By Danny Maybin
Over the years, I have been blessed with more than my share of fishing opportunities in the Atlantic, Pacific, countless lakes and rivers and inland coastal. There are so many kinds of fish and so many different methods to catch them that I doubt anyone could learn it all in two lifetimes. I think this is what creates the mystique we all get caught up in. We seek that hidden wisdom that always pays just enough to keep us coming back.
As I now have more years behind than ahead of me, Iâve learned to not diminish the fun of whatever activity I find myself immersed in by over thinking all the finer points and taking too seriously the honing of my skills. To that point, I have begun to see the whole picture, so to speak, of whatever endeavor I happen to attempt, especially fishing. Interaction with people and quietly observing whatâs going on around you can be extremely entertaining.
Just a little while back, a couple of fishing buddies and myself set out on a three day brackish water trip that promised plenty of action. We loaded the truck and camper with six coolers, nine tackle boxes and about nine hundred rods and reels [Just in case one got broke] and headed out with great anticipation.
Our destination was a brackish river on the east coast and thatâs about all I can say as some folks there struggled to see the humor as it unfolded before us. There was a campground on the river that I had booked months earlier and we arrived late the first night. The attendant told me my spot number and the couple staying in the spot right behind us along with their beagle, Harvey, came out and helped us get set up. I threw out a couple of bait traps and we turned in with great hopes of a fruitful days fishing and it was all going to start the next morning.
It turned out this beautiful river should have been called the Dead Sea. Even the bait traps were empty except for one anemic bluegill about the size of a ping-pong ball. It seemed to look at me with grateful eyes, sensing its misery in this river was over. Even the bread in the bait traps had turned black!
We gave it a valiant effort and as the sun was now high, we decided to head back for lunch. As we neared the camper it became painfully obvious that our peaceful little campsite of last night, now in the light, more resembled the back lot of a tire store! We downed a couple of sandwiches and decided it was more pleasant at the Dead Sea.
We returned to the camper empty handed only to find a party going on at the site behind us, including Harvey the beagle and an older lady from another site that we called [just among ourselves]âGrannyâ. The site in front of us was occupied by an apparently single, middle aged man with a large motorhome pulling a cargo trailer that he had graciously offered to let us lean our poles against along with putting our tackle boxes on the ground. It helped keep our site uncluttered and I was grateful. I never heard his name but he was at the party as well.
The festivities went into the morning hours and ended with the couple in a huge fight, Harvey in between them howling and Granny crying.
The following morning, we decided to try our luck in saltwater, so we dropped the camper and headed for the coast. We caught fish, although nothing remarkable, and were beginning to feel a bit better about the whole situation by the time we headed back to the campground.
We returned to find the whole campground in an uproar. There were about a dozen people in front of the coupleâs camper, including Granny and Harvey. Apparently in our absence, the woman of the couple had taken a fancy to the guy in the motorhome and the guy of the couple had returned from somewhere earlier than expected only to find them both in the motorhome and now she wouldnât come out! The owners of the campground were there along with several concerned souls from different campsites. I know all this because as soon as she saw us, Granny made a beeline to one of my buddies to get us up to speed. I watched as she told the whole sordid story with such worry in her voice but I also noticed a sadistic gleam in her eyes as she expressed her concern.
The day was getting on now and we were tired so we thought it best to grab a sandwich, sit around the picnic table and see where this was going. About the time things were starting to quiet down, we heard a âSLAMâ and the sound of breaking glass. Her now ex had thrown a beer bottle at the motorhome and taken out half of the window in the kitchen slide-out. He ran up to the window and started screaming things that I canât write here.
All at once, exhaustion seemed to overtake him. He turned and leaned with his back against the motorhome and with tear filled eyes looked up at the sky as if searching for answers. This is where things went off the rails.
As he leaned back and looked up, a female hand emerged from the broken window holding an inverted beer can. The funny thing was, he didnât seem to even notice that he was being drenched. Everything got real quiet and his countenance suddenly seemed that of complete serenity which made us a little nervous.
I guess a half an hour passed and it was still quiet. We were thinking the show was probably over when I heard his camper door quietly open and shut. The next thing I saw was this poor beer drenched guy headed back to the motorhome with a pistol! The occupants of the motorhome must have seen it too because it immediately fired up and tore off up the drive. It was almost sundown when they took off and as the sun touched the horizon, I gained a memory I doubt Iâll ever lose.
We had most of our gear stowed, except what we had used that day, which was two or three fishing poles and my old standby tackle box. Iâve always been amazed at how easily fishing gear can tangle. As the motorhome guy took off, one of my poles caught on the trailer fender that, in turn, caused my lure to grab the handle of my tackle box.
Imagine if you will, a huge motorhome pulling a trailer, roaring into the sunset, red dust curling up around the taillights, my tackle box sliding, then bouncing five and six feet in the air, [itâs amazing how strong braided line can be] Harvey chasing my tackle box and howling like he was on fire, the ex behind Harvey cursing and pelting the trailer with rocks and Granny on her knees, both hands in the air, alternately crying then looking to see if she was being noticed.
By this time, we were all pretty sure the fat lady had sung and there was nothing more to do but pack up and find a local motel. After two six packs and a bucket of chicken, some basic cable and a good nights sleep we all felt better about our fishing trip although we did check the local paper next morning to see if anyone had actually been shot. No news is good news.
It was a long way home but it gave us time to get our fishing stories straight. It was mostly a quiet ride with the silence being broken with an occasional muffled laugh as we each remembered the funny things that happened on our fruitless fishing trip.
Danny Maybinâs family have fished and hunted in the area of Lake Summit for at least six generations. He is a state firearms instructor a, blacksmith, musician/luthier, and his favorite, a fishinâ and hunting resort facilitator. He also does voice acting, copywriting, and short story humor.