In spring my thoughts turn to fishing. I fish. Don’t catch much, but I like to fish. Don’t even care if I catch a fish. Just enjoy the process of dangling a line in the water and the possibility that something might bite onto the hook. You never know what’s down there in search of a snack.
Of course, the fish story is a genre unto itself, often featuring a thrilling account of the one that got away: “Gorry, it was a monster pickerel! Got it right up ‘long side the boat, slid the net in the water and, wuncha know, that pickerel, long as my right arm and twice as heavy, snapped the line and he was gone.” The more the story’s told, the bigger that pickerel or bass or hornpout or trout gets.
This story, about a few fish that didn’t get away, came out of Hebron. Can’t be sure if it originated with Buddy McDougal, Howard Odell, or, maybe, Bob Ramsay of Alexandria. One of those storytellers sprung it on me one evening when we were swapping tales. I do remember this: Bob Ramsay stood to speak, and – sensing that he might go on for some time – I said, “Bob, you don’t need to stand. It’s okay to sit down.”
He said, “I lie better standing up.”
I’m pretty sure this is a true fish story. Years ago, the salmon used to run heavy up the Cockermouth River into Newfound Lake to spawn. Folks said they ran so heavy you could practically walk across the river on their backs. Practically. Of course, when the salmon were running up river to spawn, it wasn’t legal to fish for them. Wouldn’t have been fair; they had their minds on other things.
One afternoon, Nancy – out hanging laundry – heard gunfire down by the river. In some places, when you hear gunfire, you head in the other direction. But, in New Hampshire, when you hear gunfire, generally you investigate. This is what Nancy did. She headed cross-country and soon came upon her neighbor, Charlie, sitting on the bank of the Cockermouth with a 22 rifle across his knees.
“What are you doing, Charlie?” she says.
“Shooting mushrats,” he says.
She looks, and beside him on the bank, laid out in the ferns, she sees four beautiful salmon, not looking too lively.
“Shooting mushrats, huh?” she says.
“Yup,” he says. “Scaly buggers, ain’t they?”
