The perfect crime was formulated in a rainy camp. There was no trout fishing to be had. We spent most of our time stacking wet West Virginia wood on the smoke, passing the time early with coffee and cold ones late. Next to the "fire", most every problem of the world was solved in lengthy and arm waving orations. The only problem not solved was Ginger or May Ann... Trout talk spent some time in camp. Since the creek was roaring bank to bank all there could be is talk. That was fine. We ate well, in spite of the fire, but we were wanting for a few trout... just a taste... not wanting to waste all the ramps on spuds and eggs. In mists or torrents came the mountain rain. What wood gathered was getting wetter. The cheer of the fire was reduced to fierce plumes of eye-searing steam with a rare flame.
Driven wild-eyed by the smoke and steam, I came up with a no fail plan. Something had to be done, for we were down to Martha Washington or Dolly Madison. As Hobbs fumbled with the idea of Martha or Dolly, the idea seemed more and more rational. Another beer, some one thousand cubic feet more steam in the eyes, and I was sure.
The plan was simple. The weather had to be perfect. No problem there. It had to be snowing sideways and up a tall Indian. Visibility must be just below zero. Somewhere around three in the morning, in a blinding snowstorm, the caper would be pulled. Dressed in the bobcat hunting whites, I would scale the fence, white net and white trash bag in tow. A few scoops in the run and there would be trout for days! Over the fence, into a waiting vehicle and off to Kroger to buy butter.
Obviously, it was the perfect crime. Hobbs was horrified by the entire thing, including calling such fish trout. I had to remind him that, not only was it his turn to get wood, but two days and nights of his verbal wanderings might be as aggravating as the steam and smoke. We mulled over the plan, finally making a game of it. In the game the perfect crime fell apart.
"OK, so you get over the fence with the fish. When you do, there will be six or seven cars that show up, and YOU are the hatchery truck."
The perfect crime was never pulled. There were no trout harmed in the writing of this story.
Driven wild-eyed by the smoke and steam, I came up with a no fail plan. Something had to be done, for we were down to Martha Washington or Dolly Madison. As Hobbs fumbled with the idea of Martha or Dolly, the idea seemed more and more rational. Another beer, some one thousand cubic feet more steam in the eyes, and I was sure.
The plan was simple. The weather had to be perfect. No problem there. It had to be snowing sideways and up a tall Indian. Visibility must be just below zero. Somewhere around three in the morning, in a blinding snowstorm, the caper would be pulled. Dressed in the bobcat hunting whites, I would scale the fence, white net and white trash bag in tow. A few scoops in the run and there would be trout for days! Over the fence, into a waiting vehicle and off to Kroger to buy butter.
Obviously, it was the perfect crime. Hobbs was horrified by the entire thing, including calling such fish trout. I had to remind him that, not only was it his turn to get wood, but two days and nights of his verbal wanderings might be as aggravating as the steam and smoke. We mulled over the plan, finally making a game of it. In the game the perfect crime fell apart.
"OK, so you get over the fence with the fish. When you do, there will be six or seven cars that show up, and YOU are the hatchery truck."
The perfect crime was never pulled. There were no trout harmed in the writing of this story.
RSS Feed
