Just ten more days in the contest!

Thanks to everyone for the GREAT participation in this catch & release artwork give-away!  Ten days from now we'll draw the winners name from the hat.  There's still room in the hat for YOUR name, so get your entry in soon!

Help Needed!

I need your help! My boss is running for the North Carolina State Legislature and if he wins it will mean more fishing time for me! That’s right, he’ll be out of the office a lot and while the cats away...well, you know the rest.

So here’s what I need. To win a seat in the state legislature it takes money. (NO...I DO NOT WANT MONEY.)

The NC House Caucus is running an online contest. The link I’ve provided will direct you to their website where you can ‘vote” for your favorite candidate. If you cast your vote for Tim Moffitt he just might win the $4,000 that they are giving away and I just might be able to take advantage of the situation.

http://www.nchouserepublicans.com/favorite.aspx

They’ll ask for your name, email address (I guess to determine if you are real) and zip code – and that’s all.

So please take a moment to vote and help me get some much needed stream time!

Ps. It doesn’t matter where you live. Anyone, anywhere can vote.

In the future...

In the future all trout will be large. There will be no need for huge fly assortments or landing nets because the trout of the future will be a genetically engineered conglomeration of traits that the majority of anglers desire. Their growth rate will closely resemble that of your average 6 year old fed a strict diet of Mountain Dew and Twinkies. Tippets will be out of style as the trout will be bred to ignore line sizes, and virtually any fly that comes close to resembling anything natural will be readily taken.


Upon hook-up, these trout will be programmed to fight extremely hard, but only for a few minutes (determined by their weight), at which time they will willingly come to hand without complaint. They will still secrete a mucoprotein protective coating of slime, but the essential electrolytes necessary for osmoregulation will not escape the reengineered slime layer, meaning that prolonged handling for those grip and grin moments will not be a problem.

The days of catching small trout will be gone...especially native trout, as they will be totally unsuited to compete with their triploid cousins. Stream reading will be greatly simplified as all trout will be programmed to inhabit areas free of snags and there will be a pecking order established as the trout line up in their specified feeding lanes.

Where am I coming up with this falderal, you say? How about a 48 pound brown trout and a 43 pound rainbow that were caught in the past year. Neither of these disgustingly fat creatures had to endure the rigors of growing up in a stream. Nope, they grew up in Dr. Frankenstein’s Hatchery.

These two genetically engineered Frankentrout shattered the old world records, and at the same time shattered my opinion of the International Game Fish Association. Just like in other sports, the world of angling has been invaded by genetic engineering and doping. Anything to achieve bigger. Anything to break a record. Anything goes as gene science and chemistry rule the day. The end product of this tinkering produces huge trout...funny looking things with huge bodies and tiny mouths. The girth on the new record Rainbow matched my own...34 inches. They’re created with three sets of chromosomes making them sterile and putting all the energy they normally expend in reproduction into body mass growth.

One can only hope that some fool doesn’t apply the same technology to the trout’s toothier cousins. Imagine the teeth of a two hundred pound Northern or Musky. Or worse yet...ten ton great whites.


Jurassic Park...here we come.
DON'T MESS WITH MOTHER NATURE

FFF Conclave

My latest illustration, done for the upcoming FFF Southeastern Regional Conclave to be held at beautiful Unicoi State Park on June 4th and 5th.

The show promises to be bigger and better than ever, with seminars, vendors, a great auction and of course the opportunity to sample the fabulous fishing in the north Georgia mountains. Hope to see you there...stop by my booth and sign up for the free Catch & Release art drawing !

FREE C&R Drawing in just over 30 days

In a little over a month the drawing will take place!  Someone will win free Catch & Release art ($350 value) on the 28th of June.  Send me an email (www.clearwatermemories@gmail.com) of your favorite grip & grin moment and you'll be in the running.  No Play...no WIN!

FLINT CREEK...through the willows

I like those streams that meander through the countryside with a road firmly affixed to their hips. Not so much because I’m lazy and always looking for the easy way...well yes I am lazy, but more importantly, I’m scared to death of snakes. In spite of my general laziness however, I will hike hundreds of yards down the road to get to an easy and brush free access point. One that doesn’t require climbing over dead-falls and wondering how big the local snakes are.

Yes, I’m scared of snakes. So scarred, that if they ever make a pair of snake proof waders I’ll have a pair and I’ll catch a lot more fish. I’ll wear ‘em in the heat of summer no matter how heavy and un-breathable they might be, and I’ll fish in places I’ve avoided for years. I’ll do just about anything to avoid snakes.

Reminds me of a day on Flint Creek. Near the Arkansas line in eastern Oklahoma, this stretch of water was full of Kentucky’s (aka Spotted Bass, micropterus punctulatus), and long before the gated community plague set in we spent many weekends camped there, wet wading and fishing for the streams plentiful inhabitants.

Flint Creek was a lazy foothills stream with deep long pools separated by shallow rapids. At what we called the “Ledge Pool” there were no roads paralleling the creek and no trails either, so if you wanted to get to the next hole there were only two choices: Stomp through the chest high bushes or wade.

Casting a tiny Lazy Ike through the length of the pool I had caught a few bass and decided that it was time to move on downstream. The pool’s outlet funneled to an unusually narrow width and was curtained completely with wispy willow branches that hung down to the water’s surface. Compared to the alternative of leaving the water for what had to be the home of a thousand copperheads ...it was a no brainer. I’d wade through it.

As the stream narrowed and picked up velocity it got deeper with each step. So deep, that by the time I got to the willows I was neck deep and barely ably to keep my footing as I made my way downstream.

With my rod pointed behind me to avoid getting tangled in the tree I reached out with the other hand to spread the willows from my face. My neck deep venture into “willow land” went just fine for a few steps. Then it got ugly fast.

You’ve heard of it raining cats and dogs...even heard of it raining fish, but have you ever heard of raining snakes? Yes, in the midst of that giant willow tree I had disturbed a nest of vipers. As they dropped like a storm of long, slinky raindrops, at least two dozen of them were suddenly in the water with me...eyeball to slitted eyeball. I ducked under water, raised my feet and let the current carry me into the next pool.

Just a few of my tormentors followed me downstream, and sure enough they were snakes; they were green, about six inches long, and of course they were totally harmless.

Regaining my composure, I thought of what could have been. I could have opted for wading through the underbrush instead of going through the willows and I could have been bitten by one or more copperheads and been air lifted to the nearest hospital for painful rounds of anti-venom treatment. The nurses would have been pretty and the food OK and I would have survived, but I would have been emotionally scarred for the rest of my life.

Instead, by choosing the route through the willows, the scarring only lasted a decade or two.

Operation Redux

Ever since getting involved in Project Healing Waters I have had the great pleasure to experience some of the finest fly fishing in the southeast.  In fact, a little over a year ago I posted a recollection entitled “Who Needs Montana?” referring to the quality of fishing that can be had within a short drive of my home in western North Carolina...and I meant it!  The fishing in this part of our great land is fantastic.

So fantastic that it has me spoiled.  As I’ve mentioned before, when we take out the Wounded Warriors we want to get them onto fish, and preferably big fish.  Many of our local fly shops have graciously given us time on their private waters, and without exception we have caught fish.  Big fish.  Like I said, I’m spoiled.  I’ve been hung up on catching big stupid fish.  Shame on me.

Sunday was the cure.  My friend Jimmy Harris from Unicoi Outfitters and I were scheduled to meet up in the Smokies for a day of fishing, and when I suggested that we head for the Trophy Waters Jimmy had another idea.  Rather than test the strength of our equipment on the local bruisers he suggested that we try something a little more soothing and serene.  Jimmy wanted to try the Oconaluftee up in the park.

Fifteen or so years ago, right after moving to North Carolina, Shirley and I camped at Smokemont in the park and I tried my luck on this little stream, but being totally unfamiliar with the area I didn’t fare very well.  My Ozarkian tricks didn’t cut it with these locals, and I haven’t been back.  Shame on me again.

Jimmy and I met at Rivers Edge Outfitters on Sunday morning and headed up into the park.  On this Mother’s Day weekend we found a gorgeous North Carolina day with temperatures in the seventies and surprisingly, we had the river to ourselves.  Through the day we met a couple of other anglers in the parking area, but on the stream it was just Jimmy and I.  We leapfrogged up and down the stream catching mostly native rainbows. Back at the shop, owner Joe Street had warned us that there was a good amount of fly activity on the stream so we stocked up on his favorite dries, hoping to have a bit of top water action.  But try as we might, the ticket was down and deep. 

It was a “back to the basics” type of day, and it was just what the doctor ordered to correct my “big fish, easy catchin” condition.  Stealth...reading the water...fly selection...depth determination...casting accuracy...all the things that go into making a memorable day.  All the things we learned in days of old.  And all the things that I have been missing.  The largest fish would have been lucky to go twelve inches, but man, were they beautiful. The stream was crystal clear, the spring flowers were in full bloom and the companionship could not have been better.

Just downstream from the Smokemont Campground I eased my weary butt down on a fallen log with the pretense of changing flies.  Huge boulders surrounded this bend in the river and the log was positioned with others on an immense slab of rock reaching to the water's edge.  As I sat I imagined this place before the white man came and turned it into a tourist destination.  I imagined a campfire and an Indian brave setting on the same slab.  There might have been a few kids playing in the water, and perhaps their mother cooking a few brookies over the open fire.  Had I been here many years earlier I might have found an arrowhead or two, or maybe just a pottery shard.  I looked around and all I found was myself.  God was good to me on Sunday.

FREE Catch & Release Replica Art!

Well folks, it’s been a year (a little over actually – been too busy to notice!) since I started this blog adventure. It sure has been fun and educational, and through the blog (http://www.52trout.blogspot.com/) I have met a lot of great folks. By putting myself on a sort of “schedule” I have done more work than normal and most importantly, I believe my work has shown improvement. I can’t wait to see what next year brings!

Sooooo...To celebrate the one year anniversary of my blog I am going to give away an original replica art piece featuring that “worthy of mounting” trout that you caught either yesterday or way back when.

That’s right...FREE. I’ll create a beautiful color rendering of your grip and grin moment that will include the trout with your name, the date and location – all hand lettered below the image.

I’ll create your instant heirloom on 11x14 archival paper, and it will be shipped to you free of charge and ready for framing.

So, here’s the deal. Sometime in the next 52 days send me an email (clearwatermemories@gmail.com) with a good photo of that monster. I’ll put your name in the hat and on the 28th day of June the lovely Shirley will draw the winning name.

My thanks to all of you for joining me on this journey!

To see a few example of my Catch & Release art go to:
http://www.clearwatermemories.com/replicas_and_sculptings.html

JOE CREEK...and THE TREE

Midway into second grade we moved to the outskirts of town....new school, new house and a creek. Oh yeah...a creek. Wild and woolly, through the ages Joe Creek had carved out the perfect proving ground for three young boys. There wasn’t much water in it most of the time, but the carving was deep and wide, full of mature oaks, cottonwoods and small game of all sorts. Armed with Daisy Red Riders, my brothers Bruce and Tom and I made the creek our private preserve. Saturday mornings were the best. Rising at dawn I would pack a peanut butter sandwich, grab my canteen, my trusty BB gun and head out for a day of shooting. Mom and Dad had a rule about the birds though. Sparrows were fair game, but don’t get caught pluggin’ a Cardinal, Robin or Blue Jay.

Ours was just the third house in the neighborhood and it set right on the edge of the gorge. Everything on the other side of the creek, that distant land, was undeveloped. Nothing but scrub brush and oil pumpers all the way to Southern Hills Country Club of PGA fame. Occasionally we would explore that foreign land but the creek had too many undiscovered wonders...too many nooks and crannies...too many places just around the bend for us to venture into the oil fields very often.

The best spot was right behind the house. On Joe Creek a “large” pool was only about thirty feet across and we had one a stones throw away. Inhabited with little catfish, it couldn’t have been more that four foot deep at the center. You know how certain smells can inspire a memory? Uncooked bacon does that for me. With our Zebco 33’s and a supply of Oscar Meyer, I doubt we ever caught anything bigger than five or six inches. But to have a fishin’ hole right out your backdoor, well it was great, and every time I open a pack of bacon it brings back the memory of that pool and the happy days spent there.

We built forts, we set box traps and snares for rabbits...we even stocked it with trout. That’s right, trout. Returning one weekend from Roaring River, we had convinced Dad to let us bring a few live trout home. We justified it by science. It was a science experiment...an experiment in survival. Even as a ten year old, I had no doubt that the trout would die in the warmth of the creek, but it might be interesting to see how long it took. We placed three of them in a bucket of clear, cold water and headed for home. After a couple of hours in the car the water was no longer cold, but at least it was still clear and the trout were alive...sort of. Talk about culture shock! I don’t recall how long they lasted but I’m sure they were belly up before we made it back to the house to get our fly rods.

When in Tulsa, if I have the time, I try to drive through the old neighborhood...and it’s sad. That giant house we lived in isn’t so large and the yard across the street where Scotty and I, along with my brothers played football is so small it’s a wonder that every pass wasn’t through the end zone. The only things bigger are the trees...especially that big Oak right on the edge of the gorge. Mom’s Oak tree is about all that’s left of Joe Creek as we knew it.

In 1959 Joe Creek flooded. Our neighborhood had turned into a river. Every house that was built on a slab had three feet of very muddy water in it. Ours was on a good foundation, so it was spared. Dad’s new Chevy wagon wasn’t so lucky. The water was up to its windows and completely covered those gorgeous red fins.

Come to find out, Ol’ Joe had done this before, so it was decided that Joe would cease to be a creek and become a ditch. Our playground was straightened and paved from top to bottom. Gone were the forts we had built, the paths, the hideouts and the catfish pool. The playground of my youth is now only suited for skate boarders and those bicycle jumpin’ X-Game crazies you see on TV. But mom’s Oak tree still stands.

The day the bulldozers arrived to clear the stream banks was a sad day in the Folger house. Mom and dad (not to mention, their indentured servant children) had spent countless hours landscaping our section of the creek and the thought of it being scraped slick and clean was hard to accept. By the time the diesels were unleashed on our section of paradise my brothers and I had grown a bit and the lure of the creek had lost its pull on us. Not so with mom. Armed with dad’s Winchester .22 WRF Rimfire, she stood her ground and demanded that that one tree be left alone. Whether it was the fear of a round through the radiator, or just kindness on the contractor’s part, it doesn’t matter...the driver found other trees to knock down.

Every now and then I pull up Google Earth and take a look at the tree. Yes, from that satellite on high it can be seen...perhaps like it was seen from above on that long ago day when mom fought to save it.

Project Healing Waters invades Cherokee, NC

WOW...What a weekend! On Sunday I participated in the Grand Opening of Projects Healing Waters’ Cherokee Chapter in Cherokee North Carolina and what a good time I had! Shirley and I arrived on Saturday night and had a great dinner hosted by our organizations founder, Capt. Ed Nicholson. Along with Curtis Fleming of Fly Rod Chronicles, Billy Davis and his wife Brenda and our Mid-South PHW Coordinator and best buddy John Bass, we enjoyed a marvelous meal and made plans for the next day’s festivities and fishing.

Our folks at Rivers Edge Outfitters will be providing meeting space for the Chapter’s activities and their shop, sitting right on the banks of the river, was the ideal location to kick things off. A number of our visiting vets, including our intrepid leader, Capt. Nicholson, enjoyed the fishing right behind the shop, catching fish after fish on a variety of patterns as we watched from the deck, chowing down on delicious grilled burgers and brats.

Long about mid afternoon I was summoned back to the deck, where I found Curtis and John set up in front of Steve Hasty’s camera for what was obviously a shoot planned for an upcoming show. Of course I was aware that there was going to be some filming done and that I was going to be a part of it, but I had no idea what these guys had planned right now.

Curtis began by introducing both John I, and then John started recounting our time on Big Cedar two weeks ago. Then he made some disparaging comments about the ancient tackle that I was using...wondering how I managed to catch anything at all on such antiquated equipment, and then Curtis pulls out two brand new TFO rod cases and presents them to me as a thanks for the work I do with the organization. I was speechless of course. Inside each case was a Project Healing Waters Series TFO rod and reel, complete with line and leader. The first one held a nine foot five weight and the second a nine foot eight weight. Of course I stammered and stuttered my way through an insufficient thank you and hurried away before they had a chance to take the rods back. Those that know me well know that being a tightwad, I’ve been heard to say “I aint one to give up on a fly rod just because it’s got a little wear on it” (paraphrasing Augustus in Lonesome Dove), so these two new rods ought to last me at least two more lifetimes.

Monday morning the film crew, the vets and volunteers headed for the river. Curtis and I, along with River’s Edge head guide, Eugene Shuler, picked out a likely looking stretch. With cameras rolling, Curtis issued a challenge regarding the number of fish caught and the fun began. Knowing my role well, I graciously allowed Curtis to catch the first fish, and when just a few casts later he landed a very large one, I was determined to hook and land only the small ones. After all, I want to go on the show again someday.

Although we quit counting after the first five or six, within the next couple of hours we each caught at least 40 very nice trout. I learned some very good techniques from Eugene and best of all, Curtis and I each managed to do the Cherokee Grand Slam...catching rainbows, browns and brookies. From what I heard when we gathered back at the fly shop everyone else did equally well. Smiles were everywhere.

By the way...Did you ever make a special effort to take your camera along to photograph all the fish you would catch on a special day at a special place...and then catch nothing worth recording? Well, here’s a tip: If you want to catch a load of fish, just leave the camera at home!

Optimists

The pressure was on. Mike, from Mike’s Gone Fishin'…Again fame was going to join me for a day of fishing on the Davidson River. We had been trying all winter to get together for a day of fishing and finally it was to occur. Mike has only been chasing trout for a couple of years and as a regular reader of my blog, he assumed that a day spent with me would enhance his developing skills. Especially after I bragged last week about my nymph training at Big Cedar. Ooooops.

We met up at the fly shop under a blue sky and perfect conditions, and headed up to a stretch of the Davidson below the hatchery. Walking down to the run that I had selected we passed a few rising campers, warming themselves over campfires. I admit to being a little jealous of them – not for their fires and the coffee they were brewing – but for what must have been a special time camped along this beautiful stream.

Unexpectedly, we had the water to our selves. Just us and the trout. But they were expecting us. Yes these wonders of creation had to know that we were coming. Their water was warming from the winter’s chill and surely they knew that on this clear day they would encounter a few fishermen.



Mike (shown above) and I tried every trick we knew and the fish ignored all of them. In the four hours that we fished I touched not one of them, and Mike’s luck was only slightly better. But a good time was had, a friendship was solidified and both of us knew that the day was not wasted. Back at the parking lot we talked of planning a next adventure. We talked of Mike’s home water, the Haw River and the river bass that he’s so familiar with; we talked about meeting up on Wilson’s Creek for a day of rock hoping and chasing native trout. We talked about fishing with the optimism that fishermen have. That’s what fishermen do.

Old dog...new tricks

Ever since my high school days I have fought against common sense and resisted nymph fishing. Until this past weekend. After watching my buddies land rainbows in the 8 to 10 pound range, I couldn’t take it anymore. My stubbornness was overtaken by my desire to catch a trout!

We were on Big Cedar Creek in SW Virginia. I had been there a year ago and had good luck with streamers and wets, so I just naturally figured they would work again this year. Wrong. I tried every trick I knew and got nary a strike, while watching John Bass land fish after fish from the same water. John had invited Billy Davis and I to one of his favorite waters and I was determined to live up to my undeserved reputation as a competent angler.


Bill Nuckles ready to net a big one for John

I arrived at noon on Friday and proceeded to disprove any notion that I knew what I was doing. Bill Nuckles, John’s good friend and guide, watched my pathetic efforts until he too couldn’t take it anymore. After Friday’s unproductive day (I caught one six inch goggle-eye) and Saturday’s repeat performance (another goggle-eye), Bill grabbed my arm on Saturday evening and pulled me to a run that had produced fish for the others all day long.

Bill is rightly proud that those he shares the water with catch fish, and while he may have been fine with me destroying my reputation, he wasn’t about to allow me to destroy his. With obvious disdain, Bill cut the streamer from my line and replaced it with one of his tried and true stonefly creations and a couple of split shot.

As any of my previous teachers would testify, I am a stubborn student. Fortunately Bill was an even more stubborn coach and within minutes I managed to sting a few of the trout the stream is known for. Yes, I eventually landed one and Bill left for home...his job accomplished. Before heading to the house myself, I was able to land a twin of that first one and Sunday morning saw me catch an even bigger one. One lesson does not make a graduate, but I’m well on my way to earning a degree in nymphing.

Thanks Bill for showing me the light, and thank you John Bass for a great weekend and introducing me to THE COACH!

TSALAGI

I love doing special projects that commemorate something worthwhile! In this case, it’s the Grand Opening of the Cherokee, North Carolina chapter of Project Healing Waters and for the event I created this brand new rainbow art. The event takes place on Sunday, April the 18th at the new River’s Edge Outfitters shop in Cherokee, and of course...all are welcome.

The Cherokee warrior in the background is familiar to a lot of folks in the southeast, as his likeness is seen on a lot of the tribes advertising. I thought his steely eyed stare was appropriate, as it’s the look I’m going for as I cast my line in their Trophy Waters just a few Sundays from now.

Walt's Popper

Yeah, I know this blog is supposed to be about trout. As hundreds of other bloggers are writing about the breaking of spring and the warming of the waters and the inevitable trout fishing to follow - when spring shows up in my neighborhood my thoughts turn to Bluegills and Bass! Sure, I’ll be doing my share of trout fishing - going next weekend in fact - but just as importantly, I’ll be having a few after work rendezvous’ at our neighborhood pond. And unless I’ve run out of them, the end of my line will be showin’ off one of Walt’s Poppers. Say you’ve never heard of them? Well follow the link to a story done by Beau Beasley about Virginia’s Popping Bug King, Mr. Walt Cary.
http://www.chesapeake-angler.com/storyjuly06-VApoppingbug.htm

Cruisin'

Leona Mae and Marge determined that this would be their last vacation at Musky Lodge. For the past 15 years they and their men-folk had made the trip an annual event. The men would fish all day, make up lies and drink all night, while the ladies would share the latest details of their kids lives, put up with the men and shop the local establishments.

They vowed that this year would be different. If they could pull it off, they would end this thing once and for all. Cooking fish and picking up after their husbands was not their idea of a fun vacation. The shopping? Well, they could do that anywhere and at any time. With any luck next year they would be playing the slots and sailing the warm waters of the Caribbean. One way or another this year was going to be the last one spent in the musty, moldy, dilapidated cabin on Opaloopygooma Lake.

The drive over in Jack and Leona’s Vista Cruiser was filled with the normal banter. Jack and Elbert recalled past trips, fish caught and fish lost ...while in the backseat the girls sat quietly as expected...listening, but not saying a word.

“If I had landed that fish last year it would have been our largest in years,” said Elbert. “In fact, it would have been larger that everything you caught last year stretched out end to end!”

“Yeah, it was big alright,” says Jack, “and if I had been holding the rod you wouldn’t be sayin’ a word right now. It would be hangin’ on my wall...right above my walleye.”

“Tell you what wise guy, whoever catches the biggest one this year can dictate everything we do on next years trip. How ‘bout that, Jack?”

“I’m in.”

The lake’s share of the world musky population had been dwindling for years. And they had been getting smaller too. Nowadays, a fish of thirty inches would illicit “wows” and “what’d ya catch him on?” comments from the guys at the bait shop. And so far this year, it was worse. Cruising the lake from end to end in Jake’s metal flake monster they had little to show for their efforts. Just some chain pickerels and a few stunted yellow perch. If not for the tradition of it all, they would have left this lake years ago.

The girls spent their days as they always had...cleaning, cooking, grumbling and shopping, and shopping, and shopping. They had inventoried all of the antique shops and made two runs to Wal-Mart. Other than the groceries they had bought to make up for the lack of fish, they had no more to show for their efforts than the men had to show for theirs. Boredom. Pure boredom. Combined with the general grumpiness of their men, their once upon a time “idyllic cabin on the lake” was getting smaller by the day.

Around mid-morning on their last day at camp, long after the men had headed out and after the breakfast dishes were done, Leona Mae had the bright idea to go fishing.

“Marge, I can’t take another day of this. Another day in Wal-Mart is not gonna happen. What say you and I go fishing?”

“Hmmmm...Well, let’s think about this Leona. For starters we don’t know how to fish, and secondly, the men have the boat.”

“Well Marge, apparently we can fish as well as the men can, and regarding a boat, I remember seeing an old canoe over at the next dock. The folks that own it are nowhere around, and there’s an extra pole out on the porch. Let’s do it.”

Beginning what built into a hysterical laugh, Marge agreed, “Why not, if those two old fools can do it......” So grabbing their sun scarves, they rushed for the door like two giddy school girls heading out for recess.

The canoe looked sea-worthy and there was a fine looking Minn Kota hanging off of the back of it.

"Is that the motor for this thing? Looks like a toy compared to that engine on Jack’s boat..."

"Yep, and in place of a gas tank it has a battery. I think it’s a trolling motor, Leona. It's one of them electric things. I’ve seen them on those super exciting fishing shows that dumb-ass watches on Saturday mornings when he should be tending to his chores."

Leona climbed in without upsetting things much, but Marge, with her girth and well documented tendency to stumble, had a tougher time of it. That they only took on a cup or two of water and stayed upright while escaping the dock was a miracle.

“Whoopee! We're sailing!" shouted Marge between gasps for air as the canoe drifted out. "Now let's do some fishin'!"

Leona Mae was up first. “Alright darlin’ let’s show the guys how it’s done. Let’s get us a big one.” The rod was a stout Cabela’s model and the reel was open face bait casting.

“Oh yeah, I’ve used these things when I was a kid,” Leona said confidently as she reared back and let her rip.

“Did you see the bait Marge? It’s a really shiny, red and white stripeddy thing. I never saw it hit the water.”

Well, the “really shiny, red and white stripeddy thing” did hit the water...right behind her, not five feet from the canoe. And as it dropped to the bottom, although Leona didn’t see it, something else did.

Meanwhile Marge was cussing the motor. She had jiggled the connections and pushed the buttons till her thumb hurt, and the thing just wouldn’t start. As Leona was contentedly reeling and reeling and reeling and getting nowhere because of a faulty reel, Marge finally gave up on it.

“Leona...the motor won’t start and if you haven’t noticed, we don’t have any paddles...and we are drifting away from the dock. How are we going to get back!”

“Oh, don’t fret Marge. It’s a pretty day so let’s just keep fishin’. Soon enough the men will be back for lunch and they can rescue us. It’ll make them feel all useful and manly.

“Forget that! After all the talk about how helpless we are, I’d just as soon swim back to the dock as hear any more of their crap.

As the Dardeville fluttered to the bottom, a musky, a very large musky from his safe haven under the dock had seen it fall. With one push from his massive tail he was on it. He swallowed it half way up the wire leader and felt the treble hooks sting deep into his throat. With the open spool as the only pressure, he headed for the deep water of the lake.

Unaware of the event unfolding beneath the waves, Leona figures out that there’s something wrong with the reel. “Marge, this thing aint workin’. I keep cranking on it and nothing happens.”

“Give it to me dear. Maybe I can fix it.” And for once today, Marge managed to push the right buttons.

“Oh my Lord, Leona...there’s a fish on here! Get out of the way before the line takes your head off!”

Recognizing the sensation from previous battles the big guy fought back, pulling harder each time that Marge gained a little line. It was an epic battle...an Old Woman and the Sea saga in the making. With the butt of the rod buried in Marge’s ample midriff, they were soon fifty yards out into the lake. But inch by inch Marge was gaining ground, and within twenty feet of the boat the leviathan surfaced.

“Good gracious Leona, that’s the biggest fish I’ve ever seen, much less caught!”

“Hold your horses there sweet-thing. If I’m not mistaken I was the one that threw the bait at him. If anyone caught him, it was me.”

“Shut your mouth Leona and help me,” panted Marge. “Take the pole...I’m pooped. I don’t think I can get him all the way to the boat. We can argue about who caught him when he’s officially caught!”

As Leona reached for the rod she fell over the middle thwart right into Marge’s lap, knocking the rod loose and in the process signaling round three to the fish, who immediately came back to life and headed under the boat. With rod in hand, Leona couldn’t figure out which way to turn. The fish circled under and around the canoe, then after a few laps the line went still...

“Oh no Marge! I think he’s gone! Or he’s died...the line just stopped dead in the water.”

Strangely calm after the recent excitement, the girls just looked at each other. Leona laid the rod down and started laughing.

“Well, we almost had him Marge. Whew, that was fun!”

Then they noticed the canoe moving. Against the wind and seemingly with purpose. Looking in their direction of travel they saw the dorsal fin of the huge fish humped out of the water as the creature plowed towards the far shore. But the line was still slack. What was he attached to?

“He’s tangled up in the little motor Leona and he’s taking us further away from the dock! If we don’t get him untangled he’ll take us clear to the other side of the lake!”

As the fish steadily pulled the canoe backwards, Leona, with hands on the gunnels, stepped gingerly over to Marge’s end of the canoe, and in frustration reached around Marge’s shoulders to deal with the problem.

“If you could get your big...your self...out of the way I think I can set him free Marge.” And with that Marge began to cry.

“I’m sorry Leona Mae. I’m so sorry. I should never have agreed with you about this fishing trip. If I had protested we’d be at Wal-Mart now and the worst thing we’d have to worry with is buying the right weight of batting for your quilt. Oh Lord help us. I’m so sorry!”

“Enough Marge. What’s done is done. Now please just get out of the way.”

Getting “out of the way” in a canoe is best done carefully and slowly, and by people that have a sense of balance and timing. Marge had neither and sure enough the canoe went over...and they went under. Marge bobbed up, looking like a huge water-spitting jellyfish with her blouse full of air and her arms swirling in the water. Fortunately Leona was a strong swimmer and was able to get her partner back to the overturned canoe. Hanging on for dear life, they had the good sense to stay with the canoe and try to work it towards shore.

Kicking and paddling, soon they were in shallower water and were able to touch bottom, so it got a little easier. If they could get the fish to work with them it would be easier still. Tiptoeing along, step by step, eventually they reached the shore. They drug the canoe down the bank, righted it and tied it up to the dock.

A couple of hour later, after cleaning up themselves and the canoe, the girls heard the men laughing as they approached the cabin.

“All right, Elbert your fish takes the prize. I know, I know that fish you lost last year was bigger, but this one you actually landed. I guess I’ll be cleaning all your fish next year?”

“Well, Jack...I’ll have to do some thinking on that. But yes, you’ll be cleaning fish...and some other stuff too! I haven’t got it all planned out yet.

“Hi ladies! How was your shopping trip?” Jack said as they entered the cabin.

“Well Jack, it was fine. Thanks for asking. We caught, I mean got... something really amazing.”

My, my...so did we! Come on down to the boat and take a look. You’re husband took the grand prize and will be in charge of next year’s trip! You gotta see this fish...come on.”

Elbert climbed aboard the boat, reached into the live well and brought out a pretty nice musky. Expecting oohs and ahhs, Elbert was a little upset with the girl’s blasé reaction.

“Yes dear, that IS a nice fish, but I was expecting a big one.”

“Listen Leona, we fished all day for this and it’s the biggest one of the trip, so how ‘bout showin’ a little respect to the prize winner, huh?”

Sashaying over to him, Leona looks the fish up and down, grabs the stringer from her husband and with her other hand firmly around its tail…hoists the wiggling musky high above her head.

“Why Jack, no husband of mine is gonna be keepin’ minnows. This aint nothin’ but bait!” as she throws the thing, stringer and all, out into the lake.

Jack nearly dove in after it and Elbert thought he felt the big one comin’ on. Shocked and shaking with rage, Jack hollered, “Leona if it’s the last thing I do I’ll get even with you for that! I’ll be damned if we’ll ever bring you back here!”

“Oh now Elbert, it was just a fish! And besides, we WILL NOT ever be coming back here. Marge, reach down there around that post and pull up that clothes-line rope…and Jack, she’s gonna need some help…get over there and help her.”

As the two of them pulled up the largest musky that any of them had ever seen, the men were awestruck.

“Where did that come from? Has that been tied up there the whole trip?”

“No way Elbert. Marge and I caught that while you two fools were out motoring around the lake swillin’ your PBR’s. And according to the rules that you set yourself darlin’…WE won the contest!

“This time next year Marge and I will be sailing the Caribbean in one of them ocean liners sippin’ exotic drinks and makin’ eyes at the lifeguards. You fellows want to come, you can carry our bags and fetch stuff for us when we holler! We’ll be cruisin’!