Katies Crash Course

Katies Crash Course by James L. Bruner
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I sit here staring at this blank screen trying to dedicate myself to a single subject while my mind races from topic to topic. Writers block. Nice. I have practically all the inspiration surrounding me that one might need to develop an article regarding the outdoors but yet I pull nothing but patchy sentences strung together in random order that hold very little sustenance. Not enough meat there to hang an article on. Still, my memory keeps visiting a fishing trip with Katie. I’m not sure if it’s the weather, a personal need to go fishing, or, maybe it’s Katie herself. Regardless of the inspiration, Katie, wherever you may be, this one’s for you.

I met Kate, she preferred Katie in those days, at an annual 4th of July celebration. She was a lanky blonde haired girl with a bubbly attitude and a general appreciation for life. Her obvious attention to physical appearance brought the thought of “high maintenance” to mind but yet I felt strangely compelled to create a conversation at some point in the day. It was shortly thereafter when Katie joined our circle of conversation directly across from me and commented on my baseball cap that held the image of a fly fisherman playing out a fish. The small talk turned to mutual interests, phone conversations, and a planned fishing trip. I won’t bore you with the in-between details.

It was about 2 weeks later when I met Katie at her parents home, a very prominent residential area and her very business-like parents appeared to be dressed for the office on a Saturday afternoon standing at attention on the patio. Her mother quickly disappeared back inside while her father seemed to stare at my truck. Even though it had recently been custom painted and polished with new chrome rims and tires it was still about $20,000 less than anything sitting in their own driveway. I had just begun to make that long landscaped walk and introduce myself when Katie more or less bounced out the door creating a long-distance introduction as she moved. I simply waved and tipped my hat as the father nodded in my direction. Before we could both get seated in the truck Katie was back outside and sprinting for the garage. Now, I should take this moment to explain something. In our previous phone conversations I told Katie to dress comfortably for the fact that we would be doing a lot of walking through the woods. Her response was, “No problem. Just don’t forget to bring the fishing poles.” Hmmm. I must have drifted off for a moment since Katie had already appeared next to the truck struggling with a large cooler trying to open the tailgate with one hand while balancing the cooler on her knee. As I’m opening the door to lend assistance she triumphs in great victory and slams the tailgate shut. Dear old dad hasn’t moved a millimeter and I’m feeling like I have at least two strikes against me according to his performance chart. With that, a quick toot from the horn and a half-hearted wave goodbye to dear old dad, we’re on our way.

I distinctly remember asking Katie why in the world she didn’t dress comfortably. This was going to be a long walk through the brush that is absolutely going to be muddy in places. That pure white tennis outfit and shoes are going to be black before we even start fishing and that skirt won’t lend much protection to your legs unless you plan to wear hip boots. She simply replied, “Hip boots, shmip boots” in and amongst her typical chatter, and that she would be fine adding that she didn’t properly introduce me to her parents because her dad would have talked my ear off. Personally, I think she meant to say he would have “bit my ear off” and that, my friend, has nothing to do with talking unless you consider primal screams of pain a basis for conversation.

Within an hour we arrived at our fairly remote location. As a true test of one’s abilities I like to bring people fishing at the beaver dam. The fishing consists of brook trout and rainbow trout. Some of these rainbows have been trapped since their annual spring spawning runs and subsequently reside in the river behind the dam. They prosper quite well. The riverbank behind the dam is largely undercut and typically where the best fish reside, although you can catch trout up against the dam itself, our focus usually centers around the shoreline where we work streamers during the day and revert to dry flies closer to the evening. Live bait can, and has in the past, worked well but this area can be congested with chubs who will steal your bait in seconds flat. While fishing the beaver dam is the main attraction, actually getting there is the opening act and primarily the reason why you never find anyone else fishing this area.

Katie was in a hurry to get started. She grabbed a flyrod and began a mad dash up the river bank in a flurry of action that I came to associate with anything she did. At five foot nine inches, 120 pounds, and long wavy hair she looked quite awkward to say the least. Her white tennis outfit was practically glowing as she began to stumble through the tall grass like a baby giraffe with a broken leg. She may be at home on a tennis court but she was certainly out of her element here and completely confused as to where the trail was as she paused waiting for me to catch-up. She looked at me intently and with the most serious tone asked where the beaver dam was. I clenched my lips to keep from laughing as she tipped her head to the side and made a feeble attempt to swat a mosquito. “It’s quite a ways upriver yet Katie and you should probably pace yourself. There are no trails until you get closer to the dam. Then you follow deer trails.” I went on to inform her that we could walk in the river. It would be easier walking but it takes longer. Since nothing should take longer than need be in Katie’s world I knew the answer and pointed her in the direction to just follow the river from the bank.

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