Chasing Blue Lines
Shivering cold, asses planted inside the puddled, hastily assembled tent, soggy feet hanging outside the zippered doors while a steady deluge of rain pounds the fly with enough intensity we have to shout to make conversation.
“Damn it, Kenyon,” I yell, feigning indignation. “You just had to get that one last fish, didn’t you?”
We knew we were pushing our luck, two-and-a-half miles from camp at what came to be known as “the mega hole.” The sky grew darker and darker, and the thunder peeled closer and closer. But the fishing was too good to leave; we just couldn’t pull ourselves away, despite the ample warnings.
