MUSKRAT LOVE ON THE WHITE RIVER

 Billy and Gary stopped at Gary’s cabin on the White River and fished for trout from Billy’s boat. Then, for awhile, they waded in the water with some of Gary’s friends and cast their flyrods upstream to a spot where Gary had caught some trout last weekend. They caught a few fish, but the catching tapered off early, and, before dark, they decided to drive up the road to Billy’s cabin. They put Billy’s boat into the water and fished from it for awhile; after dark, they decided to wade into the river and fish from the banks. Billy set up his gear on one spot just behind his cabin. Gary decided to wade across to the other side and fish from a small island. Billy told him that he had caught a lot of fish from there. Gary waded on out to the tip of the island and continued to fish. Within a few minutes, Billy said he heard a terrible commotion.

 He said that every time he and Gary have gone fishing together, something happens, something goes wrong – someone falls into the water, someone falls out of the boat, someone loses a fishing rod or reel, something strange happens.

“Are you all right? Did you fall in?” Billy said.

“No,” Gary said. “I’ve got the biggest fish I’ve ever caught.”

Billy heard more commotion, more noise, more splashing from the bank across the water.

“Gary,” Billy said, “do you need help?”

“Yes,” Gary said, “I can’t hold onto this sonofabuck alone. He’s too big. He’s gonna take my line.”

“I’m coming,” Billy said. He secured his rod in the boat and grabbed his hand-held light. He started out across the water, shining the light toward Gary’s line. He expected to see Gary’s line being pulled downward into the water by the weight and struggling of the big trout. Instead, when Billy’s beam of light caught the thin silver gleam of the line streaming from Gary’s fishing rod, it splashed for a few minutes, and then it headed up the bank of the little island.

“Gary,” Billy said, “look, he’s crawling up on the bank to rest for awhile before you reel him on in.”

“I’m not letting go of this sucker,” Gary said. “He’s the biggest dang fish I’ve ever caught.”

Billy passed the light along the lower ridge of the bank, looking for the telltale silver flash of silver gills along the body of trout that, as evidenced by all its splashing and fighting, must be two feet long. Billy’s light caught the thin fishing line again, this time, running up the scant grass of the island’s slope, kicking back up sand with every step.

“Cut your line,” Billy said. “Whatever you’ve caught, it’s no fish, and there’s nothing but a ten-ounce fishing rod between you and that angry thirty-pound animal. Cut it loose.”

“Are you sure it’s not got my fish in its mouth, Billy? I’m not giving my fish to no muskrat.”

“Gary, I’m telling you, you’ve caught a muskrat or a beaver or some angry mammal. An angry mammal with teeth. And the longer you keep that fish hook in its mouth, the angrier it’s getting. Cut him loose.”

“All right. I’m trying. I don’t have my knife on me. Do you have one?” Gary said.

Billy clomped through the knee-deep water and cut the line at the end of Gary’s fishing rod.

”You’d better not have cost me my fish, boy,” Gary said.

Another commotion erupted at the top of the island’s slope. Billy aimed his light toward the peak of the incline. The beam of the light settled upon a width of silver, a fish’s tail, flopping and whipping between two dark, dense bodies. Billy adjusted the beam, and their eyes slowly adjusted to the new light. Then the scene came into focus - three pairs of eyes gleaming under the light: the broad silvery trout, and two fat, furry muskrats tugging, chewing, clawing, pawing, gnawing, fighting over the fish that had, as though dropped to the riverbank from heaven, become their dinner.

“Gary, why do you want to be a fisherman? Don’t you find it frustrating?” Bill said.

“I love the outdoors,” Gary said. “Nature is so calm, so peaceful.”