Sunday Fishing

Sunday Fishing by Jeff Daniel Marion He sat on the concrete steps where the sidewalk ended. He liked the solitude of the hour before dawn, and for a moment he pondered the reasons he so rarely got up this early. I should do this every weekend, he thought. Here I am only fifty miles from some of the best trout water in the Southeast, and even when the trout aren't cooperative there are the Smokies, blue and inviting in the distance. He had missed those trips since John had moved to Florida ten years ago. Sometimes as often as four times a week they would drive to the Smokies, alternating their fishing between Greenbrier and Waterville. It was up Greenbrier that John had given him initiation to fly-fishing: three miles on the dirt road to the little parking lot near Ramsey's Cascades trail, across the creek on foot up the trail until it crosses the creek 10 again. Then the fishing would begin. "Tie on a female Adams or else find you some stick bait," John had said and then followed immediately with, "You know what stick bait is, I hope. Caddis larvae—you find it stuck to rocks in the creek. Trout love it—can't resist. But the ranger'll burn your ass if he catches you using it. Sometimes I can't resist— trout'11 hit stick bait when nothing else will do." Now their trips were limited to once a year meetings when John would drive up from Jacksonville to spend two or three days with him. "My body may be in Florida fifty-one weeks of the year, but my soul is on these waters—nothing satisfies like this white mountain water," he said. It seemed strange to think of him in a Jacksonville hospital bed surrounded by sterile walls, sterile floors, the very air antiseptic. Only last week the call had come from John's brother saying that he had had a mild heart attack, but his doctor wanted him hospitalized for the remainder of the week. John's message was "Go ahead with the fishing trip. 1 11 make it later this Spring—and I plan to take my limit or else wave that magic wand over the waters till seven trout leap into my creel." The distant rumble of a passing freight train rolled across the darkness. He shifted on the steps and stood to look up the street for oncoming traffic. He glanced at his watch—4:45 a.m. Ed should be here any minute. He knew Ed wouldn't be late—all week he had talked about this trip, his excitement at having his first try in this area at trout fishing. He had known Ed for less than a year, loved his sandlapper drawl of lower South Carolina. In some ways he saw much of himself as he was at thirty-eight in Ed and had looked forward to John's initiating him to the ways of wary trout. At sixty-two John would have teased them both about being wetbehind -the-ear novices. He looked back at his house, the windows black as sleep. He wondered if Julie was still awake, her insistence this morning that she pack his lunch, make a thermos of coffee. "Say hello to the rock house for me," she had said, hugging him goodbye. He smiled now, remembering. The circle of approaching headlights broke his reverie. The passenger door of the blue Ford swung open and Ed's voice sang in mock Johnny Cash bass: "I hear that train a coming, coming round the bend." "Say, pardner, you better trade your fishing rod in on a guitar, such harmony you've got. Next thing you know, you'll be singing in prison." Ed laughed, got out and helped him load his gear. "Glad you brought that thermos of coffee , Dave. I'm ready for an eye-opener." They settled into the car, swung out onto Highway 92 toward the Interstate. Dave poured them each a cup of coffee. Ed turned the radio on, then looked at Dave. "How's your friend who was supposed to go with us today...