Last fishing trips

The kindly older gentleman asked, "When was the last time you took a full day to do something besides the things that hang over your head?" I shrugged. The "full day" aspect snagged.

"I am going fishing on Thursday."

"Well, good. See if you can get through the day without thinking of your to-do list. And if it does come up, then try to get back to your fishing. Gently."

Fishing is not always a s relaxing as it should be. Over the years I have told tales of fishing woes more than successes. Still, I persist in what seems the off chance that a good catch will offset the snags,  tangled lines, broken rods and tumbles on loose rock.

Of course, making the trip with a good buddy is a plus, and so it was yesterday, joking, catching up on what's new and enjoying the quiet that rests between us as we listen to the rapids and birds in the trees.

We spent the first part of the day on the river that has produced some nice salmon in past years. We were too early in the season, so it seemed, for the numbers were not there, although the fishermen were. It was clear that we might be better off going to our other spot on the smaller river, so we packed up and headed for the "Honey Hole."

The road that runs alongside this little river has seen some construction over the last couple years, and although the road is much-improved, the turn-out for our spot was reduced to a cliff-hanger of a shoulder, and rather than take a chance that it might give way under the car's weight, we now opt to park fifty yards further up. Parked and at the top of the culvert that leads down to our hole, my buddy remembered that he had left his walking stick back at the car and went to retrieve it. I had my stick, and anxious to get my line wet, proceeded down the 60° incline, first in the mud until I noticed what appeared to be a large flat rock that led down to other rocks that could act as steps, so I moved in that direction.

I have tried to recall whether I first stepped upon the big flat rock with my right or left. I cannot. Regardless, the foot did not stay and I began an hurried and erratic descent. I do know that I started on my tailbone and ended on my hands and knees. More a fetal position, and there I stayed.

The body doesn't always register pain immediately after trauma, especially in the case of severe injury, nerves having to establish new pathways, I suppose. I waited for those transmissions. My lower back hurt right away, like strained muscles, but I was more concerned about bones. I saw that somehow I had torn away parts of both thumbnails, but still no pain from those sites. Then I felt a burn on the outer aspect of my left thigh. I took no blood coming through my sweats as a good sign, and slowly stood up.

"What happened?" My buddy was standing up top.

I had my camera and cell phone in the left pocket of my sweats. I checked and both seemed undamaged.


My fishing rod was still intact. The glass jar of brined shrimp in my fishing vest had not broken either. My right thumb seemed to have taken the worse of it, but the blood was minimal. My thigh was a bit swollen and I had a six-by-two-inch raspberry to show for my efforts.

We went home without fish.


For some reason I am reminded of fishing trips I went on while in the Navy. I was stationed in Virginia and there were a number of good largemouth bass spots in the area but I was without a boat.  Through a roommate, I met an older gentleman who had a boat and vehicle to tow it, but had no driver's license as he was a drunk. But he loved to fish, and I wanted to fish, so I drove.


We were on a favorite little lake casting plastic worms against the shore when I got one helluva strike. I could tell it was a big fish but I failed to set the hook. As I retrieved my line in preparation for another try, the old guy reeled his line in faster and cast at the spot where I had the strike and pulled in a six-pound bass. Had I been successful if allowed a second try, it would have been the biggest fish I ever caught. I was peeved, but said nothing.


This guy lived with his wife and daughter. I rarely saw the wife but the daughter always seemed to be around when we were loading up or coming back. She didn't talk much but I got the impression she ran with a little tougher crowd than I. As Dad transferred the big bass to a galvanized tub of water, she came out to the garage with a cast on her right calf. She had broken her ankle as the passenger on a dumped motorcycle. Poor thing. I thought perhaps a night out on the town might be in order for the injured girl. We went to a movie, bought a six-pack of beer, went back to my apartment and propped that cold plaster on the small of my back.