So, in response to not having any fishing news or pictures to post, I figured I would share an essay I wrote for my AP Literature class. We were told to write about a specific event in great detail, so I decided to write about a fishing trip from this summer. Enjoy!
The grasshoppers were never active in the cold morning air. I knew that I could remain there, lying under my toasty, green and brown striped covers for another hour. At that time, I could head out in search of a trophy, a magnificent trout, with a fly rod in hand.
At nine o’clock, I was awakened by the deep, moaning sound of my alarm. I threw on my favorite shirt and shorts, sloppily placed my worn, old fishing cap on my head, and let my crooked, scratched sunglasses hitch a ride on my tired, saggy face. I clumsily climbed the stairs from my room, greedily reached for a few granola bars, and stumbled out the door of my house into the garage. Slowly but surely, I loaded all my fishing gear into the car and left with strong ambitions.
“I will be back in an hour to get you, okay?” My mom yells from the car as I nod hurriedly, and sprint down to the water’s edge. The raging water came crashing over rocks, and the grasshoppers had awakened from their night’s rest. Beer cans were littered around the bank, and a bait fisherman sat upstream from me, staring in wonderment. I poked and prodded in the bank side grasses, scaring the innocent insects into the water. Intently, I watched as the small creatures floated down river. The sound of the fish inhaling the hopper was similar to that of a toilet flushing. I saw a flash of pink, and the grasshopper was gone.
I crept into a casting position, and nervously muttered to myself, “Well, here goes nothing”. Would my new hopper pattern work? The rapid beating of my heart caused my temples to throb. I presented the fly, and prepared for warfare. As if my imitation was a natural, the fish calmly slurped down its meal, and I knew that this was what I had been preparing for.
I slowly lifted the fly rod, and the surface immediately erupted as if Mt. St. Helens was exploding from beneath. Twisting around branches, rolling near the surface, and diving beneath boulders, the colossal slab of silver and pink worked against me like a piston in a racecar. The fish ran across the river as if he was being chased by a monster from a childhood dream. Reel in, pull back, reel in, pull back, like a game of tug-o-war, we fought for bragging rights. The muscles in my arm burned like needles puncturing one’s skin, and screamed for the battle to end. The sun’s intense heat felt like a laser burning into the skin on my neck. I could feel the wondrous beast starting to tire, and entered the refreshingly cool water in hopes of netting my trophy. This was it: one wrong step and the entire thing could end. Slipping, scrambling, and falling over the river bottom, I moved into a comfortable position. I raised the rod, and slid the fish towards my awaiting net. My mind was rushing like a running-back going for the touchdown. I reached, I leaned forward, and then it happened: I felt the weight of the monster in my net.
I could not believe my eyes as I glanced down at the beautiful specimen in my net. The zipper on my chest pack screamed as I dug for a scale and measuring tape. I attached the rusty old scale to my net, and the marker dive-bombed straight to eleven pounds. Against the old metal tape measure, the gorgeous fish measured at twenty-four inches, a true behemoth.
Speedily, I removed the bent and deformed hook from the jaws of the beast. Gasping for air, I rocked the gentle giant back and forth in the water. Little did the fish know, all I desired was a few pictures. With the current pouring over the fish’s fluorescent red gills, the brilliant creature regained its breath, and slowly swam into the abyss. My emotions had quieted, and all that could be heard was the trickle of the river water.
Thanks to all who took the time to read it! I hope you enjoyed it!