Fishing Stories

come hell or high water

Ursiteisgood

From: LovingU
Date: 10 Feb 2006
Time: 02:49:23
Remote Name: 221.221.237.219

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From: portly bob
Date: 03 May 1998
Time: 14:47:32
Remote Name: 205.184.175.171

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Come Hell and High Water By Portly Bob

I could feel the power of the rod unfurl as my line uncoiled in front of me. The small, dainty dry fly landed deftly on the water and awaited the delicate kiss of an unwary fish. I waited in anticipation as a tempest of water made a beeline for the tender feathered morsel. The fly disappeared amidst a explosion of foam and spray. I waited a second and set the hook. With that my scaly foe dove for the bottom and the safety of cover that was his realm. As he drove for the bottom I could hear my reel scream, " Bob you moron, what the hell do think you're doing hooking my prize cichlids. If that fish is hurt at all, I'm gonna kill you. Get your line out of my fish tank!!!" It wasn't my reel that was screaming. It was my brother-in-law George and he looked pissed. After being cooped up in his house for five days and getting no cooperation from the weather at all, I was going a little stir crazy. "Don't worry George I'm not using a hook." And with that I gave a little tug and out popped the feather that I had tied onto the leader. "We're going in the morning, so wait until then. You know that if you break anything we're dead and the girls won't let us go." So I put my rod away and went to bed thinking about our rotten luck with the weather this vacation. For the 1st three days of my one week Colorado vacation it rained cats and dogs day and night. Day 4 there were tornado watches throughout the area, and try as we might to get out of the house, the girls insisted that we stay home, because being widowed was not the way they wanted to spend the rest of their lives. Day 5 saw more torrential rain and once again we had to stay in and look hopefully at the weather channel and pray to the fishing gods for a break in the weather. After about 10 straight hours of the weather channel vigil and numerous beer sacrifices to the fishing gods, we finally heard the news we were waiting for, a break in the weather for the morning of my last day in Colorado. George and I decided that we were not going to let anything stop us. We set a time of 5 am, packed our equipment in the boat and went to sleep right after my little fish tank practice session, so we would be ready for the next day's adventure. At 4:45 a tap on the door let me know that George could not sleep and it was time to get up and GO FISHIN'!! We slinked around like mice so that we did not wake the girls or the kid. At 4:55 we were in the car, coffee in hand and headed for George's special spot. For the entire drive, George told me about the giant trout we were going to catch. While we drove. we put on the radio and listened to the news. The weather report was not too good, thunderstorms and the possibility of tornadoes, but we rationalized that where we were going wasn't going to be affected, and we didn't care, we were goin' fishin' come hell or high water. At 6 am we had our flyrods rigged and the boat in the water and we were tooling towards a quiet cove where George said the sea monsters live. Soon, George cut the motor and we drifted into a quiet little bay covered with lily pads, snake grass and fallen trees. I said to George that this looked more like largemouth habitat than trout cover. George thought so too, but he swore that there would be loads of fat, feisty rainbows. We weren't sure if the fish would be up this early, so we sat back and watched the water for a couple of minutes over a thermos of hot coffee, and waited to see if any fish were rising. As I leaned back to take a sip of luke warm coffee, I heard a splash to my left. As I turned my head, I heard another to my right, then in front. Soon there were fish rising all around us. I turned to asked George if he could see what they were rising to take, but at that exact moment a size 14, brown mayfly landed on my arm.

"George," I said, with only a little excitement in my voice, " I think all those beer sacrifices to the fishing gods paid off. We have fish rising all around us and one of the naturals that they're rising to, and I think I have about 20 flies like this in my dryfly box. What could be better than this?" "Catching fish." my eminently wise and insightful brother-in-law said, and with that we both tied on a brown mayfly, slapped a hi-five and cast to a rising fish. George hooked-up first. A nice 16" bow. Then I matched him with an 18", slab sided rainbow of my own. Back and forth, to and fro we went. Strike for strike, fish for fish. George said "This is going to be a day of fishing legend. " Little did we know how true that statement was going to be. I landed a 4 pound brownie that put me up on George 9 fish to 8. We have a standing bet for first fish, most fish and biggest fish. I lead George in 2 of the 3 categories (the fish was also the pool fish) and along with his other attributes, George is very competitive and a sore loser. (This bet is for a dollar a category and we never pay up.) As I netted and released the fish, I noticed that there was a very large cloud bank approaching from the east. This was no ordinary cloud bank. No big, white, puffy, fluffy sunny day clouds. No, these were dark, imposing, hell-spawned clouds full of piss and vinegar and they were headed our way. I pointed out the ominous sky to George and suggested to him that it may be in our best interest to call it a day and head back to shore. George said "Not while you're ahead. I'm not gonna lose to you today. One more and we're tied and I don't owe you anything. I'm not leaving till I catch one more!" The way things were going I calculated this would take two casts and we would be out of there before the storm broke. Now wouldn't you know that the fish in this lake were smarter than us, and as the storm came closer they took a dive for the bottom. George made several casts and not one fish even looked cross-eyed at his fly. "George," I said, "Let's forget about the bet and get out of here. Look at the sky!" and as I looked to the east, I realized that this storm was on the verge of engulfing us. The sky was as black as octopus ink and the squall line was less than a mile away and moving fast. Lightning bolts could be seen in the distance as they pounded to the earth in their celestial exuberance, waiting to strike at anyone simpleminded enough to be out in the open. As George flailed about the lake trying to hook up with the elusive fish # 9, I tied on this little white streamer pattern that I had been experimenting with and cast out a couple of feet from the boat. As the fly sank about ten feet, bang, a nice little rainbow hung himself on my fly. Try as I may to break him off, I couldn't and I had to land and release him. Number ten in the bag. George was visibly disturbed. "If you ever want to get off this lake alive, you had better keep your rod out of the water and let me catch two more fish!" With that he turned and glowered at me and went back to fishing. I offered him the fly I had just used and he grudgingly accepted it. Just then the rains began. Just a light rain for now, but heavier rain could be seen not too far away. George tied on the new fly and after a few casts he had a nice rainbow on. This one looked bigger than the brown that I had caught earlier. Redemption, I thought as George played the fish. All he has to do is land this one and we're tied and we can go home. George played the fish for a few moments and as he was about to land it, it spit the hook and dove to the bottom. "Catch and release, catch and release!!" I yelled, meaning that the fish counted and we could leave. "No" George said as he shook his now sodden head. I never touched it. (Part of the rules of our wager is that you have to touch a fish for it to count in the total.) George looked dejected beyond words. The pool fish got away and he was still two fish down. As George made another cast the rains cranked it up two full notches. It was raining buckets. Sheets of rain limited visibility to less than five feet. The small, aluminum dinghy started to take on water at an alarming rate. "George, here comes the high water and most of it is in the boat. Let's get the hell out of here!" "No way." He said " I'm still losing and you're not getting off that easy. There's a bottle in the bottom of the boat. You bail and I'll fish. " I picked up the cut-off Coke bottle and started to throw water over the side. George continued to cast as I made a vain attempt to get ahead of the water pooling in the bottom of the boat. George yelped, "Got one!!" as I threw another bottle of water over the side. As George played the fish, I noticed that the wind was picking up. Our wee craft was being blown out into the middle of the lake and away from the relative shelter of the little cove we were in. "George, Don't you think we should head for the cove and at least get out of the rain." As George landed his fish and released it he said, " We'll stay out here, the fishing seems better and it's only rain. Afraid of a little rain, you big old New York wuss." "George, it's not the rain or the idea of sinking in the middle of this lake that I'm particularly worried about, but it's the hail." We both watched as the first few golf ball sized hail stones hit the water behind us. Before we knew it we were inundated with a deluge of icy projectiles. I covered my head the best I could and continued to bail. George, meanwhile, decided that it was in our best interest to head for shore. He fired up the little electric trolling motor that we had and aimed it, at full speed at the closest piece of land, which was about a quarter of a mile away. Unfortunately, the engine was not too powerful and we made little headway. George decided that we were moving at a very good trolling speed and laid out his line behind the boat. There was no way that he was going to lose as long as there was still water to fish on. Let me fill you in on something, getting pelted with hail stones is no fun. It hurts like hell!! To George's credit, or madness, I haven't decided which, he sat there with one hand on the tiller and the other on his flyrod and did not emitted one whimper. At that moment, as I looked up from the bottom of our small craft, George reminded me of Captain Ahab in his quest for the white whale, and it turned out to be a pretty apropos thought because just then the lightning caught up with us just then. Bolts of electric bedlam crashed around us on all sides. The smell of fire and brimstone were thick in the air. Static electric charges ran up and down my skin. The hair on the nape of my neck came alive. Above the clamber of heavenly light show, George's reel gave off a high pitched squeal. George picked up the rod and set the hook. As he went to play, what I hoped would be my ticket to safety, the fish took a mighty run. Line peeled off the reel at a rate that I have never seen before. "George hooked Moby Dick!" I thought, and as I looked up to see what was happening, the behemoth broke water and tailwalked amongst the thunderbolt s. This was no trout that George had on, but a monster tiger muskie that they stock in the lake. The fish must have been a full five feet long and forty five pounds if it was an ounce. George squealed a gleefully maddened squeal and his face took on a hellish cast in reflection of the lightning. George tightened his grip on the rod and began to play the fish like a man possessed. He leaned back and put pressure on the monster. "George, be careful. You don't have on a heavy leader and you don't want to lose this one" I yelled so I could be heard over the din of the thunderclaps. " He's gonna break it off for sure if you keep horsing him." George paid me no heed as continued to pump and reel with reckless abandon. The fish made another leap, an aerial exhibition twice as spectacular as the first one. As he landed, the fish changed direction and headed towards the boat. George picked up the slack and reeled for all he was worth. The muskie stopped about ten feet from the boat and started to dive. Another lightning bolt crashed on the water about five feet away from us this time, knocking me off my seat and into the bottom of the boat. I laid there stunned, half blinded and deaf, so for the rest of the story I have only my brother-in-laws word to rely on. George says that the demon spawn arose from his titanic dive and hurled himself skyward and in the direction of our pint-size craft. Fearlessly, George stripped in line and tightened his grip on the brute. Seeing his nemesis, the creature twist himself in mid-air and aimed at George, malice alight in his beady, red eyes, his teeth awash with blood. The creature, miscalculating his path to George and crashed into the gunwale of our boat ( I think George is telling the truth, because I did hear a thump.) All hell broke loose then. As George reached for the net he noticed that the tip of his rod was starting to glow with Saint Elmo's Fire. Understanding that a static charge was building up from all the electricity in the air, George judiciously dropped the eight foot graphite lightning rod that he was holding to the bottom of the boat and leaned over to grab his prize. Just as he lay hands on the whopper another bolt struck with-in feet of us. The fish, the fear of God in him, bolted for open water, attempting to take George's rod with him. George slammed his foot on his pole and with that the leader broke. So did the storm. By now I was back on my seat staring at my fishing buddy with awe and amazement on my face. "Catch and release," George said, "You owe me a buck." "I'll give you a hundred if you get me out of here." I said and meant every word of it. So George fired up the little electric engine and we headed to land. We talked little on the way home. We both just sat back and digested the events that we had just been through. As we pulled into the driveway of my sister's house I turned to George and said, " You know that was a State record that got away, don't you." "Ya, I know, but it was worth the battle, you can't win them all. What do you think we should tell the girls." "Nothing!!" I told him, " They won't believe us and if they do they won't let us go fishing again." "Hey, Bob," George said as he opened his car door to leave. "Yes George" I answered. "I told you we would go fishing come hell or high water!"

Last changed: February 10, 2006

ourinfo

From: ourinfo
Date: 01 Oct 2005
Time: 23:10:08
Remote Name: 221.194.187.237

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