“Away to me, Rex!”

Something from the tackle box:

       So the Lord took some soil and made animals and birds.  He brought them to the man to see what names he would give each of them.  Then the man named the tame animals and the birds and the wild animals.  That’s how they got their names.  None of these was the right kind of partner for the man.  (Genesis 2:19-20 CEV)

       Last week, as I was getting into bed on Friday evening, I told my wife that I planned to get up early, before dawn, and go check out my favorite spot on my favorite trout stream, just to see if it was fishable yet.  The end of spring has been very wet around here, and Tinker’s Creek has mostly been too high and muddy for fishing of late.  Kathy said that she thought my plans were a good idea, as we’d had a few dry days in a row, and I’m easier to live with when I can get in some fishing.  She then rolled over, turned off her reading light, fluffed her pillow and settled down for some sleep.  I did the same.  That’s when we heard the first rumbles of approaching thunder, and the first of many raindrops to come pelting the roof above our heads.

       On awaking in the morning, I decided to continue on with my stated plans of the night before, despite the rain.  I’d fallen off to sleep quickly, and slept well, and I didn’t know how long or hard the rain had lasted.  A little sprinkle might not have hurt much.  Wishful thinking. 

       The wet roads and dripping scenery all along the fifteen-minute drive to Tinker’s Creek didn’t encourage me.  But, as I was on the way, why stop before seeing for myself?  Well, seeing for myself put the question to rest.  Even the easiest spot to get into Tinker’s Creek, equipped with wooden steps installed by the local Trout Unlimited Chapter, showed water that I would have judged to be near the top of my hip-boots, if one can accurately judge the depth of churning chocolate milk.  Oh well, nothing to do for it but to get back in the car and head to town for an early breakfast.  So that is what I did.

       But, as I was slowing down to make the turn onto 4^th Avenue, just a block from my house, the thought crossed my mind to continue on down M50 and check out the water by the Veteran’s Memorial Chapel on the east end of Jordan Lake.  It’s a good spot, where I like to fly-fish for bluegills and bass early in the season, before the algae blooms take over the shallows in the summer months.  When I had last looked at it, just a week earlier, the top was already starting to get a bit too green for my taste.  I had figured then that I wouldn’t be back to fish there until September, when things would likely have cleared up a bit, but what harm could it do to look at it again this morning?

       To my surprise and delight, that water didn’t look that bad.  Maybe the rain had knocked the scum down to the bottom, or broken it up for an easterly breeze to push over to the other side of the lake.  Either way, I could fish without spending more time cleaning my line than casting it.  The sun had just risen to a full red orb above the horizon and I could see, from expanding ring on the water’s surface around a couple of nearby weed banks, that the morning feed was underway.   I quickly put on my gear and waded out.

       Just four steps out from the bank I could reach the edge of the nearest clump of weeds, just to the south of me, where I could see some activity in the water.  My second cast to the near edge of the weeds resulted in a hit and I hauled in a nice hand-sized bluegill.  As I was putting this first catch into my creel, I noticed a much larger rise just a few feet to the left of where I’d hooked my first fish.  Undoubtedly, a good-sized bass was prowling this weed bed too. 

       My first fish stowed away, I immediately started casting to the bigger splash I’d just seen.  Most of the bass I catch down by the chapel are undersized, which doesn’t really matter to me, as I don’t keep bass that I catch, legal sized or not.  Bluegills are better on the plate and I don’t mind leaving the legal bass for others to take home if they want them.  That being said, I do enjoy catching bass.  I enjoy catching those athletic fighters very much!  Especially if it’s on a lightweight fly rod, like I was handling now. 

       Just a few casts in the area of the rise I’d seen brought the results I was hoping for.  A violent splash an my slender, nine foot long, #3 weight rod bent over in a deep bow.  I had all I could do to keep the fish steered away from the heavy weeds he was ambushing from, without his breaking my line off, but I managed to do it.  It was a good fight, and long one on that light tackle.  I had to give him line several times.  Thankfully, doing so didn’t allow him to get into too much cover and, just as thankfully, he always allowed me to get my line back soon after.  He also came up top and jumped clean out of the water four different times in the tussle, which is a lot of jumping even for a big bass.  But, despite all his aerial acrobatics, he was never able to shake off the little yellow popper I had him hooked on.

       Finally spent, he let me get his head up out of the water at my feet just enough that I could get my thumb in his mouth and pick him up.  I’ll not lie, he was no great lunker of a bass, but he was easily a couple of inches over a foot long, and every inch of him had been energetic fight, let me tell you.  But now he was tired.  The popper removed from his jaw, I lowered him into the water and held him upright while he worked his gill covers in and out, breathing deeply for a while.  Finally, when he gave a solid shake of his tail on his own, I let him go.  He then swam lazily around both of my ankles and parked then himself, right next to the outside edge of my right foot, to rest for a while longer. 

       This phenomenon may seem strange to the non-fisherman, and I’ll admit that it is not the normal behavior of a released fish, but it is not unheard of.  I can recall many of my released fish hanging around close by, taking a breather, before moving off after being let go.  But I have never had one settle down right next to my foot, his side actually rubbing up against my ankle, as he held his place for a spell.  I smiled at this anomaly in fish behavior and returned my attention to the fishing at hand. 

       Another few casts brought another strike near the weed bed.  I pulled in my second keeper sized bluegill and, while packing it away, noticed that the bass I’d caught was still at me feet.  The old boy was experiencing a long recovery, to be sure.  Another minute or two brought a third “eater” into my creel, and the bass was still there, holding at my heel like a well-trained dog!  This was becoming remarkable.  So I remarked.

       “So, down there, - are you a bass, - or are you a dogfish?”

       He did not answer, but held his place just alongside my right foot. 

       “If a dogfish you be, then I think I shall name you Rex, if that will do.  And you shall be a working dogfish, rounding up and penning panfish into my creel.  Understood?”

       Again, no response from my piscis companion of the moment was forthcoming, but neither did he move off in protest to my suggestions.  So I gave him his first working dogfish command.

       “Away to me, Rex!”

       With that, he darted off quickly in the direction of the weed bed where I’d hooked all of my morning catch so far.  I smiled at the coincidence in this sequence of events and figured that was that.  He was gone.  As a salute I made my nest cast in the general direction he had taken in leaving me.  Well, imagine my astonishment when I caught three keeper bluegills on my next three consecutive casts to that spot.  If you can, it was nothing compared to my astonishment when, just after dropping that last ‘gill into my creel, I saw Rex, ambling back out of the weeds towards me at a leisurely pace, dorsal fin cresting the surface of the water.  I stood there, mouth gaping, as Rex circled my ankles once and then came to rest alongside my right foot again!  This was more than remarkable.  This was becoming phenomenal!

       “Well done, old boy.” I said, and again gave the command, “Now, away to me, Rex!” 

       Again, the fish-herding bass darted off quickly from my heel, this time in the direction of the lily pads along the bank to my left.  I had to move a dozen paces or so in that direction to reach them with a cast, but you can bet your bottom dollar that I did just that.  Doing so, I was soon rewarded with another three meaty bluegills for my larder in a very short amount of time.  And then, just as before, Rex returned to heel as the last was being pocketed.  As he did so this second time, I knew in my heart that this could not go on.

       “That will do, Rex.  You’re a good boy.  I would take you home with me now if I could, but you must live IN this lake, while I cannot.  Away to your own home then, Rex, as I go off to mine.” 

       And with that, he swam off. 

       Still in amazement, I tuned around, waded out, packed up and drove home.  I had my nine nice bluegills filleted and ready for the frying pan before Kathy came home from helping out with a few chores at her mother’s house that morning.  I did not know how to tell her the details of my morning’s expedition.  At least not without risking her looking at me with that blank stare that one gives to the four-year-old who, with crumbs still on his chin, has just told you that a monster ate the cookies.  And so I didn’t tell her.  I simply said, “I caught some nice fish this morning, let’s have them for lunch.” 

       And we did have them for lunch.  They were very good.  I ate them with a silly smile on my face. 

Something to take home in your creel:

       While I have given you this story just for the fun of it, believe it or not, this is not one of my fiction stories.  Well, at least it is not totally fictitious.  It is based on the actual circumstances, as I experienced them, of an outing I had on the morning of June 24 of this year. 

       OKAY!  Yes!  I admit that I have stretched some of the details of this adventure just a wee bit.  I have always understood that to be any fisherman’s prerogative, if not his bounden duty.  And, as my grandpa Carr always used to say, “Any story worth telling is worth embellishing,” an adage that I find myself in deeper agreement with the older I get, just as did he. 

       This all being said, there is also a good dose of truth in the tale I’ve set out for you here.  Really!  While the words and commands I spoke to the dog-fish in this story are an addition to the facts of what actually happened, the sequence of events set out is nearer the truth than most readers would be willing to accept, even without the conversational embellishments I’ve added.  Knowing this full well, I must accept and allow for it.  If I am to be held as a fibber, it might as well be for a story that is startlingly fantastic in all of its details, as for another which is merely unbelievable in its facts.  Please do forgive me for that indulgence on my part.  I hope you have enjoyed my story, all the more so, nonetheless.