I struck and was solid, but nearly pulled the line up into the overhang of bushes. Unseen water churned. One jump into the branches and the fish would be off. It didn't jump. I was yelling and screaming. "Sonofabitch!," Joe shouted, then he was on his feet stumbling into the water in shoes and pants trying to catch the fish with his hands. Everyone stared harder at a crazy pair. The fish was dragged unceremoniously up onto the rocks. Fourteen inches of native rainbow, fat and gorgeous, a jewel in an unlikely setting. How long it had lived under those bushes immune to the humanity around it? "There!", I said to Joe. "I told you I would catch it." Then I laughed at the absurdity of my statement. "Sonofabitch!", was all Joe could say. We killed the fish right there. This was, after all, thirty years ago. We pumped up the hydraulic top to the camper and Joe fired up the stove. We ate it right there, along with kasseri cheese and french bread, and Joe finished his wine. We had had another "'venture', as Joe called them, chuckling and shaking his head. Fresh reality, here and now. The webs and bonds were once more slack enough that we both could breath. It was enough, and the eternal irony, just to be alive. "Sometimes,", Joe shrugged, then smiled "the impossible happens. Somwetimes there is just ....... luck. What can you make out of that." A statement, not a question. When we finally emerged from the camper the sun was setting and the park was clearing out. The end of the long weekend and the end of summer. I would be leaving for school. Joe would wait for my return, for these few years we could spend like this. Thoughts of Hemingway were quiet, and like the flow of the river, peaceful again. Trump Doyle McKenzie Flyfishers
			<= Back
		Table of Contents				Fishtales Start		Order/Contact