by Frankie Haney

Created on: December 23, 2009

My Fishing Trip

Tom and I arrived to find the campgrounds were crowded as expected on such a beautiful late summer weekend. With only a ninety minute drive from the big city, the wooded campground and the narrow, rocky river is a quick get-away for those of a more adventurous nature. The canoes were stacked high on the fingers of the transporting trailers waiting along the waters edge. The woodsy design of the camp store and office seemed to welcome us as we made our way along the well worn path. Hanging from the low hanging eaves were colorful tee shirts, caps, towels, flotation devices and anything else the city dweller might find as necessary accoutrement to identify oneself as a "river rat". Of course these wearable items would serve far better on future excursions when the colors have begun to fade and small tears show proof to other newcomers, this is NOT your first "float".

After looking around and collecting any new items needed for the big day tomorrow, we paid our camp site fee, then purchased the necessary trout stamp to add to our fishing license. Although I have floated before on more than one occasion, this would be my first attempt at catching trout. Or, if I were more inclined to be of a negative countenance, I might say it is my first attempt at "trying" to catch trout. But, my confidence is running high at this particular juncture and defeat is not an option. Tom and I set up camp quickly....ahem....well, as quickly as any man/woman team could possibly accomplish such a simple chore as tent assembly. Give a man a tent pole, some canvas and a hatchet and he thinks he is Davey Friggen Crocket!  All turned out well though and tempers were...well...tempered over a soothing cup of camp coffee while staring at the moonlight and listening to the orgy of frogs along the river bank.

Somewhere, in a not too distant proximity, voices keep buzzing through my foggy mind like those incessant frogs that kept me awake all night. Morning already? Oh yes, now I remember why I'm laying on the hard ground in a damp tent. It's float day. I hear the tent zipper slide down like fingernails on a chalkboard as Tom pokes his head in through the opening. "Did you remember to pack the bacon? I can't find the bacon. Should I walk up to the camp store and get bacon?" "No", I grumbled. "I had to put the bacon in the blue cooler. Did you find the blue cooler?" This became the pattern of our conversation for the next forty-five minutes until we were finally dressed,

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