(Written with gratitude and apologies to Mr. Hemingway.)
He was an old man, and he fished alone in an ancient wooden rowboat on New River and he had not caught a muskie for almost three months. The kid had fished with him for the first month or so, but the teasing from the other fishermen and other kids became unbearable and he had to bow out.
"No luck again today?" the kid said as the old man pulled into his little boat dock late in the afternoon.
The old man smiled. He could not be angry at the kid for not fishing with him. He had been a kid once himself. Now he glanced down at the dark brown age spots on the hands that held the weathered wooden oars.
Contributed photo / Larry CaseHis back hurt more than usual, but he never said a word.
"Nope, but I'll hit them again tomorrow," he said with a slight grin.
"You always say that," the kid said, like he was a little peeved. Then he grabbed the two rods and the tackle box and bait buckets as if to make up for it.
They climbed the narrow steps up the riverbank and piled into the old man's battered truck, another relic from the past.
It was almost dark when the old man eased the truck into the little parking lot for Don's Bait Shop and followed the kid inside. The old man just grinned and nodded as the regulars and other fishermen laughed when someone yelled "How big was he?" The old man seemed to take no offense as he shuffled toward the back to find a chair.
The kid could feel his anger rising and his ears turned red. He hated that other fishermen laughed at this man who was to him the greatest of muskie fishermen, a legend. All of the scoffers combined had not taken one tenth of the great fish caught by the old man in his life.
"You want a couple hot dogs or a burger? I'm going next door," he told the old man.
He knew the old man had probably not eaten all day.
"You win the lottery?" the old man said while smiling at him, but the kid just turned and went out the side door. He was back in two minutes and handed the old man a cold Stroh's beer.
"Now, how'd you get this?" he said. "You ain't old enough to buy beer."
The kid grinned at the old man. "You know they let me get it for you," he said.
The kid delighted in taking care of him, and what a strange pair they made, the grizzled old river rat long past his prime and a peach fuzz kid.
The old man settled back in the chair and tasted the beer. It was November and he had been cold most of the day. Now in the warmth of the bait store the cold beer tasted very good. He closed his eyes for a few seconds and allowed himself to enjoy a long sip; it was not often he indulged in such luxuries.
Later, as the kid helped him into his sparse cabin, the boy asked the usual question: "Going back out tomorrow?"
"I am if the sun comes up," the old fisherman answered as always.
"Where to?" the kid said with a piercing look.
"Going down river," the old man said, knowing he may be challenged on this.
The kid looked at the old man for a few seconds, then ran his eyes over the cabin wall by the bed. Several faded photographs and newspaper clippings shimmered in the sparse light of the cabin. They were all the same - a younger version of the old man holding up huge fish: muskies, muskellunge, king of the freshwater game fish.
"That old Evinrude may not bring you back," said the kid, knowing it was useless to argue.
"Well if it don't, I doubt I will be missed much," the old man said.
The kid did not like that but only said "I'll see you in the morning, old man."
Five o'clock was dark and cold when the boy stomped across the cabin porch the next day.
The old man was stirring the fire in the wood stove. Fog lay over the river like a shroud, and it was the kind of day, the old man always said, when people with any sense would stay in bed. The kid had brought coffee and sausage biscuits for the old man from the diner.
"Alice said you don't need to be out on that river in this weather," the kid said.
"Alice makes good biscuits," the old man said, "but she don't know much about fishing."
Day was breaking as the kid watched him drift off downstream, rummaging in the bottom of the boat, arranging the gear - a net, three big muskie rods, a billy club, a minnow bucket and an old rain parka the kid doubted would shed a drop of water. Watching the old man disappear into the fog, he was suddenly struck with a terror never considered in his young life.
He wondered if he would ever see the old man again.
He gave a high-pitched yell, his voice breaking in the gloom hanging over the river. He watched the old man in the dilapidated boat but knew he could not hear him.
Then the old man and the boat were gone, swallowed up in the now swirling mist on the water.
To be continued...
"The Trail Less Traveled" is written by Larry Case, who lives in Fayette County, W.Va., has been a devoted outdoorsman all of his life and is a contributing columnist for The Times Free Press. You can write to him at larryocase3@gmail.com.