Beer, Bait and Blizzards

Was an icy Thursday in mid January

when my step father declared in his ominous authority

we needed a vacation from school and work.

His solution was a sojourn to the local mountains

where we would plunder trout by stealth and skill

from the depths of Big Bear Lake.

I was all of eight and had never even held a pole,

saw them in the garage, but never actually used them.

However, my step dad was a sportsman,

at least according to his tales,

so in my tender trust I believed

that this journey into fishing glory would end with an eve

supping upon a mound of fried fish.

There were so many details that he neglected to mention

while painting this excursion in such inspiring images,

such as getting up at five am

or how the temperature in the mountains,

with snow on the ground, would only be in the twenties.

Nor did the fact that we used a metal boat

seem to allow for how touching it chilled to the bone.

None of his wisdom enough to prepare me

for having to put some slimy worm on a hook.

Four hours we spent, teeth chattering and shivering

without even a single bite,

my step father steadily sipping on beer,

his advice becoming more slurred and incoherent.

At last returning to truck when he announced

sensing a blizzard as coming in the blue morning skies.

Swerving down the mountain's curves,

heart pounding as the wheels came dangerously close to edge,

finally we returned home with me convinced only God kept us from crashing.

Having fish sticks for dinner while he talked about the ones we almost caught,

mercifully, he took up hunting after that outing.