The
kitchen windows provide clear view of a local
Ox-bow
bend in the North Oconee River.
Disturbances
in the calm water are easily seen as ripples
the
same concentric circles after a rain drop splash
speeds
away in crests and troughs of reflection
sky,
tree green, black and sun-bright rings that undulate
away
from the anomaly. This afternoon
ripples
made by men are much larger
these
anglers who work their way from downstream
slog
up the gut of the river in crashing waves that center
on
each fisherman, their rhythm with rod and reel
the
silver glint of nylon fishing line’s hiss and splash
when
the lure settles in a shade-pool under low branches
in
full summer leaf, all up and down the river bank.
Never
saw anyone like these three though—wading and casting
unique
for this stretch of river. What the hell!
These
guys deserve a reward, three cold beers and one for me!
I
grabbed four beers from the fridge, put them in a small ice chest
slung
it over my shoulder and walked down to the river bank
just
upstream of the fisherman, each following one cast with another
as
they made their way toward me.
“Hey! You’re the first wading fishermen I’ve
seen along here. There’s been kayaks and canoes, but you’re the first ones
standing in the water.”
“Our dad taught us to fish like this. I’m
Ned, by the way. That’s my oldest son Kip. The serious guy over there’s my
brother Charley.” Charley looked up.
“It’s
a long time since we been up here. We don’t do much fishin’ anymore.
“Well, I’ve never seen anybody fish the
river like you guys, so I brought ya’ll a reward.”
“Oh,Yeah! What’s that?”
I
reached into the cooler, pulled out a dripping
cold
brown bottle and held it up by the neck.
“How about a ice cold beer with a twist-off
cap?”
“Heck yes!” Charley grinned and waded toward
me.
“How about you guys?”
“Yes
sir” Kip said. Ned smiled and nodded “OK”.
Both
waded across the river and soon each man in the fishing party
had
a bottle in their hand and tossed back their first long swig of ice cold beer.
“Seein’ you in the river surprised me. It’s
shallower than I thought.”
Ned
looked upstream, “The dark river bed makes it look deeper than it is.”
Kip
lowered his bottle, “Sure dad, but we had to swim for it downstream.” Kip
looked at me. “We like the sport of
fishin’! We catch ‘em and we let ‘em
go.”
Charley finished his beer. “That’s about it
for me.”
“Here, I’ll take the empties.” Charley handed
over his bottle.
Kip
said, “Thank you sir!” He gave me his empty, “Thanks again!”
then
Kip and uncle Charley wadded upstream as they cast their lures.
Ned
handed me his empty bottle, “Why’d ya bring us the beers?”
“A reward, like I said”.
“We appreciate it.” He nodded and went on
his way.
I
watched the fishermen work through the upper shoals.
White
water glistens in the hot afternoon sun and I observe
the
last silver glint of fishing line move out of sight
behind
an upstream river bend and into the past.
“Why’d
ya bring us the beers?” Indeed
I
am become old and know that today, will one day
be
back in the day, when blue sky seemed
bluer,
white in the tumultuous froth of August clouds
brighter—a
happy, olden-times day
when
a stranger would give out ice cold beers
and
all would quench a deep thirst
enjoy
the company of sportsmen
small
talk and banter and place:
a
river scene in a young man’s memory
an
old fisherman’s “Tall-Tale”, yet to be
told.
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