MY OLD FRIEND WADE AND I
WRITTEN BY SAM FRANKS
SEPTEMBER 06, 1998
We planned our trip for quite a while,
my old friend Wade and I. We love to fish
the mountain streams with limber rods and
tiny flies.
I would like to explain the feeling you get
when you fish the wild, it's the quietness
and the feeling of freedom you had when you
were a child.
The sound of the running streams makes your heart
feel light as you scan the rippling water to see
where a fish might bite.
Across from a bend in the river stands a giant old
sycamore tree. Since we have fished here before,
it seems like an old friend to me. It is old and it's
bark is mottled and gray. It shades a deep dark hole
from the heat and glare of the day, a perfect place for
a big old trout to lay.
We approach the hole with caution; my old friend
Wade and I for we have caught fish here before.
We know where the big ones lie. I stand back and
watch my old friend as he makes a false cast or two.
Then he lays the fly on the water, and it quickly
disappears from view. I see the droplets of water
fall from the tightening line. I see the bend in the rod;
I hear the old reel start to whine.
Though the strike is not unexpected; there is a look of
surprise on my old friends face, like he might not win
this race. He palms the reel on the bottom to slow the
fast decent and he fights him to a stand still, until the
great Trout strength is spent. He gently pulls him to
shore as we both stare at his size in awe. He's a
beautiful golden color, with a toothy hooked lower jaw.
I'll not tell you what we had for supper; my old friend
Wade and I, but it tasted a lot like beef. It wasn't the
big Trout's day to die.
Your Friend,
Sam Franks
