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John N. Felsher's Other Adventures
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The last and
most precious
Christmas
present ever
most precious
Christmas
present ever
A big speckled trout fights at boatside after hitting a topwater plug.
Topwater lures make fast action for speckled trout, redfish and other
species of fish.
Topwater lures make fast action for speckled trout, redfish and other
species of fish.
“A week, maybe two -- six months tops if you’re lucky,” the doctor said.
“Lucky?” the man responded. “I’ve never been lucky in my life. Why start
now?”
“I’m sorry, but your condition is too far advanced now,” the doctor
explained. “We can’t do much for you except give you some drugs to
lessen the pain and make the last days of your life more comfortable. Any
strenuous activity now will only make your condition worse. You should go
home and rest.”
“Rest? Very soon, I’m going to be resting for a very long time,” he
snapped. “What difference does it make whether I go now, next week or six
months from now? If I’m only going to live a few days, I’m going to live those
days. I’m going fishing one last time if it kills me and I don’t care what you
or anyone else says about it.”
Ignoring the advice of his doctor and the objections of his family, the
angler called his favorite charter service. Booked solid, they had no
openings. However, they usually close for the holiday each Christmas Eve.
For such a good long-time customer, though, they made an exception and
scheduled a trip for Christmas Eve.
“I’ve been a speckled trout fisherman all my life,” he told his hosts as he
arrived at the camp the evening before his scheduled fishing trip. “I’ve
caught plenty of trout, but I’ve never caught a trout bigger than 10 pounds.
I’ve always wanted to catch one in double digits, but so far, my best fish
weighed slightly more than 7 pounds.”
“It’s not really the time of year for big fish, but we should have plenty of
action tomorrow,” the guide remarked. “I can’t promise anything, but I’ll see
what I can do for you.”
The next morning, the guide awakened the angler with a steaming cup
of coffee just the way he liked it. Across the vast marshes to the east, the
sun barely kissed the pink horizon. Above, sparkling stars still shining
brilliantly promised an excellent, if chilly, day for fishing.
“I haven’t eaten bacon in years,” the angler told the camp cook. “My
doctor said it’s not good for me, but I feel lucky today. Please make me a
big plate full of the greasiest, fattest bacon you can find with lots of salt and
hot sauce and a biscuit with a heap of butter on it.”
“You got it,” she replied handing him a heaping plate.
After breakfast, the angler climbed into the boat with some help from his
guide. Taping tubes to his nose so he could breathe, he placed a portable
oxygen bottle beside himself. Then, he asked the guide to hand him an
antique metal tackle box.
“You won’t need your tackle box today,” the guide advised. “I have
plenty of baits for us to use. We’ve been catching a lot of trout on soft
plastic jigs and I have all the tackle we’ll need.”
“This box is special,” the angler replied. “It was my father’s box and I
haven’t used it for many years. It’s full of memories. Each bait in the box
tells many stories, but my favorites are topwater plugs. I just love to watch
fish smash a lure on the surface. Even if I don’t open it, I’d like to bring it
with me. It won’t take up much room.”
“No problem,” the guide replied. “I’ll just put it there in front by you.”
For several hours, the angler and the guide canvassed the marshes to find
fish. With little success, they tossed nearly every type of lure the guide
could pull from his immense tackle collection.
So far, the only “catch” happened when the guide hooked the angler’s
oxygen hose with his lure while casting, nearly hurtling the frail man from
the boat. After reattaching the oxygen hose, they stopped to eat a little
lunch. Undeterred, the guide vowed he would find fish that afternoon or die
trying.
“We haven’t caught anything all day,” the angler said. “Do you mind if I
throw something from my old tackle box? I’d like to use my favorite topwater
bait.”
“Help yourself,” the guide replied. “We haven’t had a strike all day with
what I’ve recommended. It’s not really the time of year or place to throw a
topwater bait, but it can’t do any worse than what I've suggested.”
The angler pulled out an ancient, badly scarred wooden plug. Most of
the paint disappeared long ago, leaving only black flecks and bare wood.
Rust had already consumed one of the three treble hooks and nearly
closed the nose eye.
“I’ve never seen anything like that,” the guide frowned incredulously.
“That’s your favorite lure? What is it?”
“It’s a one of a kind bait,” the angler explained. “I call it, 'The Special.'
We used to have a tire swing hanging from an old oak tree in our yard
when I was a boy. A storm came one year and broke the branch off so we
lost the swing. My dad carved this lure with his pocketknife from a piece of
the old branch and gave it to me for Christmas that year. We didn’t have
much money for toys back then so it was all he could give me. I haven’t
used it in decades, but I’d like to try it today.”
The angler tied on the old wooden plug and tossed it toward the grassy
shoreline. It plopped and wobbled, making large concentric rings ripple
across the placid water before it disappeared into an explosion of foam and
frosty mist.
“Got him,” the angler shouted. “It’s a big speckled trout!”
“Looks like 8 pounds, 3 ounces,” the guide remarked after netting and
weighing the fish. “Congratulations. This beats your personal record.
Want to have it mounted?”
“No. It lived a long time in this marsh,” the angler replied. “It’s close to
the end of its life. Let it go to live out its last days swimming freely the way
God intended it to do.”
The angler threw the old bait toward the shoreline again. Cast after
cast, fish busted the bait while the guide couldn’t buy a strike. Eventually,
the guide just stopped fishing altogether and kept the net handy as the
angler caught trout after trout and redfish after redfish, releasing each one
to fight again.
“This has already been the best fishing day of my life,” the angler said
as the sun kissed the western horizon. “Just one more cast and I’m done.”
Once more, he tossed the old plug toward a grassy point. The lure sat
motionless in the water for a moment, silhouetted by the sun setting directly
behind it. The wrinkled hands of the ancient angler popped the lure once
and it disappeared into another frothy swirl.
Breathing and heaving heavily, the struggling angler fought the fish
harder than any other fish he hooked that day. Each time he pulled it close
to the boat, it ripped off more line from the screaming reel. Eventually, the
angler subdued it, pulling it close enough for the guide to net it.
“That’s a giant trout for these waters! It weighs 10 pounds, 1 ounce. I
think that’s a new camp record," the guide exclaimed.
Frayed from restraining so many fish that afternoon, the line broke. The
gnarled old lure fell from the fish’s mouth into the bottom of the boat at the
guide’s feet. After releasing the fish, the guide turned to shake the hand of
the old angler and congratulate him, but instead saw him crumpled in the
bow of the boat. He tried to revive him, but couldn’t so he called 911 with
his cell phone.
Soon, an air ambulance equipped with pontoons appeared and landed
in the bayou near the boat. The medics and the guide placed the angler in
the helicopter and it disappeared into the darkening sky for the flight to the
hospital. At the hospital, the angler’s family gathered to await the news.
Shortly before midnight, the doctor came into the waiting room to summon
the family.
“There’s nothing I can do,” the doctor explained. “He doesn’t have much
time left and wants to see everyone. Come this way, please.”
“We told you not to go fishing,” his oldest daughter scolded the angler
stretched prostrate on the emergency room examining table. “We knew
you weren’t strong enough for such a trip. We knew something would
happen if you went fishing.”
As the clock tolled midnight, the pale angler smiled, grasping the hand
of his youngest granddaughter. He turned to the family and said.
“Yes, something did happen today. I received the best Christmas
present of my life.”
“Lucky?” the man responded. “I’ve never been lucky in my life. Why start
now?”
“I’m sorry, but your condition is too far advanced now,” the doctor
explained. “We can’t do much for you except give you some drugs to
lessen the pain and make the last days of your life more comfortable. Any
strenuous activity now will only make your condition worse. You should go
home and rest.”
“Rest? Very soon, I’m going to be resting for a very long time,” he
snapped. “What difference does it make whether I go now, next week or six
months from now? If I’m only going to live a few days, I’m going to live those
days. I’m going fishing one last time if it kills me and I don’t care what you
or anyone else says about it.”
Ignoring the advice of his doctor and the objections of his family, the
angler called his favorite charter service. Booked solid, they had no
openings. However, they usually close for the holiday each Christmas Eve.
For such a good long-time customer, though, they made an exception and
scheduled a trip for Christmas Eve.
“I’ve been a speckled trout fisherman all my life,” he told his hosts as he
arrived at the camp the evening before his scheduled fishing trip. “I’ve
caught plenty of trout, but I’ve never caught a trout bigger than 10 pounds.
I’ve always wanted to catch one in double digits, but so far, my best fish
weighed slightly more than 7 pounds.”
“It’s not really the time of year for big fish, but we should have plenty of
action tomorrow,” the guide remarked. “I can’t promise anything, but I’ll see
what I can do for you.”
The next morning, the guide awakened the angler with a steaming cup
of coffee just the way he liked it. Across the vast marshes to the east, the
sun barely kissed the pink horizon. Above, sparkling stars still shining
brilliantly promised an excellent, if chilly, day for fishing.
“I haven’t eaten bacon in years,” the angler told the camp cook. “My
doctor said it’s not good for me, but I feel lucky today. Please make me a
big plate full of the greasiest, fattest bacon you can find with lots of salt and
hot sauce and a biscuit with a heap of butter on it.”
“You got it,” she replied handing him a heaping plate.
After breakfast, the angler climbed into the boat with some help from his
guide. Taping tubes to his nose so he could breathe, he placed a portable
oxygen bottle beside himself. Then, he asked the guide to hand him an
antique metal tackle box.
“You won’t need your tackle box today,” the guide advised. “I have
plenty of baits for us to use. We’ve been catching a lot of trout on soft
plastic jigs and I have all the tackle we’ll need.”
“This box is special,” the angler replied. “It was my father’s box and I
haven’t used it for many years. It’s full of memories. Each bait in the box
tells many stories, but my favorites are topwater plugs. I just love to watch
fish smash a lure on the surface. Even if I don’t open it, I’d like to bring it
with me. It won’t take up much room.”
“No problem,” the guide replied. “I’ll just put it there in front by you.”
For several hours, the angler and the guide canvassed the marshes to find
fish. With little success, they tossed nearly every type of lure the guide
could pull from his immense tackle collection.
So far, the only “catch” happened when the guide hooked the angler’s
oxygen hose with his lure while casting, nearly hurtling the frail man from
the boat. After reattaching the oxygen hose, they stopped to eat a little
lunch. Undeterred, the guide vowed he would find fish that afternoon or die
trying.
“We haven’t caught anything all day,” the angler said. “Do you mind if I
throw something from my old tackle box? I’d like to use my favorite topwater
bait.”
“Help yourself,” the guide replied. “We haven’t had a strike all day with
what I’ve recommended. It’s not really the time of year or place to throw a
topwater bait, but it can’t do any worse than what I've suggested.”
The angler pulled out an ancient, badly scarred wooden plug. Most of
the paint disappeared long ago, leaving only black flecks and bare wood.
Rust had already consumed one of the three treble hooks and nearly
closed the nose eye.
“I’ve never seen anything like that,” the guide frowned incredulously.
“That’s your favorite lure? What is it?”
“It’s a one of a kind bait,” the angler explained. “I call it, 'The Special.'
We used to have a tire swing hanging from an old oak tree in our yard
when I was a boy. A storm came one year and broke the branch off so we
lost the swing. My dad carved this lure with his pocketknife from a piece of
the old branch and gave it to me for Christmas that year. We didn’t have
much money for toys back then so it was all he could give me. I haven’t
used it in decades, but I’d like to try it today.”
The angler tied on the old wooden plug and tossed it toward the grassy
shoreline. It plopped and wobbled, making large concentric rings ripple
across the placid water before it disappeared into an explosion of foam and
frosty mist.
“Got him,” the angler shouted. “It’s a big speckled trout!”
“Looks like 8 pounds, 3 ounces,” the guide remarked after netting and
weighing the fish. “Congratulations. This beats your personal record.
Want to have it mounted?”
“No. It lived a long time in this marsh,” the angler replied. “It’s close to
the end of its life. Let it go to live out its last days swimming freely the way
God intended it to do.”
The angler threw the old bait toward the shoreline again. Cast after
cast, fish busted the bait while the guide couldn’t buy a strike. Eventually,
the guide just stopped fishing altogether and kept the net handy as the
angler caught trout after trout and redfish after redfish, releasing each one
to fight again.
“This has already been the best fishing day of my life,” the angler said
as the sun kissed the western horizon. “Just one more cast and I’m done.”
Once more, he tossed the old plug toward a grassy point. The lure sat
motionless in the water for a moment, silhouetted by the sun setting directly
behind it. The wrinkled hands of the ancient angler popped the lure once
and it disappeared into another frothy swirl.
Breathing and heaving heavily, the struggling angler fought the fish
harder than any other fish he hooked that day. Each time he pulled it close
to the boat, it ripped off more line from the screaming reel. Eventually, the
angler subdued it, pulling it close enough for the guide to net it.
“That’s a giant trout for these waters! It weighs 10 pounds, 1 ounce. I
think that’s a new camp record," the guide exclaimed.
Frayed from restraining so many fish that afternoon, the line broke. The
gnarled old lure fell from the fish’s mouth into the bottom of the boat at the
guide’s feet. After releasing the fish, the guide turned to shake the hand of
the old angler and congratulate him, but instead saw him crumpled in the
bow of the boat. He tried to revive him, but couldn’t so he called 911 with
his cell phone.
Soon, an air ambulance equipped with pontoons appeared and landed
in the bayou near the boat. The medics and the guide placed the angler in
the helicopter and it disappeared into the darkening sky for the flight to the
hospital. At the hospital, the angler’s family gathered to await the news.
Shortly before midnight, the doctor came into the waiting room to summon
the family.
“There’s nothing I can do,” the doctor explained. “He doesn’t have much
time left and wants to see everyone. Come this way, please.”
“We told you not to go fishing,” his oldest daughter scolded the angler
stretched prostrate on the emergency room examining table. “We knew
you weren’t strong enough for such a trip. We knew something would
happen if you went fishing.”
As the clock tolled midnight, the pale angler smiled, grasping the hand
of his youngest granddaughter. He turned to the family and said.
“Yes, something did happen today. I received the best Christmas
present of my life.”
An angler makes a couple
more casts before the sun
sets into the marshes.
more casts before the sun
sets into the marshes.
