Started fishing in this farm pond with a person who shall remain unnamed. It was going allright, but it was a little hot, and I had mangaged to wear my sandals, the ones that left a great tan line reminiscent of a white "H" turned sideways on the top of my foot. I began casting for bass, crappie, or anything that was willing to bite. I was trying to remember the, "It has about a four hour charge," gem in reference to the batteries charge that I had been told earlier that day, but I wasn't driving. *G* So we tool around this pond for quite a while, with limited success. As we begin the long troll back toward my truck, the motor begins to run low, the battery dying with each foot we advance. The wind had picked up and was blowing directly against us, slowing us. As the battery for the motor died, we were over a quarter of a mile from our landing site, and the water was well over 60 feet deep. I pondered swimming the distance, with the tow rope for the boat between my teeth, but decided that it couldn't taste good. So I wondered about hooking it over my shoulder, but decided that the rope was old and scratchy. I pondered leaving my boat mate and swimming just to get the hell out of dodge, and come back later with another boat and a fresh battery, but my compatriot noticed the look in my eyes and threatened to cast her lure, my lure, and anything else in the boat with hooks upon my back should I jump from the boat and procede to shore. As I was wondering about simply throwing them overboard, and then swimming, the third party picked up a pocket knife, "Dammit, I know what you're thinking, now help me figure out how to get ashore!" Being fairly fond of my skin, and not desiring any new cuts, holes, or any other blemishes, I looked around. We were being blown backward down a channel of this pond that was over a mile long, another mile from the truck. And since this pond was formed by canyons and gullies having flooded, that would have entailed about a 10 mile hike to the truck to clear all the canyons in that general direction.
We floated for a bit, with me crying and whimpering (the knife was sharp and at my throat), while my partner in this heinous event simply sat there dumbfounded. We had floated for nearly 5 minutes, when we cleared the sandstone bluffs and began coasting through trees and brush. Having become "all cried out," I reached for my pole, which was equipped with one of the best tree-fish catching lures ever devised. I began casting at some dead trees on the edge of the pond about 30 yards away. After a few casts, I heard a satisfying "THUNK" and pulled, anchoring my lure forever in the side of a dead tree. I began realing and pulling with all my might, while my co-sufferer simply muttered, "floating away and he's still fishing, you stupid son of a ...." At last the boat was within arm's distance of the tree, and I pulled us ashore. We stopped and looked at the location we had landed.
I drank the last of my meager beverage, and began walking away from the truck. "Where do you think you are going? Are you an idiot????," rang through my conscienceness, my head, my ears, and the whole of the valley the pond was contained in, my companion had never before been to this local. I mearly mumbled that I was walking to the truck, and carried on. After a few minutes, I realized I hadn't had nearly enough water to drink, and it was damned hot. We stumbled a way further, coming to the shallow end of the pond, which we would either have to cross (a terrifying 4 feet across and 2 feet deep) or walk another mile to clear. I began down the embankment that lead to the water, and was tripped by the "follower" who had allowed the battery to die. I slipped, slicing the back of my leg on an old tree limb, and began bleeding freely. Grimacing, I headed across the water, and was told that my hiking partner couldn't cross the water, they were scared. So I gave the first piggy back ride in many years, and we were off, up a very large, rather steep, and somewhat treacherous soily bluff, about 100 feet high and littered with loose soil, rock, and cacti (I saw at least one on the way out). The heat finally caught up with me, and I proved that I had indeed had a chicken pot pie at lunch. Having lost a little weight, I began trudging back up the hill, following the cries of "Hurry up!!! I want to go home!" I figured they should simply be nice and wait for me, after all, I had just blown chunks on an alien hillside. It was then I noticed the bloodthirsty glare of one of the most hated predators in all the land. They were huge, circling me, drawn by the smell of sweet, exertion, and the trickle of blood running down my calf. I hurried onward, but had no chance of escaping these dastardly creatures. I heard the buzzing, was repusled by them, swatted, swung, and threw objects at them, yet they kept coming. I screamed in sheer horror, "MOSQUITO'S!!!!!!" and slapped my arm. Onward and upward for what seemed like forever, feeling the water drain from my body as the sun altered the color of my skin. Finally reaching the top of the bluff, and finding myself in a wheat field, I began strolling through a farmers crop, not caring that my tongue was lolled out of my mouth and my eyes were crossed, I could see the home of the pond owners, and was thinking, "Damn, why couldn't they have built lakeside?!!" We trudged to the door, recieved cold water, downed way too much of it, and borrowed a boat with a GAS motor. We launched, and headed for the beached whale. I tossed another lure infamous for snagging inanimate objects, hooked the boat, and we were off across the lake. The dead boat was tossed into the back of my truck uncerimoniously, and I spead home, with the A/C blowing as fast and hard as it would. Upon reaching the home, and applying burn cream to myself and my compatriot, my father said, "Well, did you catch anything today, or did you just have a long walk for nothing??"
I told him to go grab the camera, I wanted a picture of my catch. As he returned, I lifted the front end of the boat, lure still hooked, and said, "I caught the biggest damned thing in the lake!"
For some reason, the State Wildife Commission didn't think it warranted a record, or even mention in their bi-monthly newsletter??????
*The names of those involved have been hidden to prevent possible bodily harm due to relating this story, and at no time during the course of these events were any tears shed by the narrator, that happened the next day as he looked at his red feet, and attempted to wear any clothing or shoes at all to church. Having family opposed to attending chuch nude, the narrator simply stayed on the couch in a vat of aloe.
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