EARLY OTTER CREEK HUNT
I see Gaga on campus walking his rogue dog Tina. He doesn’t belong at the library, but he misses the campus scene. Can’t say I blame him. He tells me him and J are planning on fishing in the afternoon. J is skipping his last class. Looks like I am too. So I sit in my next class watching the second hand slowly dance around the clock face waiting in anticipation.
As the winter smoothly warms into Spring, life in Vermont seems to waken from a deep, dark, and depressed winter. The cute girls start to show as if the cold air will ruin their yoga pants if they get too cold. Love it. But for us PigFarmers, the warm change in season marks a time of business and pleasure. Mostly pleasure though.
So we drive south to the Otter Creek in search of anything that would show us the time. One thing we have to remember is it’s still pretty early to fish, as the ice melt practically abuses the river. But J and I obviously don’t care, and are glad to be on the road. Our usual heart to hearts about the women in our life, and the fact that we miss hanging out with the Big One because he has been swamped with work lately. Good talk.
We pull up to the parking lot, let Boh out and are greeted by our friend TroutBum. As we ask him about his luck and what he was tossing, J thinks it’s a good idea to rinse his dipper out with his spitter. He drank his dip spit. Good call. TroutBum’s image of us must be roguer that we first thought, as his first impression of the boys today is J pulling into the spot, and letting a little stomach bile out to mark his territory. TroutBum wishes us luck and takes off.
We work our way down the bend, tossing meaty patterns, letting them swing through the lower sections of the dam in hops of that coveted tug. I keep getting tired of saying this, but no luck here. We’ll get on the fish soon though audience, don’t worry.
As we keep hiking down the river, Boh begins to grab my full attention. Nothing I love more in the world than casting a fly and having my dude sitting right next to me watching. I pretend he’s my scout-er. He pretends I’m about to throw him a stick.
But slowly, I begin to focus my full attention on him and away from fishing, as per usual. I drop my rod, and kneel down to take a photo for the Farm of J in action. Before I knew it I’m on my back. Boh hits me like a linebacker, takes my hat, and proceeds to trot around with it, tossing it in the air as if he’s laughing at me saying, “come and get it you idiot”.
I get the hat, J almost in tears laughing, and me realizing how much of a little fucker Boh can be. But he’s two years old now, and I’m a proud parent if you don’t know already, and that’s that.
Until next time Mr. Otter.