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On a good day we'd get about 2/3 of the way across the pasture before the cattle would spot us,
raise their tails straight in the air, start bellowing at the top of their lungs, and the entire
herd would run right towards us, with Killer lumbering along behind. We'd make a mad dash for
the trees which lined the river, leaping for the lower branches of the first tree we reached
that would support our weight, and climb as high as possible before those crazy cattle could
get us. Then the Black Angus would circle the tree, Killer snorting and pawing the ground,
daring us to come down. We'd stay up there, yelling insults at them, and if we'd been fortunate
enough to pick a Crabapple tree to climb, then we'd pelt them with half eaten apples, after
we'd taken a couple bites.
Thinking back now I'm pretty sure those crafty cows herded us towards Crabapple trees to climb
into. That way we'd throw them down apples to eat, and they'd watch us get violent stomach
cramps from eating the apples ourselves. I'm just going to have to think that one through for
awhile, doesn't seem right that a cow could be smarter than an 8 year old, but then again
thinking about my kids at that age…
Pretty soon Killer and the rest of the herd would wander off, pretending to have forgotten
about us sitting up there, and we'd be fooled into climbing down and trying to make it to the
closest fishing hole. About the time we'd sneak 20 feet or so, we'd hear Killer charging though
the brush heading back towards the tree we'd been in. Most of the time we'd be able to get away
by running to the river and jumping in, but sometimes it was back up a tree for another hour.
As I remember it now having an epic adventure on the way to the fishing hole, like being chased
by animals too dangerous to be sent to Mexico and used in the bullrings, sure did make the
fishing more fun when we finally got to do it.
One time my friend and I got chased up a tree, out waited the beasts, then climbed down and
were making our way towards the river, when we heard a tremendous snort from right behind us
and found out that Killer had snuck up on us. We raced down the trail, with him gaining on us
from behind, and when we got to where the trail met the river's edge there was a big log
spanning the river. My friend was in front and he ran straight out on the log, with me close
behind. Killer stopped on the bank, calling us all kinds of names in cow talk, but wouldn't
step a foot onto the log so we were safe. Just then my friend, leaning against a dead branch
on the log for support, let out a yell as the branch broke off and about a hundred huge black
wasps came out of the hole where the branch had been, looking like they'd been shot into the
sky with a cannon. In a second about 20 of those wasps turned in perfect vee formation, and
dived straight to my friends shirtless back, raising ugly red welts everywhere they stung him.
He leaped into the water on one side of the log, and I jumped, unstung, feet first into the
other side. I had no idea what he was going to do, but I hung onto my fishing rod and swam
under water, downstream, for as long as I could hold my breath. We both came to the surface
about 100 feet from the log, and looking back we could see the swarm of angry wasps still
buzzing around above the log, so it was back to swimming under water until we made it around
the bend in the river.
That was another adventure that surely heightened the memories of a good fishing day, and I do
mean good, because as soon as I was sure that the wasps weren't going to find us I stood up and
started fishing from where'd we'd stopped in the middle of the river, and soon was hooking into
some big Rainbows that were laying in the shade of the overhanging grass along the banks. The
only problem was I had to keep asking my friend to stop whining so loud about the 20 wasp stings
on his back, he was scaring the trout.
Another favorite fishing spot was The Big Hole, which was by far the best fishing around, but it
was also the most dangerous to get to. It was so stressful to go there and back, and we'd get so
worked up talking about risking our lives to catch a couple of fish, actually a lot of fish...
and the biggest fish around... and the hardest fighters... they leaped like Steelhead... that
we'd only put our lives on the line once or twice a week to fish it. The problem with getting
there and back was we had to go right past the Crazy Lady's house. Now, whenever we worked up the
courage to go to The Big Hole, it involved a lot of preparation. It was quite a ways away so
we'd always go there by bike, so first we'd make sure the bikes were in top running condition,
everything well oiled, the screws and bolts all tightened down, handle bars adjusted, fishing
gear strapped on tight, and for sure we'd remove the playing cards we'd connected to the frame
with wooden clothes pins so the cards would make noise when the tire spokes hit them. To go past
the Crazy Lady's house meant we'd be in stealth mode, or die.
We'd ride up the dirt road to a spot just before crossing in front of her property, stop, nod
to each other that we were ready to go, and then start peddling up the far side of the road
from the Crazy Lady's house as fast as we could. It was all out concentration, trying to focus
on chuckholes or rocks in the road that might throw us off our bikes, but still watching for
danger approaching from the house. Nearly every time, just as we'd get to the gate leading to
her yard, we'd hear her screaming "get 'em", "get out there and get 'em"! Around the corner of
the house, bounding across the weed patch of a yard, and clearing the dilapidated picket fence
in an effortless bound would charge her two huge Great Danes. We knew that the trick to survival
was to build up enough speed so that the bikes would reach the far edge of her property before
the dogs could grab you, pull you off the bike, leap back over the fence with you clamped in
their jaws, take you to the dog house and eat you and then, as the local legend had it, bury your
bones in the yard along with all of the other kids they'd nabbed over the years.
We knew two things for sure. If the dogs ever got you it was all over, and that for some reason
the dogs followed a rule that they could not chase us outside of the property boundaries. Every
time but once we made it without them catching us. That one time we made the usual heart-stopping
race across the front of the Crazy Lady's property, but this time as we got to where the gate
was located both dogs were already out in the road waiting for us. There was nothing to do but
keep riding as fast as we could, but as my friend was going past them one of the dogs leaped
for him, going right over the top of his head, missing him completely. He was so startled that
he slammed on his brakes, pitched right over the handlebars, and rolled up the road still
hanging onto his bike. When he stopped rolling, and went to climb back on his bike, he was
eye-ball to eye-ball with one of the Great Danes. I continued to ride as fast as I could while
looking back over my shoulder, seeing him for what I assumed was the last time.
He managed to get away and we made it to The Big Hole, but I never learned how he escaped. When
I went around the corner he had still been standing there, holding his bike between him and the
Great Danes, and later he refused to talk about it, in fact he didn't talk to me much at all for
a long time after that day, something about abandoning him to the enemy or some such junk. I do
remember the fishing that day being twice as good as any other at The Big Hole. That was probably
because I was forced to fish for the two of us nearly all day, because my friend was shaking too
bad to hold onto his fishing rod, and I had to cover for him. You wouldn't want to risk your
life, then not get in a whole day of fishing, right?
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Dennis Kreutz is alive and well, fishing every chance he gets, but always looking over his
shoulder in case an epic adventure is sneaking up behind him. For more information, and photos
of fish caught on fly, visit the extremeflyfishing.com web site or contact him at
dennis@extremeflyfishing.com
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