Fishing Frenzy

The 1950s vintage motor court was the perfect location for dozens of Texas fly casters to gather in camaraderie and tie a few last creations before the Arkansas brown trout season opened at midnight.

The Hunting Club membership don’t always fish in our state. With such good fishing in our adjacent states, we’ll occasionally take longer trips.

Room 5 contained the largest number of fishermen on our side of the horseshoe-shaped courtyard. It was an odd room with two full beds, two twin beds and an assortment of tables.

Strangers to us Texas boys ran in and out without obvious need. Others were in search of ice, booze, and tying materials.

“I need a brown heron feather!” A voice floated across the parking lot.

Despite the frigid weather, each room arranged around the courtyard was open in some way to provide quick communication and to vent the fumes from the fly head cement and solvents used to create the tiny lures.

Three undercover game wardens materialized in the parking lot to identify the fisherman and see if anyone was in fact using feathers from endangered birds.

I watched mysterious feather puffs shoot into the air through the open door of Room 8 and dissipate from the roof vent. I imagine the fishermen in there suddenly began tying with chicken feathers.

Despite the frigid weather, I looked through our door at the forlorn playground equipment covered in a dusting of snow. Dusk gave the courtyard a misty, vintage appearance.

The Hunting Club members behind me gathered around Youngster’s portable tying bench. Doc put on his reading glasses and leaned close. “That looks like a sculpin fly with a clown nose.”

Urgent whispering rose between Youngster and Delbert P. Axelrod.

Youngster nodded and spoke up. “I call it a Sculpin Clown.”

“What was it supposed to be?”

“Something different. But it’s a Sculpin Clown now.”

A fisherman we didn’t recognize ran into our room, examined the new creation and ran back out again. “Only three more hours until season opens!” he shouted at those in Room 10. “Hey guys, I just shot a picture of this new guy’s fly. Let’s tie some.”

Youngster sighed. “So much for my mystery fly.”

“You stole it from Orvis.” Delbert’s tone was accusitory.

“Did not!” They tangled, snarling onto the floor in a flurry of scientific wrestling holds and vicious bites.

I looked around our trashed motel room. Fly fuzz drifted in dust balls across the linoleum floor. The room was awash in discarded fly lines, ragged tippets, fishing rods, boxes of flies, tying tools, spilled drinks, open bags of chips, empty cans of beef stew headed on hot plates, socks, beer cans, fishing vests, coolers full of fresh beer, remote controls that worked nothing electronic, a makeshift bar filled with various bottles, spare eyeglasses, Hawaiian shirts, grapefruit rinds, and outdoor magazines.

Doc intently cemented a patch on his ancient waders held together by older patches.

A disconsolate Woodrow sat on the bed in his son’s too-small thermals and pondered the heavy snow that had begun to fall. “Anyone bring spare thermals? These aren’t mine.”

Jerry Wayne was on his cell phone screaming a frustrated order for take-out chicken. “I said I want half a chicken!” He held the phone to his mostly deaf ear.

The tinny voice on the other end asked, “Once again, which side do you want?”

“I don’t give a flyin’ flip which side! Right or left, it doesn’t matter!”

Doc raised an eyebrow. “Might have mattered to the chicken.”

“I think they’re asking what kind of side vegetable you’re wanting.” Sitting in a chair byt the window, the Cap’n sipped from a red Solo cup. He didn’t fish, but always enjoyed the event.

Jerry Wayne didn’t hear any of them.

Wrong Willie examined a map of the river, trying to glean from the glossy paper where a big brown might be lurking as Jerry Wayne’s eyes bugged out.

“Fine! Fine! The left side, then!”

I suddenly had a thought. “What’s open this time of the night?”

Delbert finally perked up. “The guys from Alabama across the courtyard in Room Twelve. They realized last year that no businesses were open, so they’re frying chicken to sell. It’s how they’re paying for their trip.”

“Good thinking.”

Running footsteps outside as someone hurried from room to room to borrow extra cold weather gear. A stranger slipped on the ice and a bloody head wound ensued.

Paramedics arrived.

Events accelerated.

Heavier snow outside.

On the crowded table in Room 5, a cigar rolls off an ashtray, contacting flammable cement spilled in a pool of hackles. Things get exciting.

Spark, smoke, fire.

Minor explosion.

People running.

Alarms.

Firemen with axes soon chopped indiscriminately at any motel door. A couple paused to eat fried chicken.

I sensed something was wrong.

Smoke inhalation.

EMS responders administered oxygen to elderly fly fishermen. Two hopeful college-age guys lined up politely for a hit of pure oxygen.

Inside, fly rods burst into flame.

Men save waders with sentimental value.

Coolers slide across the icy parking lot.

Die-hards tie frantically before the fire spreads.

Fly boxes brought new meaning to the term as frenzied fishermen heave them through open doors to save the contents that might be successful on the river.

Stampede.

Someone shouted the time.

Crisis forgotten.

Truck engines roared to life.

Game wardens balanced sideways on the teeter-totter and jotted down notes to check on those later who might not have fishing licenses.

Trucks spun out as midnight drew nearer.

Traffic at the exit jolted to a stop like mice on sticky traps.

Bumpers and fenders crumpled.

Men jumped up and down to unlock bumpers welded together by the impact.

Unscathed vehicles engaged their four-wheel drive and escaped through the courtyard’s center, scattering game wardens.

Fishermen arrived at the river, looking for best spots on the crowded watercourse.

The heavily insured motel burns to the ground while on the river, at the stroke of midnight, in a heavy snow, the fishing frenzy begins.

Sitting in my nice warm truck and sipping hot coffee, I realized things are a lot calmer back in Texas.

More sedate.

Please visit my website at www.reaviszwortham for a list of my novels. The first book in my Red River series, The Rock Hole, was listed by Kirkus Reviews as one of the Top 12 novels of 2011, while professional reviewers said it remnded them of To Kill A Mockingbird. See more books and reviews on my site. Please and thank you!