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The Last Weekend: Part Two

By HUNTER REDFIELD – Student Contributor

Alarms set for 5:30 a.m. met their mark and went off as planned, but for us it seemed way too early.

Seeming to drag the tiredness behind us, we made our way to the kitchen and soon had our waders on. We crawled into the truck and endured our short car ride while listening to the voice on google maps tell us every turn till we reached the destination we had both been waiting to fish.

We put our rods together and made our way to the spot that I had heard about many times from a local old man who fished there often and fished down through the run with not even a thought a fish inhabited the stream.

So once again, we found ourselves driving down a dirt road before coming to a second stream that yielded the same results. On the way back, we made a pit stop at the river only to yet again be skunked and leave us headed back hoping that a fire would be burning and food sizzling on the skillet.

Breakfast sandwiches were being cooked and boards needed cut for the tin roof soon to find its new home on the cabin, so we stayed occupied while cutting them, and soon made an escape to ask that same man who fishes the original stream we had fished if he would like to join us.

A look of disappointment spread across his face as he dropped his head and told us he had plans for lunch and had to get ready soon, but gave us advice that sent us on our way back to the water that seemed barren in the morning.

Within a few minutes of being there, Jacob caught a fish, then another, but although we fished more it seemed as though we couldn’t buy a bite.

So, I began making my way upstream to cross and hopefully fish some good lookin’ water on the opposite bank. However, my journey was stopped when a bright yellow spot in the water stopped me and left me questioning if it could really be a fish.

Many casts later my indicator ducked and the fish came tearing upstream, leaving me to scream Jacob’s name and signify with my hands it was a big fish just as he started running up the bank.

The fish then made its way downstream and got just to the edge of a set of gas lines that made a little waterfall as it had came off. I watched as Jacob came through the brush and stopped only to look at me and go back to fishing.

I made my way across the stream and made it to the spot I had wanted to fish beforehand, but soon left as a water snake tried turning my leg into a snack. I once again returned to the yellow fish and began casting with each one ending in a different way, one cast would be fulfilled with a chub while others had trout, and many were left empty.

I continued the process over and over finally watching my line go right, and seeing the yellow fish roll when I set the hook as it went over the first gas line. I thought I was in the clear and could get it into better water to fight it in, but to my surprise, just as it cleared the first gas line, it took a dive and swam under it and back upstream, leaving my line pinched in between the gas line and a rock and the fish gone again.

We continued to fish with not much action, but soon again my line had gone tight, but this time the fish jumped a few feet away from me and slack line flung from the fish’s jump had wrapped around the lower portion of my rod, leaving me with no way to fight it and hoping that the pressure of the fish wouldn’t break my rod, but soon my line snapped, and I gave up for the day, only to think about that fish every moment afterwards.

 

Columnist Hunter Redfield is a student at Cranberry High School and a member of Cranberry Chronicles, the school’s journalism/publications group.

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