We'd work the pools on the Schoharie
between Burtonsville and Lost Valley
scrambling over rocks
trying to avoid the slippery ones covered with slime
crisscrossing from shore to shore
in and out of the water
in cut-off jeans
worn-out Keds with felt glued to their soles for traction
fishing vest pinned with flies
baseball cap.
We'd be out there
just about every day of bass season
late afternoon July through September
when the elusive smallmouth were feeding
searching for the perfect cast
the perfect throw
perfecting the art of laying the fly
on the riffling surface
to lure the smallmouth from their cool darkness
with its mimicry of life.
All this for the hit, the strike
the bending of the rod
tightening of the line slicing the surface
as it followed an ancient mariner
whose occasional leaps
through a rainbow of glistening scales
were better than fireworks on the fourth.
We'd let him run
hoping he wouldn't snag the line
between rocks or under driftwood
playing him, giving him slack
until fatigue led him to the net.
Then, we'd let him go.
