

"What the....Grrrr!" He almost said the 'y' word, "You let it go? After all that work, you just let it GO!"

"Yep, didn't want to keep that one." Wilson slapped his paws together as he sat up again.

Conor's jaw nearly fell straight into the river.

"What the heck's the point of even trying to catch a fish like that if you're just going to let it go?" he demanded, sputtering and waving his arms at the river.

Will Trask's face was a portrait etched in innocence.

"To watch it suffer." he said.

A chorus of snerks and sniggers erupted around the raft. The first to start laughing out loud was Erin, (who else?) and then everyone was laughing. And then Conor was laughing too, laughing his tail off. Oh yes, there was a LOT of the old Kieran McCrodon blarney in this mink, even if he wasn't Irish.

"Seriously Conor," Will said when they all recovered, "You couldn't have kept that steelie if you wanted to; it was a wild fish not a hatchery fish; it's not legal to retain them on the Alsetz."

"Oh," the young fox nodded. Okay, now he felt better about things, even though he had no idea how the mink had been able to tell the difference between... "Ow!"

Erin Hopps had just elbowed him in the arm.

"And besides, where's your license, kid?"

"Yeah," her buddy Terri echoed, with a smirk.

Conor sat back in his seat and grumbled silently. "WHY didn't I put my foot down about coming on this ride when I had the chance?" (Later of course, he would decide that it was worth it.)

The next set of rapids was about a class 2.5, not especially fast or high, but seriously kinky and twisting. As they paddled their way through, Conor found that he enjoyed the challenge of trying to anticipate, and then negotiate each bend and switch of the current.

Another slow section followed, but no more fish; even Wilson couldn't manage to entice another strike, and then he instructed everyone to button up again, they were coming to another set of class 3 rapids.

This time, there was no sign of what was up ahead, only a line of foaming water with nothing visible beyond it.

Well whatever was on the other side, Conor was not going to risk drowning a second time; he wrapped his ankle around the base of his seat, locking himself in place.

And then they were over the lip and heading down a long flume. The path here was more or less a straightaway, but this was the steepest drop they'd made so far. No one was whooping everyone was paddling, but there was that sense of breathless exhilaration again, everything standing out in relief; the green of the water, the gray of the rocks, the blue sky overhead, the hiss and gurgle of the river, the scent of pine and moisture, the cold sting of the spray, the taste of it when a stray droplet entered you mouth, and above it all the high sensation of speed...all these came together as the raft went hurtling down the chute.

At the end of the cataract, the river seemed to flatten out abruptly; Conor was certain they were in for another deep plunge, but instead the raft just straightened out as easily as if it were coming down a parking-garage ramp.

Now everyone whooped and cheered, but then Wilson had an announcement to make.

"Okay folks," he said, sounding almost a little shamefaced, "Our take out's just around the next bend."

This news was greeted by a chorus of 'awwws', groans, and grumbles; did they have to go in now? Couldn't they stay on the river just a LITTLE bit longer?

Of course it wasn't meant to be, and when the ramp finally came in sight, they found the big raft already pulled up on the beach. (When had it overtaken them?) Seeing their approach, the bear who'd been guiding raft #2 called out through a pair of cupped paws. "Hey, where you been, slowpokes?"

Wilson happily called back.

"We got a 15 pound native steelie; that answer your question, Toby?"

The bear immediately snapped his fingers in an exaggerated 'Oh pshaw!' gesture.

When they got the raft up on shore he naturally insisted upon seeing the proof-which they had plenty of, courtesy of Mrs. Carla Rodgers photographic skills. (Conor had finally caught her name.)

"Whoa and you got that on a trout rod?" the bear asked, squinting at the display on the back of the badger's digital camera.

"Not me, him," The mink answered, pointing at the young silver fox beside him.

Toby turned and to Conor's surprise, shook his head with a rueful, almost mournful expression on his face.

"Whoa-boy...you done it now, kid." He said, "Now you're gonna be hooked on fishing for the rest of your life."

Then he grinned and offered a high five which Conor eagerly returned...and then the young silver fox had another piece of business to attend to.

"Um, do you think you could send me a few of those pics you took of me and my fish?" he asked, speaking to Mrs. Rodgers.

"I'll do better than that," she said, "This camera's got Wi-Fi. If you have your cell-phone with you, I can upload them right now."

"Great!" the young fox replied. He chose the single best picture of himself holding the fish plus three more shots of it leaping out of the water. After thanking the lady badger profusely and saying his farewells, he became aware of a presence behind him.

When he turned around, Erin Hopps was there, arms folded and a smug expression on her face. Standing behind her and off to the side was her girlfriend Terri Blackburn, grinning and holding her paws up in that curled, devious manner that only a mustelid can get right.

"Well?" Erin demanded, raising an eyebrow.

Conor's ears began to work in confusion. "Well, what?"

The girl-bunny's eyebrow lifted half an inch higher.

"You know what, fox...let's hear it."

"Let's hear what? What the heck are you talking about?" Conor was staring at her with his head tilted sideways.

Erin lifted her nose and sniffed.

"You know perfectly well what I'm talking about Conor Lewis; now come on, let me hear you say it."

He began to sputter again.

"Hear me say...what the heck? You crazy rabbit, what the heck are you talking about?

"You know fox, now come on; say it." She was giving him half a stink eye.

"I don't know what you're..."

"Say it, fox."

"Listen, this is...:

"Sayyyy it."

Conor balled his fists and jammed them downwards; then he screwed his eyes shut and mumbled something through gritted teeth.

"Ayudvun!"

Erin turned her head sideways and cupped a paw to her ear.

"What was that, Fox? Speak up, I can't understand you?"

He let out a hissing breath and then repeated himself.

"Iyadfun."

She leaned in closer, "Hmmm? I must have wax in my ears. What did you say again?"

"I had fun!" the young fox said; it came out as an almost feral growl.

"Whaaaaat?" Erin asked again...and the dam finally breached.

"I had FUN okay, Snowdrop?" Conor snarled, waving his arms in the air, "I lots of fun, TONS of fun; I had fun, fun, fun until daddy takes the T-Bird away!" Finally he calmed down and his words became sincere, "I did have fun Erin...and thanks for asking me."

Erin whooped and gave Terri a high-five, thumping her foot like a snare-drum. "You heard him Terr, you heard the fox; he had FUN today, whoo-hoo!"

"All right, all right," Conor's ears were moving every which way again. "What the heck is it with you bunnies and all the foot thumping anyway?"

Erin was only too happy to enlighten him.

"It's how we express different emotions, Conor."

She thumped her foot again.

"This how we thump when we're angry..."

And again...

"This is how we thump when we're happy..."

A third time...

"This is how we thump when we're sad..."

And then again,

"And this is how we thump when we're..."

She stopped and a sudden blush rose in her ears as she looked away from the young fox.

He took no noticed, instead making a 'T' with his paws.

"Hold it, hold it; that all looks the same to me!"

Erin peered at him as if he were an idiot.

"Well DUH, it looks the same to you, fox! You're not a bunny."

Conor rolled his eyes, and then his lips.

"Uhhhh...yeah." he said, and then, "all right, I get that, but why are you so happy about me having fun anyway?"

Erin slapped her paws together.

"Because now I don't owe you a thing. Eeeee-yes!"

She might have had more to say on the subject, except now it was Conor's turn to look smug.

"News flash, Snowdrop...you never owed me anything to begin with."

Before Erin could respond to this, a familiar car horn sounded at the head of the boat ramp.

They all turned, and saw Junior Hopps leaning out the window of the Family Farm truck.

"Erin, Conor...c'mon, we've got to go!"

The tone of his voice was clearly one that would brook no argument.

Erin turned quickly to Terri Blackburn, "Oops, sorry to turn off like this, Terr."

"It's all good, Erin." The young ferret girl replied.

She too had caught the urgency in Junior's summons. They hugged a fast good bye and then she and Conor turned and hurried for the truck

"Hey, what's going on, big brother?" the white furred bunny asked when they got there, but Junior only opened the passenger door and motioned them quickly inside.

"Okay, what...?" Erin started to say as she buckled herself into her seat; but the older bunny still refused to speak, making a 'shushing' motion with his paw. It wasn't until they had pulled out onto the highway that he finally opened up.

"Erin, it's Uncle Terry..." He looked warily at Conor for a second, "He had another...mmm, "episode.'"

Erin's ears lifted upwards and her nose began to twitch, but then all at once they dropped and a cold shudder seemed to run through her...and then she was the one giving the young fox an uneasy look.

Conor wanted badly to know what was going on, but wisely chose to keep his questions to himself; he'd get nothing out of either one of these two and besides, he had a feeling that he'd find out soon enough.

Later, much later, he would reflect that it was probably good thing Junior told had him nothing. Had the young fox known then what he learned that evening, he would probably have bailed out of the passenger window right then and there-and never mind how fast the truck was going.

-------------------------------------------------------

Author's note:

Conor's fight with the steelhead was inspired by true events...and many other parts of the story have roots in the real world as well.

Wilson Trask takes his name from two coastal rivers in Oregon. The second one was where I had an encounter with a pair of wild mink some years ago. (The two of them were frolicking on the other side of the river.)

The Easter Eggs: a reference to a scene in The Fox and the Hound, and also to certain Disney theme park attraction.