My mistake was volunteering to help out a fellow fisherman, looking at me with them big puppy eyes, the stare you only see at the pet store window, capable of inflicting guilt and shame without hint of malice.

So I took the pager, figuring it was going to be an easy shift, and as I had no weekend plans for something finer – I could curry a little favor in the process.

Later I saw Ray in the hallway, “Yea, Me’n Fred are going to Gunfire Lake. We gonna have his boat, and some steaks …and we didn’t invite you ’cause you always turn us down.”

I couldn’t help but smile, “Ray, it’s the self-preservation instinct that prevents me from accepting when you and Fred do anything, like my dad, I recognize a ‘fishless fishing trip’ when I sees it..”

Then we had over 700 lightning fires bust during my shift, and after 40 hours without sleep I’m thinking I got the raw end of the deal. I drag myself into work yesterday wearing that pained expression that says, “bad trade”, hoping for a little sympathy.

There’s Fred in the hallway, with a grin from ear to ear. I’m expecting the “we kilt ’em” version, figuring fair play dictates I endure the recitation of deeds; how big, how many, and which fingers were removed by the largest of their quarry.

Fred starts the recital off key, ” ..well, the ramp ran out before the water started, so we had a little trouble with the trailer and the mud, but after we got out there, we saw that “hatch” thing you was talking about, fish were gobbling them on the surface, and Ray got bit on the fly rod a couple times but lost them.”

“We fished until about 11PM and it got real dark as there was no moon, so we decides to head back the 1/2 mile to the ramp, but couldn’t find it in the dark. I had to go slow ’cause all them tree stumps in the water, and we couldn’t see nothing.”

“A couple hours later, around 1AM, we see’s this campfire but we knew they was drunk and figured not to surprise them, so we opted to spend the night in the boat. Me and Ray only had shorts and tee shirts and it was damn cold, must’ve got down to 40 or so.”

“I had Ray cut the Bimini top off the boat with his knife so we had something to cover us – and I wrapped paper towels on my arms hoping that would work, but they kept coming off.”

This tale of woe is quickly lifting my spirits, I may not have got much sleep but it’s plain neither did they. A crowd of sportsmen have gathered, as nothing’s quite as compelling as shared outdoor misery. Just then Ray comes through the door, and I ask, “how’d that shared communal warmth thing work, Ray?”

A voice from the back of the pack asks, “where’d they go?” – another faceless angler responds, “Indian Valley Reservoir, over by BrokeBack Mountain.”

Fred perks up instantly, “we didn’t do no spooning, we’d have died before that..”

Nothing like a pack of wolves to cull the infirm at the first sign of weakness..