WIWAB - Running Lines In the Dark

We drove into the clearing under the trees from the dirt track and turned off the car's headlights. It was as though a giant had stuffed us in a black sack. The moon had not risen. Under the trees, not even starlight helped to light our way. Only four or five farm houses dotted the river valley and the closest of those was nearly a mile away. We couldn't even see the glow of their yard lights. The hills all around the river bottom blocked the light from the few small towns nearby. It was a place as free from light pollution as you could find where we lived.

Dad reached in the back seat and pulled out our two head-lamps. "Ready to see if we've caught any fish?" I took the light from his hand and groped for the switch to turn it on.

As he opened the door to get out, even the tiny dome light dazzled me briefly. I climbed out. I hooked the battery pack to the waistband of my jeans. A wire ran from there up to the light itself. I pulled the elastic band around my head -- fixing the padded back of the light against my forehead. As I turned my head the light shined on what ever I was facing.

"Better get into your jeans, then we'll get going," he said as he tugged off his shoes and forced one leg into his waders.

Jeans? Those wet jeans hanging on the bush? "I'll wear these."

"Nope, then you won't have anything dry to put on when you get back. Come on, get moving. Let's go see what we've got."

"Can't I wear these? Those other ones are freezing."

"Come on. When I was a boy we didn't even have a second pair to put on when we got back. We just had to be wet all night. Darn cold, I'll tell you. Just put 'em on. You'll warm them up pretty quick."

I swung my head toward the bush and the light shown on the dark jeans laying there. They even looked cold. I walked over and jerked them off the bush. I started to stomp off behind the car to change.

"You can change right here. You ain't got nothing I ain't got. And we've both seen it all." I could hear him smiling.

I unzipped the dry jeans and started to pull them off. I hesitated. I'd forgotten that my underwear was hanging on the bush too. Dad was looking away at something on the river. I stripped off my jeans and quickly jumped into the wet ones. They felt like slimy ice for the first few seconds, but then, he was right: not so bad.

"I don't know why, but you'll feel warmer once you get in the water," he said looking back my way again now. "Grab the stringer. Now where'd I put the dip net? You need any bug spray?"

Just as he said that I slapped something on my arm and when I took my hand away there was a spot of blood the size of a quarter.

"Yup, mosquito just got me. I'm swelling up already," I told him.

"OK, here you go. Spray all your skin, but don't spray your face. Just spray it on your hand and rub your face. You'll get it in your eyes otherwise. Don't forget your ears."

I did like he said. I could still hear the bugs buzzing around me, but mostly they weren't landing.

"It'll be better down on the water. No breeze under these trees. Let's go."

We scrambled down the bank onto the sandbar and walked toward the minnow buckets in the river to our left. He scanned across the river with his light. "Ho! Look at that. We got one there. Look at that pole going."

In his light the white reflective tape on the end of one of the poles was jerking up and down like a conductor leading an orchestra playing in the dark. It would stop for a few seconds then bing-bing-bing jerk up and down three or four inches. Then stop again. Then bing-bing-bing. I couldn't really see the pole. Only the reflection of the tape, like a lightening bug caught on a bungee cord.

"It's not very big, but it's a fish. Let's get the minnows and get over there before he tears the hook out of his mouth."

We lifted the bucket from the river and immediately turned toward the pole. But where was it? In turning away we'd lost track of it. We each shone our lights on the far bank. We'd pick out the reflections from the tips of three or four poles, but none were moving. "Looks like he got off," Dad said. "Oh, well." And he started across the river toward the first pole we could see.

"What should I do?" I asked.

"Stay dry for now. It's a little deep here. You can help with the next set. Nothing on this one. Bait's still on." he reported from the first pole. "Here too." from the second. "No bait on this third one though. Let's see if we can find a nice big minnow for this one."

He baited that line then glided downstream toward the next pole. Suddenly: bing-bing-bing.

"He's still on. He's still on." I shouted from the sandbar -- my light shining across the river. "I see him. I see him."

Dad slipped the dip net from where it hung from its cord around his neck. He quietly slid toward the pole. It went bing-bing again. He grabbed the line dangling from the pole with his left hand and lowered the dip net into the water with his right then slowly pulled up on the line. He slid the net deep in the water, trying to get under the fish -- nearly sloshing water over the top of his waders as he bent over. Then he lifted up.

"Not big, but a keeper. Probably 'pound - pound and a half'." That was a code phrase for: I actually have no idea how much this weighs, but it's not huge, and I'm still happy. I saw the fish in the net, flashing in the light of his head-lamp. He pulled the pole from the bank and waded toward me the pole in one hand and the net in the other. I could see him grinning even in the dark.