An Unlucky Fishing Trip

An Unlucky Fishing Trip
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Pine trees exuding fragrance were in such abundance, it was easy to forget our city life. After being in the pines a quarter of an hour or so, we were caught. The forest reeled us in as we do the fish. Bobby, my brother, and I were exuberant.

"Stop, stop the van, Bobby," I said. Bobby is my brother. "This is the place; this is the best fishing in the State."

Bobby stopped, and we got out, but rushed back in. There were a few male boars but nearly two dozen females staring at us with eyes saying, 'you are bugging us.' In the light dusk, they looked like they might have come from a science fiction film. Their grunting also put us on the defensive, big time. I looked out the window, as Bobby unpacked his hand gun. The few dozen animals continued grunting and standing near the vehicle. We decided to turn around and head back a few hundred yards. Once there, we began searching for a place to pitch our tent, but we quit this in a hurry. We heard grunting, looked up, and saw that the boars were dashing toward us. We prayed to get back to safety.

We both sped back faster than a rabbit dashes from a hunter. We didn't know much about these animals, but with a few tusks pointing at us, along with many white teeth, we weren't about to learn if they would inflict fatal harm. Bobby beat me back to the vehicle but was especially jittery, so I promised, if we could find a local hotel, I would pay for the three nights of our trip.

After a twenty-five minute drive, we located a hotel displaying a 'Vacancy' sign. The man at the registration desk was hospitable and easy to talk with, but he wore cologne that made me dizzy. We told him about the boars and learned a few things from him.

"They're common wild boar, Sus scrofa scrofal. In America, where they have been artificially introduced, they are more commonly referred to as razorbacks," the clerk said.

"The females and their offspring live in groups that number around 20 animals; in mating season, however, the males will also be present. If you surprise them, disturb their offspring, or look like you might be a predator, the male boar will put his head down and charge at you. With his tusks and teeth, he can puncture, slice and bite. Their attacks are not usually fatal but are so severe, they may sever a limb. The females also have sharp canines. With their heads up, they charge, strike, and bite."

"Bobby looks like a predator, don't you think, Sir?" I said. "I'm only kidding, Bobby, Sir."

Though Bobby and I were terrified, we learned from the fragrant clerk there hadn't been any incidents of boars attacking fishermen by the river, and Bobby felt more at ease. In the morning, we ate a nice breakfast of mouth watering, fluffy, scrambled eggs, with fried ham steaks whose odors reached our room and got us up and going. After the breakfast, we got in our vehicle, and headed for our spot.

Five years ago, on the day we discovered this local, we were mesmerized. The blue sparkling river, accented with white foam, swirled along the banks, turned over, twisted back, went around and smacked into the shore at the bends. The sprayed wisps of refreshing mist ascended to our welcoming faces. It was pleasurable.

We never forgot the pleasure we felt, so back in January we began planning the spring trip. Mariposa, near the Yosemite National Park in California, was a four hour drive from our home in San Francisco. Though not far, it had been five years since we discovered this paradise, and we were getting anxious to fish the most beautiful running water we had ever known. It wasn't a wide river, but enough of it bubbled down to make the spot good for trout fishing. Because both of us enjoyed eating fresh trout, we had our cooking equipment ready for the catch.

The Little Feather River was popular with fishermen, yet Bobby and I were headed to our place where the majority of outdoorsmen overlook. Once there, we parked, slipped on our back packs with the fishing gear, and took turns carrying our Coleman stove and utensils. It wasn't too steep of a hill we needed to descend, yet it was a long one, so after nearly a half an hour, we rested. We drank from our canteens, ate our energy bars and laid down a while before resuming our decent. We stumbled slightly; Bobby dropped the stove once, but it was fine, but I carried it the remainder of the way. When we were only yards away, we unloaded our gear and jogged to the river. My brother got there first, but I knew something was wrong. He was furious. He snatched up a fallen branch, broke it over his knee and hurled it to the dirt, and with a grief-stricken look, he booted up the sand and flung his hat to the ground.

"It's dead. The water is as dead as a sewer."

The two of us stood along the shore and stared at the incredulity of the scummy water filled with broken branches, dead floating fish, an old worn out tire, and watermelon rind on the shore. By the smell, we knew human waste was amongst the other muddle, and mosquitoes danced along the surface.

"Brother, some people make it hard to be a good guy. Some dumb head's inconsideration for nature destroyed our hole."

Out of my repulsion, I spat in the mess, picked up some rocks, and flung them in the waste.

"This is a bummer," said Bob. "Could have been worse though."

Wha ya mean, bub?"

"The beasts could've severed our limbs."

We chuckled, picked up our gear, and headed back to the hotel for dinner. The rest of our time was spent fishing where the crowed of the sportsmen did. We each brought home over a half dozen fish.


WC: 1,024