We were fishing. George, his brother, Carl, and I, were kicking back on a bright, sun-shiny day on the Mongaup River. We were new to fly-fishing, so we weren’t proficient, and we knew no tricks of the trade as yet. I remember I had finally caught my first fish on the fly–a small panfish who was as ignorant as I. It was the late 70’s-early 80’s, so I was still wearing men’s waders but sported a dainty, girly hat. The water was cold, the day was cold, but the company warm….

George had fallen into the water (beer messes with balance), and had decided to go back up to the truck. Carl had become concerned, because more than a half hour had passed, and George had not reappeared back down the banks. “I’m going to go check on him. That water is really cold.”

Five minutes later, I hear him stumbling down the path. Carl was laughing, his shoulders shaking, his grin wide. Still no sign of George. He joins me on the big river boulder I was sitting atop. I ask, “What’s up? Where’s George?”

“Your husband!” he exclaims, shaking his head. “I go up there, and I see him sitting in his truck. I tap on the window, which he rolls down, and I ask him ‘What’s going on? Are you okay?”

Carl pauses, barely containing his laughter, and gives a snort. “He flung the door open, jumps out, and he’s stark naked!

“And then he yells, his arms flung out, ‘What the hell do you think?!?!'”

At this point, we hear a big ruckus on the river trail. On the other side of the river, a couple guys are stealthily walking the bank in search of trout. The thrashing we hear is on our side of the river, and we look up…. There is George, still naked except for a baseball cap pulled low over his forehead, and his hip waders, the wader tops turned down to flap over his lower leg, showing bright yellow. His arms are tucked into his armpits, and he’s strutting down the trail, each leg jutting out like some giant chicken at each step. His head is bobbing and stretching out, and from his mouth, he is emitting an ear-splitting “Ka-kaw! Ka-kaw!” which echoes down the valley and is a great little counterpoint to the peals of laughter that both Carl & I burst into. Fishing is not always a peaceful sport.

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