Cats Were Waiting

[Perry Palin]

The man in the ditch was wearing a green vest. It was the first fishing vest I’d seen away from the pages of a magazine. His hip boots were snapped up at the knees. He wore gray work pants and a brown shirt and a brown felt hat. His fishing rod was long and he made four or five false casts for each drift through the little pools in the ditch. He looked older than my dad. Maybe somebody’s grandfather.

He saw the creel tied to the handlebars of my bike and he held up his left hand and called for me to stop. I braked to a stop at the edge of the gravel road. I wondered what he was doing in the ditch. The water looked like a little trout stream, but it only drained the snow water from one hillside. By the end of May it would be dry and stay that way through next winter. No trout could live in the ditch.

“Hello,” he said. “I see you have your rod and your creel with you. Have you been fishing?”

“Yeah. Just on my way home now.”

“How did you do?”

“I got enough.”

“Really? Did you get your limit then?”

“Yep. I got ten brookies.”

“Can I take a look?”

I was straddling my bike and he was down in the ditch. I opened the lid of my creel and took out the fish on the top. It was a foot long. I held up the fish and said, “They’re all about like this.” That was a fisherman’s lie. The others were an inch or two smaller.

“Wow! That’s a nice fish. Where were you fishing?”

I pointed up the gravel road. “There’s some trails up there that go into the woods. One of them goes to the creek. There’s a swamp to walk through about halfway in, and then more birches and maples. The creek is about a mile from the road. Maybe more than a mile.”

“Did it take you long to catch those fish?” He was still looking at the trout and I dropped it back into my creel.

“About an hour. No, Maybe an hour and a half. I don’t have a watch.”

“Where exactly is this trail?”

“Well, it’s up there,” I said, pointing up the road. “It’s hard to explain. If you go too far there’s another trail to the next creek over. That creek is kind of swampy. There’s not so many fish, but some are bigger.”

The man licked his lips. “Can you take me to see where these trails are?”

I looked down the road toward home. “I have to get home. I have to clean my fish and then I have to feed the dog and the cats and make sure the stock tank has enough water, and I have to start the fire in the sauna stove. I can’t be late.”

“Well then, I’ll buy a couple of your fish. How much do you want for two or three of your trout?”

I hesitated. “It’s not right to sell fish. Besides, my dad would know something’s not right if I don’t bring home ten. I always bring home ten. I got to get home now.” I put my right foot on the pedal to push off.

“Wait a minute. Wait a minute,” the man said. “Maybe we can fish together sometime. Maybe you can guide me. I can drive, and I’ll pay you. I’ll pay you for guiding. I can make it worthwhile for you.”

“Nah. I’ve never guided anyone.” I could have told him that the best part of fishing was going out and finding the best spots on my own and that he should do that too. I could have told him how it was to hear the small birds defending their nesting spots, and to see a lucky porcupine cross my path on the way to the stream, and how I couldn’t trade those things for money. But I didn’t do it. “Have a good day fishing. Hope you find some trout. I have to get home.”

I pushed down the pedal with my right foot, rose up and started my bike quickly down the gravel road. I didn’t look back. Around the next bend I passed his car parked on the side of the road. It was eight miles, up and down hills, to our place. The cats were waiting by the barn for the heads and the entrails of the trout.

[driftless angler]

Loved it Perry!

[ARTHURK]

Beautifully written Perry! Thank you.

Arthur

[Hellmtflies]

As it should be. Excellent!

[GerardH]

As always, great read. Thank you, Perry.

[Holland]

Thanks Perry!

[Barleywine]

Excellent story! Thank you.