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FISHING with JOE
Brad Miller
 Lush stream side foliage glittered and undulated as a light breeze massaged the meadow grasses beyond.
Distant rumblings forebode weather changes as small critters navigated blades of grass
in renewed urgency. Red-winged blackbirds patrolled cattail tenements running off intruders
- of which I was one. A lone turkey vulture rode lofty air streams with a keen eye for things fur-bearing and lifeless.
My fishing scorecard - the" Landed/Hooked" ratio
thus far, was easily calculated. I learned what zero divided by zero was in
third grade. Fishing was as lifeless as a nearby road kill. A dead raccoon was belly-up, still grinning from a late night encounter with a truck tire. The only apparent insect activity
of note was a robust deer fly hatch that sustained itself for the balance of the day. This day the resident smallmouth bass ignored
flies both real and artificially contrived. Yet I strode confidently up stream, glad to be alive. I
was not alone.
My yellow labrador "Joe" accompanied me,
keeping a welcomed distance, as he continued his search for the only most vile, caustic excrement in which to roll.
His head and chest were a sewer green already, compliments of a troupe of loitering Holsteins. Cattle have a strange habit of initially defecating, then forcefully urinating directly upon the jettisoned stool. The resultant concoction is oddly attractive to some canine breeds. This dog was particular and indifferent to all other species and their leavings. It was cattle dung or nothing for Joe.
His explorations occasionally intersected mine along the stream. He gleefully plunged into promising pools, once happy places for large hungry bronzebacks. Dark shapes streaked frantically from peaceful lies. The dog exhibited a unique sense guided by sadistic machinations. He reserved his most spectacular entrances for quiet water with rising fish.
I was relegated to secondary waste water, not yet suitable for
Joe. Feverishly working a large Clouser pattern through an overlooked run, I sized up the situation. I estimated 15 minutes before the dog complete his task of bombing every decent spot on the stretch.
My interests drifted upstream where a tall cottonwood fended off rushing water, routing it down to me. The riffle appeared only inches deep. But closer inspection revealed a very narrow and dark slot cut near the tree roots of indeterminate depth. Here undoubtedly would reside the largest smallmouth in all of Minnesota. Nervously glancing about I sensed time, like the riffle water, was running thin.
The dog was just shaking off his latest fecal indulgence. Fetid shrapnel shot skyward in an awful cascade of sludge. Seething and oozing he drew the attention of a deer fly platoon drawn to disgusting emanations. Mother Nature devised these insects to create havoc and schizophrenia by means of devious buzzing and swarming. She also allowed for a measure of restitution. Deer Flies possess the redeemable trait of "static hesitation". They characteristically light and hold position for three to five seconds. This allows sufficient time to recognize, process, and execute what boxers call a "hard right hand".
The winged marauders engaged the dog. Tiny fighter jets whirled and attacked. Their preferred targets were obvious. The tender hairless regions were favored. The dog spun, lurched, and snapped wildly. I smiled as the torment continued, occupying the reeking wretch and buying me a few precious moments. Seizing the opportunity, I stumbled upstream to further investigate this promised water.
Establishing a casting station, I quickly stripped out some line and flipped the initial offering well above the intended target. The dancing water escorted the fly near, but short of the desired drift. The dark slot leered back spitefully, taunting me to invade its private holdings.
Above the melodious chorus of bright waters, a discordant crescendo began to build.
The dog was coming hard.
Having finally confirmed my absence, he now had my new coordinates pinpointed. I silently cheered for a contingent of deer
flies valiantly fighting to stay with him.
I conjured thoughts of better times. I envisioned his doleful skyward stare shivering through frosty mornings in the duck blind, eyes riveted skyward. I pondered the boundless pride of his first pheasant. But today my tail-wagging, buff-colored pal was nearly unrecognizable. The transformation of his visage was complete. He descended upon me a vile banshee. His mission was clear: the complete and total obliteration of my day.
I thrust a frantic cast against the far bank and watched the nymph sink and disappear in the froth. It moved deep within the base of the cottonwood. The line bowed and swept down through the roots and stopped. Somewhere in the swirling darkness a hook pierced and penetrated the gaping mouth of a great bass. I pulled back hard expecting entanglement. But the line answered back with an equal force. The rod jolted spasmodically as the creature shook to rid itself of the alien intruder. I kept the rod low attempting to hold and steadily draw the denizen out. Direct pressure did little to improve my position. I swung the rod back 180 degrees to the change the angle. The fish didn’t
like that and responded violently.
"Good God!" I gasped.
A fly-swatter sized tail rose and vanished in the foam. The smallmouth rolled on the surface and shot back under the tree. The nine foot leader disappeared into the root-filled maze. Suddenly the abrupt electrical surges slowed to a muffled tension. The fish was snagged, wrapped deeply in and among the roots, but still somehow connected. I fed slack line and prayed.
My peripheral vision signaled the encroaching disaster.
By the time I turned, the dog was already launched and clear of the bank. I watched in slow motion as he sailed well beyond the shallow riffles toward the cottonwood. The water exploded and sprayed despair. The wretched creature evicted all inhabitants from the refuge below. Terrified critters scattered helter-skelter. He emerged proudly from the run as a cloudy plume muddied the water below. Our eyes met briefly
- he wouldn't hold my stare. He looked away, tongue hanging aside, breathing heavily, happily. Joe drew within two feet of me before shaking. My fishing ensemble was then festooned with a detestable bovine gastric soup. The dog wisely remained just beyond reach. I set up as a place-kicker to deliver his comeuppance.
It was at this moment the forgotten fly rod surged.
The seismic disruption spooked my entangled combatant from its hold. It became miraculously freed and bolted down river. Leaving the depths, I gasped as the fish torpedoed through the shallows with salmon-like power. A wide brown back plowed a furrow through water to the next big pool. Stuck in the side of the mouth my #6 hook
managing to maintain its forged temper as the fray continued.
I regained my balance and began pursuit of the fish, feeling the first pings of hope. The dog observed all this with keen interest from his vantage point just beyond butt-kicking range.
Having never met a moving critter he didn't like, I anticipated Joe's mounting interest. I summoned the usual litany of commands:
"Joe. . . Sit!" I talked evenly at first, trying to downplay the gravity of the moment. I started reeling up the slack line. My head toggled from one foe to another. I felt like a spectator at a tennis match.
“Staaay!” I sang the word. I started in G major (the people's key), down to F, then a rising crescendo up the scale to a hard abrupt Ab.
“Leave It...Noooah!” Again, even keeled but with a little more mustard from down below.
“Damn it, Stay . . . !" I desperately spewed out an all out bellow.
The bass tore line from my reel as it barreled through the shallow riffle like a fullback. The dog paid me a cursory glance, registering simultaneous acknowledgment and disregard.
"Oh my God, no . . ." I whimpered as he
leaped away toward the streaking smallie. Just shy
of the downstream pool, the Labrador landed squarely
on the fish, breaking the line and separating us
once and for all. The fish slithered free and
disappeared into the dark pool.
Joe's chest heaved from the totality of the debacle. Finally, he could rest now. Two brown eyes peered back through a marinated green mask. The once handsome yellow head was a ghoulish rendition in guacamole. Bits of slime dripped from his ears. A solitary deer fly cautiously approached as thickening clouds murmured above. He turned to me panting confidently, his pink tongue cradled by white ivory incisors.
Mission complete. I cast my rod to the bank and started towards him. 
© Bradley A. Miller FishingWJoeBass.doc - © 1995
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