A story No fuggin cats involved.
Posted: Mon Nov 14, 2005 4:25 am
And for you typo whores, I DINT FIX SHITOLA.
The alarm blared.
Buzz buzz buzz it went through his mind. Not like a fly buzz that instantly wakes you up. Just a droneing that can be ignored. Yet somehow it woke him up and he switched it off as fast as possible.
He dredged out of bed and walked out of the bedroom yawning as he doned his robe, off to the kitchen to make coffie.
The time, 3:30 A.M.
He shuffled to the shower and started the water as he stood there and scrubed his head and yawned again. He was wondering just what the hell he thought he was doing up, this early, on a day off.
Season, Spring, late May.
He stepped inside and walked slowly into the stream of hot water. He scrubed and turned the water off and stood there, shivering in the warm moisture. He did not shave as it was the weekend, besides it was not even needed. He dressed, brushed his teeth and hair and went to get his coffie.
He then walked out to the garage and pulled his fishing tube down off the wall, selected a small tackle box that would fit in the right pouch and zipped it up. He then took another small pocket sized lure box and placed it in the left side. He then hefted the tube into the back of his truck and retrived his Ultralight Rod and Real.
He jumped into the cab with it and shoved the key into the ignition as he clicked a button for the garge door. It hummed and rattled up as the truck fired and he jambed it into reverse and let out the clutch.
He yawned again as he pulled out into the street, clicking a second button on the remote and the door hummed shut as it trollyed down and the light shut off, He pulled away into the morning night and turned left. Several miles down the road and one crap song latter, includeing some stupid advertisements for services, concert tickects and low gas prices he turned left again onto a gravel road. This he followed for a couple miles.
It was a winding gravel road, and not very well kept or traveled. he was jostiled around a lot as he tried to take sips from his coffie and not spill it. The sun was showing first sportings of illumination on the horizon. And then it was there in front of him. Mountain Run Lake. His honey hole, so he called it. A small lake, large pond, the fisherman must decide. However you look at it, it was a nice place to fish. And small enogh to fish properly in a float tube.
He got out and doned his duck fin waders and hauled his tube to the waters edge, He then retrived his Rod and steped into the tube as the first rays of the sun struck the underbelly of the clouds over head. He waded out a few feet than sat and turned to look at the sunrise as he paddled backwards into the water.
With satisfaction he turned and let his duckwader fins take over and paddled forward about 100 yards into a secluded cove. The bank filled with pond lilys and knowing it was a drop off area, he swung his pole back and casted.
ABout a dozen times he casted and retrived, a top water lure, a minnow made of balsa. Then he spied a broken tree branch that was new that had fallen in the water. Some leaves still green. He casted again toward it.
In a blink of an eye that lasts a lifetime, he watched as the line behind the lure cureled and strightend as the lure hit its mark. He reeled in the excessline just to make it taught. The lure made a jerk and then sat motionless. He twitched the rod and the balsa lure jerked forward a little bit.
The water being smooth as glass, the ripples from the motion radiated out. Then he saw a swirl where the lure was and it dissapeard. Just as fast the line went taught hand he pulled back to set the hook. Then a bass broke the water line and heaved its self away from him and jerked the line.
In his float tube, he was pulled forward a couple feet. It had not yet sunk in how large this bass was.
The bass ran at him and he reeled like mad to keep the line tight. Then when he did get it tight, as the fish was running to the left side, his float tube turned. The line went real tight and he thumbed a lever to give some slack. As the slack started to go with the fish he was pulled along. For about ten yards he was pulled as his real gave more line to the fish.
He had never been pulled along like this before. This was a new experiance.
Then, The line went slack. He thought it went and snagged something and now its lost, so he reeled in line to see where it would tighten. When it did, it went straight to the bottom and he knew the fish was still there. It was now tugging down hard.
Suddenly the reel began to give line and pulled him around in a one hundred and eighty degree turn. Pulled again, all he could do was let it take some line.
His mind realed that the fish was still on, and so few casts in the day. Let alone so early in the day.
As the fish tired for a second time he reeled in some line. He saw a splash about 20 feet from him when the fish swam for the surface and broke it whipping its self from side to side in a new effort to get away. He let out some line again and re-reeled after it tired yet again.
He kept the line taught and felt the last struggles from the fish before it subjected itself to loss and followd the line.
He reached into the water and stuck a couple fingers in its muoth and hauled it out.
With water droplets running off of the fish, each droplet spalshing the water in slow motion, its tail flapping this way and that, he smiled.
This was a trophy fish.
This is a trip, worth rediscovering.
This, is not just a story.
The alarm blared.
Buzz buzz buzz it went through his mind. Not like a fly buzz that instantly wakes you up. Just a droneing that can be ignored. Yet somehow it woke him up and he switched it off as fast as possible.
He dredged out of bed and walked out of the bedroom yawning as he doned his robe, off to the kitchen to make coffie.
The time, 3:30 A.M.
He shuffled to the shower and started the water as he stood there and scrubed his head and yawned again. He was wondering just what the hell he thought he was doing up, this early, on a day off.
Season, Spring, late May.
He stepped inside and walked slowly into the stream of hot water. He scrubed and turned the water off and stood there, shivering in the warm moisture. He did not shave as it was the weekend, besides it was not even needed. He dressed, brushed his teeth and hair and went to get his coffie.
He then walked out to the garage and pulled his fishing tube down off the wall, selected a small tackle box that would fit in the right pouch and zipped it up. He then took another small pocket sized lure box and placed it in the left side. He then hefted the tube into the back of his truck and retrived his Ultralight Rod and Real.
He jumped into the cab with it and shoved the key into the ignition as he clicked a button for the garge door. It hummed and rattled up as the truck fired and he jambed it into reverse and let out the clutch.
He yawned again as he pulled out into the street, clicking a second button on the remote and the door hummed shut as it trollyed down and the light shut off, He pulled away into the morning night and turned left. Several miles down the road and one crap song latter, includeing some stupid advertisements for services, concert tickects and low gas prices he turned left again onto a gravel road. This he followed for a couple miles.
It was a winding gravel road, and not very well kept or traveled. he was jostiled around a lot as he tried to take sips from his coffie and not spill it. The sun was showing first sportings of illumination on the horizon. And then it was there in front of him. Mountain Run Lake. His honey hole, so he called it. A small lake, large pond, the fisherman must decide. However you look at it, it was a nice place to fish. And small enogh to fish properly in a float tube.
He got out and doned his duck fin waders and hauled his tube to the waters edge, He then retrived his Rod and steped into the tube as the first rays of the sun struck the underbelly of the clouds over head. He waded out a few feet than sat and turned to look at the sunrise as he paddled backwards into the water.
With satisfaction he turned and let his duckwader fins take over and paddled forward about 100 yards into a secluded cove. The bank filled with pond lilys and knowing it was a drop off area, he swung his pole back and casted.
ABout a dozen times he casted and retrived, a top water lure, a minnow made of balsa. Then he spied a broken tree branch that was new that had fallen in the water. Some leaves still green. He casted again toward it.
In a blink of an eye that lasts a lifetime, he watched as the line behind the lure cureled and strightend as the lure hit its mark. He reeled in the excessline just to make it taught. The lure made a jerk and then sat motionless. He twitched the rod and the balsa lure jerked forward a little bit.
The water being smooth as glass, the ripples from the motion radiated out. Then he saw a swirl where the lure was and it dissapeard. Just as fast the line went taught hand he pulled back to set the hook. Then a bass broke the water line and heaved its self away from him and jerked the line.
In his float tube, he was pulled forward a couple feet. It had not yet sunk in how large this bass was.
The bass ran at him and he reeled like mad to keep the line tight. Then when he did get it tight, as the fish was running to the left side, his float tube turned. The line went real tight and he thumbed a lever to give some slack. As the slack started to go with the fish he was pulled along. For about ten yards he was pulled as his real gave more line to the fish.
He had never been pulled along like this before. This was a new experiance.
Then, The line went slack. He thought it went and snagged something and now its lost, so he reeled in line to see where it would tighten. When it did, it went straight to the bottom and he knew the fish was still there. It was now tugging down hard.
Suddenly the reel began to give line and pulled him around in a one hundred and eighty degree turn. Pulled again, all he could do was let it take some line.
His mind realed that the fish was still on, and so few casts in the day. Let alone so early in the day.
As the fish tired for a second time he reeled in some line. He saw a splash about 20 feet from him when the fish swam for the surface and broke it whipping its self from side to side in a new effort to get away. He let out some line again and re-reeled after it tired yet again.
He kept the line taught and felt the last struggles from the fish before it subjected itself to loss and followd the line.
He reached into the water and stuck a couple fingers in its muoth and hauled it out.
With water droplets running off of the fish, each droplet spalshing the water in slow motion, its tail flapping this way and that, he smiled.
This was a trophy fish.
This is a trip, worth rediscovering.
This, is not just a story.