Trout Fishing

Okay, it's kind of cheating, but I'm posting a piece I wrote some years ago.  This was for an assignment on using description.  I really like the imagery it gives so I'm posting it here in the hopes that it will inspire new writing.  Plus it reminds me of fishing with my Dad and I've found my best writing is related to what I know.

t was still dark when Dad woke my younger brother and me.  Sleep clung to the back of my eyes like fly paper as I slowly got out of bed.  Trout season had begun. 

The lake was nestled cozily between hills of Douglas fir and hemlock.  The sun was just beginning to color the clouds pink that lay low over the bristles of trees on the ridgeline.  My brother and I stepped out of the warmth of the truck into the cool, early-morning air.  We helped Dad carry the army green raft down to the water’s edge.  The musty scent of the old rubber drifted up to my nose and reminded me of other fishing trips. 

My brother and I tucked neatly into one end of the raft, Dad climbed in and shoved off from shore.  I could feel the coldness of the water through the thin raft bottom, but I felt snug and secure in my bright orange life jacket.  On the other end, Dad rowed steadily.  Up ahead a stand of snags emerged from the water.  Dad knew there would be others hiding just below the surface waiting to rake the bottom of the raft.  He pulled heavily on one oar to steer around the marauders. 

The sky was turning a beautiful shade of rosy-orange as the sun began its slow ascent.  Robins, warblers and chickadees twittered melodiously from the trees on the shore that slid past.  Some flew like Kamikazes over the surface of the water to snatch a bug breakfast.  Every now and then, a fish would burst out of the water to catch a hovering insect.  

Far out into the lake, Dad opened a dirty Styrofoam tub of night crawlers.  He pulled one slimy worm out, pinched off the right length and threaded the wiggling mass onto a hook.  This routine repeated once more, my brother and I both dropped our hooks into the unbroken surface of the lake.  Dad passed each of us a small thermos cup of hot chocolate.  The smell of the hot chocolate mingled with the musty raft smell and tickled my nose.  I brought the steaming cup to my mouth and the taste of hot, watered-down chocolate burned the tip of my tongue.  In the other hand, I felt the gentle tug-tug-tug of the fishing pole as the spinner flashed brightly in the water while we trolled around the lake.

The rhythm of the raft as it rocked to each oar stroke soon made me sleepy, but a sudden and violent tug on my fishing pole quickly pulled me awake.  The end of the pole dipped down low to the surface of the water.  As I reeled my line in, the fish on the other end fought to get away, but Dad scooped it up in our net.  The silver scales of the rainbow trout flashed in the early morning sun.  I traced the stripe of color along the length of the fish and felt its smooth, wet skin. 

I smiled in anticipation as I imagined the tasty dinner it would make that night breaded in cornmeal and fried to a crispy, golden brown.