Ol'Fishhook

Dick and Billy had rattled their old pickup over west of the big mountains to a bull sale last spring, and were pointed back towards home.

"Dang it, but it's nice out," Billy burped, his bleary eyes taking in the beautiful pine covered slopes. "Whadaya say we lay over a day 'er two and do a little fishin'." Dick was all for it, but they didn't have anything along for a fishin' trip. They'd just figured on running over to the bull sale and right back home.

"Ahh, what the heck, we just put the cows in a fresh field, an' I s'pose the rest of the stuff 'll prob'ly wait." The boys finally came to the conclusion that if they'd just stop by one of those dude ranch kind of places, that maybe they could get a little fishin' gear and some advice on the where the best spot might be to throw a line in the water.

"Welcome to the Triangle X" was the sign out by the highway, "Guided and Unguided Fishing Trips, Horses, Canoes and Hiking."

"Why not?" Dick asked himself as he pulled into the lane that led to some fancy looking log buildings down by a roaring little stream, "Looks like we oughta find out somethin' here."

They were met by a fancy-pants lookin' guy with a rhinestone shirt and his pants stuck in his boots. He said his name was Tumbleweed Tex, "…but most folks in these parts just call me Tex." He assured the boys that they were in the right place all right, and he could fix 'em right up.

After Tex gave his little sales pitch on the many varied and exciting activities available, the decision was made to rent a couple of horses and some fishin' gear and head up the creek into the National Forest that was butted right up against the Triangle X.

"The fishin' is good right here," Tex assured them, "but if you go four or five miles up the creek it's even better. That's what I'd do if I was you."

The fancy-pants wrangler motioned over to a couple of sorry lookin' cayuses tied to the pole fence. "You can just take Champion and King. Don't worry, they're nice and gentle, and there are a couple of poles and some fishing tackle right in the first door there in the barn. Good Luck!" he yelled over his shoulder as he put on his best bowlegged cowboy impression and strode over to another car that had recently driven in.

"Gentle ain't the word fer these sorry &%$#," Billy complained as they coaxed and prodded the two old plugs up the trail. "This sucker acts like he's been dead fer quite a while already, and the rigger-mortis has set in."

"Didn't think t' bring any spurs," Dick moaned in agreement. "Didn't figure a fella'd need spurs at a bull sale, but I shore wish I had some now. I think ol Tumbleweed was right, though. Don't believe there's much buck in 'em."

The two ol' boys finally kicked and prodded and whipped the two old nags up the trail until they got to the spot that had been described to them, and lo and behold, but ol' Tex sure hadn't steered 'em wrong. They caught a nice Rainbow trout with almost every cast. It was the best fishin' they'd ever been in. In fact, they got to where they were just saving the big ones and throwing the little ones back. Both of 'em had their limit in nothin' flat.

The sun was starting to burn red in the western sky, and even with as much fun as they were havin', it was time to head back down the creek. They gathered their gear, tied the fish on, and started back down the narrow trail towards the dude ranch.

"Me 'n ol' Sparkplug ... I mean Champion, will take the lead," Billy grinned sloppily as he opened another can of his favorite brand of liquid refreshment. "You an' ol King can try to keep up if ya can."

Neither one of those plugs amounted to anything, but the one Billy was ridin' was by far the worst. He was so dude proof that he did what he wanted when he wanted, and there wasn't a whole lot a fella could do about it. His tail was stickin' about half way out all the time and about ever third or fourth step he'd stop right in the middle of the trail and simultaneously reach down for a mouth full of grass and break wind.

A nag like that would be a frustrating thing for a decent hand to try and ride, but both of the boys were feeling the effects of the hot sun, the lazy afternoon, and the two six packs of dinner they'd consumed, so they were just lazin' along. Billy's eyes were almost as shut as ol Champion's, and he'd completely given up on getting him to do anything. He just let the sorry old horse plod along and graze and break wind as he pleased.

About half way home, there was a sudden turn of events. Dick is bringing up the rear on the trail with his reins and the fishin' pole in one hand, and a beer can in the other one, when suddenly ol' Champion takes a notion to stop, graze, and break wind as was his custom. Neither Dick nor ol' King noticed, and they ran right smack into the back of the outfit in front of them.

Dick's fishin' pole was sticking out in the front, and it slid in perfectly under that half raised tail, with the hook implanting itself firmly in a very tender portion of Champion's anatomy. That old plug took off like he was shot out of a rocket, with the reel on Dick's pole making a little whirring sound as it vainly attempted to supply the sudden demand for more line.

Champion and Billy were now both very awake and in a dead run down the trail, but the real action took place when they hit the end of the fishin' line, and the hook did what hooks are supposed to do. The line broke, and that old nag came uncorked.

Billy's a pretty good skinner, but he didn't quite get ol' Champion covered.

"That must be why they call 'im Champion," Dick mused as he rode up, eyein' his pardner sprawled out on his back, moanin' in the middle of the trail. "Dang shore got the best o' you. I think that durn Tex lied to us. I'd a swore he said that horse was broke."

For some reason, from Billy's crumpled position on the ground with a fresh horseshoe print on his chest, the humor in the situation was a little more difficult to see.

It took them a couple of hours to catch the horse, and another one to tie him down to get the hook out, but all was not in vain. Here's what Tumbleweed Tex wrote in a card he sent the boys last fall:

"Thanks for fixin' Champion. When he gets to stallin' on the trail now, all we have to do is pull a little line out of a fishin' reel. That little whirrin' sound is all it takes to perk him right up. Oh … one more thing ... we never tell the guests why, but we changed his name to Ol' Fishhook."

Keep Smilin'…. and don't forget to check yer cinch.

Ken Overcast is a recording cowboy singer that ranches on Lodge Creek in North Central Montana where he raises and dispenses B.S. http://www.kenovercast.com