Flash Fiction Friday: Alternative Fishing Methods Part 2

Artwork Pixaby under Creative Commons License use

Sorry for the delay this week. This isn't true flash fiction; ran a little longer at 1500 words. 

Alternative Fishing Methods Part 2

By,

Jennifer E. Miller

A spontaneous camping trip with friends at a new campground, leaves no time to think about items other than essentials. Packing consisted of throwing together the tent, food, and other necessities ensuring nothing was forgotten. By the time everyone, including the family dog, is loaded up in the SUV and hit the highway, it's realized that fishing gear was not on the checklist.

Quinn tried reassuring himself he wouldn’t have time to fish because he’ll be doing all the campsite setup, and he isn’t familiar enough with the area to figure out the good fishing holes anyway. Even with these reasonable excuses, it does no good. Quinn drives, silently stewing about the what ifs as the kids banter back and forth about one thing or another.

He grips the steering wheel tighter in frustration while his foot pushes down harder on the gas pedal, increasing speed until their friends, who are following, honk their horn to get him to slow the hell back down.

“Why are you going so fast?” Quinn’s wife asks.

“No reason,” Quinn mumbles.

* * *

Arriving at the campground check-in lodge, the attendant informs them of the park’s rules, available facilities, hiking trails, and proximity near the river. As usual, the kids need to use the bathroom and want to eat and play because they are bored immediately upon exiting the car. Quinn is sent solo to the campsite.

With the company of Gus, the family’s golden retriever, Quinn does the grunt work of setting up the tent. He pulls out the bundle of dowels, aligning the ends of the sections together so that they form one large pole which he then feeds through strategically-placed pockets and loops in the canvas. He repeats the process as necessary and soon the tent pops up in its upside-down ice cream cone shape. With the rubber mallet, he pounds in the stakes, securing it to the ground.

Quinn takes a step back to rest when Gus looks at him with that “let’s go explore” look. Shrugging, Quinn agrees and the two trot out of the campsite.

Allowing Gus to take the lead, they walk down a dry dusty trail with dense shrubbery on either side. Quinn hears his kids playing in the distance indicating they have passed the playground, because he but is unsure of where they are headed. After all, this is a new place. Soon, the air begins to cool and mosquitos buzz and are quickly swatted away. Gus runs ahead wagging his tail to meet the steady stream of the river. Letting out a bark he splashes his paws into the water, waiting for his owner. Quinn catches up and greets Gus with a scratch behind the ears.

The river speaks its language. In the shallower spots, the water trickles and laps over the rocks, while in the deeper sections, the current creates a few white-capped rapids. Nothing for rafters to get excited about, but a reminder of the river’s power. A splash causes Quinn to whip his head in that direction. He is too late and only sees the circular ripples growing larger and larger as they hint of what created them. Quinn doesn’t need to observe it again to know that it was a leaping trout.

That the was the moment he regretted the spontaneity of the camping trip. An empty feeling sat in his soul, desperate for a pair of waders and a fishing rod. All the reasoning he did with himself on the drive was tossed aside. He now found a good fishing hole and can’t do a darn thing about it except enjoy the scenery. Folding his arms in disgust, he unknowingly grinds his teeth together with a crack.

Gus, being a dog, only saw the water for what it was: fun. He walked in further, finding a smooth flat rock under the surface to stand on. Something caught his eye and his ears perked up in a playful fashion. He dipped his head in the water swiftly and surfaced with something in his mouth, and proudly galloped over to Quinn, who continued sulking. Gus dropped a pink, wriggling slimy creature at Quinn’s feet and waited for praise.

Astonished, Quinn looked at the trout then his dog and back again, then broadened into a smile. “Good boy,” he said.

Gus panted, his tongue dangling out of his mouth and appeared to be smiling. He shifted his wet paws, the fur stuck to his legs making them look skinnier.

“Go get another,” Quinn said.

Gus spun around and returned to the river.

While the dog attended to the new fishing technique, Quinn grabbed a stone and put the trout out of its misery.

A few minutes later, Gus returned with another fish.

Giving the dog more praise, Quinn said, “Keep going, Gus.”

There was a bark of approval, before returning to the water.

As Quinn took care of the second trout, a voice behind him said, “You got a permit?”

It was a park ranger. Quinn quickly stood up.

“No. I’m not fishing.”

The ranger pointed to the set of fish on the ground. “How’d you get those?”

“My dog caught them.”

“Very funny. I’ll need to see some ID, please.”

Thumbing his ID out of his wallet, Quinn noticed a name patch that said Ranger Smith.

"Like I said, I'm not fishing. I don't even a rod on me."

“Where’s your net? Trot line? Those aren’t permitted either, you know.”

“There’s none. Look,” he pointed to Gus who stood on the rock scanning the water. “My dog is out there snagging fish.”

Gus thrust his head under water again, but came up empty.

Ranger Smith eyed Quinn suspiciously. “That’s a pretty wild story. Even if it were true, that’s not legal. I will need to confiscate these.”

As he bent down to gather the fish, Gus let out an unfriendly bark. “Your pooch friendly?” he asked.

“Usually,” said Quinn. “Say, can you show me in a rulebook or something that dogs catching fish is illegal?”

“Don’t matter. The trout are in your possession and you don’t have a proper license.”

“My dog brought them to me, yes, but I was just overseeing them while he went back to the river. I’d like to see the rule, please.”

Ranger Smith was annoyed, but Quinn’s request was reasonable enough. He pulled out a smartphone and opened an application.

He scrolled through screens of information, not finding what he was looking for. Dogs infringing on wildlife couldn’t possibly be acceptable, could it?

As Ranger Smith kept hunting through the digital content of his device, Gus came bounding back to with another catch. But this time he didn’t drop it at Quinn’s feet. Instead, his tail stopped wagging and he stood still with the fish between his teeth, eyeing the stranger. The two of them made eye contact and immediately disliked one another.

“Like I said,” Quinn went on, “my dog is catching the fish, not me.”

Frustrated, Ranger Smith ran his tongue over his teeth. 

“Dogs need to be on a leash at all times within the park,” he said.

“I left it at the campsite,” Quinn responded.

Swapping his smartphone for his ticket book, Ranger Smith scribbled onto a thick piece of paper. “Sign here,” he said, pointed to the dotted line. “Press hard, five copies.”

Quinn read the ticket which indicated he was in violation of the leash law. He signed his name, then Ranger Smith tore off his ticket copy and handed to him along with his identification.

“What did you find out about the fish?” Quinn asked, folding the ticket and placing it in his shirt pocket.

“I didn’t, but I’m going to have to take these with me—” he cut himself off when he gestured to the pile of trout. It was gone, and so was Gus. Neither had seen him leave, let alone with the catches.

“Where’s your dog?” Ranger Smith asked.

Quinn shrugged.

“I need to take those trout with me. Call your dog back.”

 Quinn called for Gus and the wet and dirty golden retriever came out from behind some shrubbery.

“Where are the fish?” Quinn asked.

Gus looked at him curiously.

“Show us.”

Gus sat down.

“Gus, where are the fish?”

Gus lay down and placed his head on his front paws.

Turning to Ranger Smith, Quinn said, “I can’t force him to take us anywhere.”

“What do you think your dog did with the fish?” 

“Buried them, I suspect. That’s what dogs do,” Quinn answered.

The ranger’s radio beeped and a dispatcher called out for assistance with a first aid emergency for a hiker. Reluctantly, he bid Quinn and Gus farewell with a leash law reminder, and left.

As soon as Ranger Smith was safely out of sight, Quinn asked of Gus, “Where are your trout?”

Gus hopped up, leading Quinn to a pile of rocks around a bend. Three rocks supported against one another, creating a cavity in the middle. Gus pawed at the hole. Quinn reached down to find the slimy scaled creatures, pulled them out one by one, and headed back to the campsite. There was no need to fret over forgotten fishing gear any longer.

Copyright 2018 Jennifer E. Miller