Writing Prompt #466 “The fog rolled in, this was our first warning sign.”

It wasn’t a dark and stormy night. It was a beautiful, clear day. And lemme tell you, the trout were bitin’. I adjusted my G.R.I.T.S. (Girls Raised In The South) cap and pushed up my polarized prescription sunglasses. I twitched my rod.

“Woooo!” Came my uncle’s war cry from the back of the boat. “I wouldn’t be you for apple butter!”

This was a common enough phrase heard every Thursday when the weather was fair, TVA was runnin’ “big water”, and a bearded man and his redheaded niece could be found in the middle of the Clinch River in an aluminum boat. I kept my mouth shut and twitched my rod again. We slowly propelled across the river. Back and forth, back and forth. Only pausing to unhook. Which, to be honest, was happening a lot more from the stern than the bow. But as a wise person once said, “a bad day fishin’ is still better ‘an a good day at work.”

The Clinch River is something to behold. It’s wide and green and swift and cold. It’s perfect for the sleek rainbow trout. It’s also home to the “elusive” yellow perch (named by me, sarcastically, after that was all I caught one afternoon and I had to make them sound more exotic and sought after), salamanders, white tailed deer, eagles, and the healthiest crop of moss outside the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. I had caught record setting pounds of it. Bushel baskets wouldn’t hold it. And somebody wouldn’t hush every time I hooked a fish.

“Ahhh, prolly s’more a-that ol’ green stuff. You catch a fish, now, it’ll ‘bout take your arm with it, since you’re used to the vegetation, Kid Stuff.”

Yes, I carried all manner of nicknames, including, but not limited to: Pilgrim, Ralph, Kid Stuff, Freckles, Suzy-Q, Floss, Crumb Cruncher, RugRat, and ARE YOU DEAF I SAID GET THE GATE.

Ahem. As I was saying.

The Clinch was cold and deep. So cold I rarely bothered with a cooler, even in July. I’d lay my sammich and can of Mountain Dew in the hull and most days frost would form there. Early in the morning and late in the day the fog was so thick you couldn’t slice it with a yeller Case knife. And it would penetrate you to your bones. So I layered up. You wouldn’t want to go on the river during times of fog unless you were with someone who knew it well, who had fished it for decades. And even then, it was still dangerous.

I twitched my line and thought about swappin’ plugs.

“Don’t quit on it, yet, Pilgrim,” he said, reading my mind.

“Lemme borry that ol‘ ugly crawdad,” I said off handedly, like I could catch him off guard. Ha. Fat chance.

“Throw off on my prized crawdad all these years and now you wanna borry it? I don’t think so!” He grinned his gap-toothed grin. “You’d get it hung in moss and then what would we do? I gotta have a little help, I can only fish with two poles on account I’ve only got two hands!”

And on it went. I reapplied sunscreen. I sang Brad Paisley’s “I’m Gonna Miss Her” but changed the words to “him” to make it work for me. I caught one fish to his three. I ate peanut butter and crackers, prepared by Aunt Bren, who makes the best peanut butter and crackers there is.

And then the wind changed. Uncle Dale was instantly on alert. You gotta remember, this was before smart phones. We didn’t have the weather at our fingertips. We thought we were in high cotton when we caught a signal on the river. And nothin’ would get you chewed faster than talkin’ on the phone when you’re tryin’ to fish.

“Pilgrim, we better head in. That rain wasn’t s’post to get here till three, but somebody didn’t tell the river.”

This was not a discussion, this was an order to reel in, stat.

The fog rolled in, instant-like. My stomach dropped. It was ok, we knew where shore was, but dang it was spooky. Middle of the day like that and all I could make out at the back of the boat was the blaze orange on the inside of his jacket. He was less than six feet away.

“Do your best to watch, and hold this light,” he told me, turning us. “I’m gonna go to the opposite side, then troll straight with the bank.”

I nodded and held the light. We were underway.

It seemed to take forever to reach the other side. I kept watching the water direction to make sure we were going the right way. just like I knew anything, compared to this man who had fished this river since he was twelve years old.

“SNAKE!!!” I hollered, as one fell off a tree right in front of me, missing the boat by millimeters. I jumped one square mile into the air.

“Is it in the boat?!?”

“Hell no! You think I still would be if it was?!”

“Then why’d you scream?”

“‘Cause it was a snake!!”

I heard him sniggering, but I didn’t think it was the least bit funny.

After fifteen minutes that passed like a kidney stone in a third world hospital, we finally arrived at the canoe ramp. It was like a scene from a Friday the Thirteenth movie.

“This is freaky,” I said for the fiftieth time.

“So you’ve mentioned. Tie us off.” He threw me the rope, which landed in the water. I lunged for it, nearly tipping us over.

Rapid fire cussing from the back.

“Sorry! Sorry! I got it.”

I sat still and held us as steady as I could while he climbed out and got his land legs back under him, then he started up the hill to the Ford.

I shivered, looking around.

Fog is weird. It’s like heavy snow that’s hung up, mid-fall. I couldn’t see squat. I heard a fish jump and flop a few feet away. Then I heard footsteps. Or was it a deer? Deer were thick here, and so were ticks. But I wouldn’t hear a tick coming.

A man in a yellow and black flannel shirt appeared in front of me. I started, then smiled. He smiled back, exposing teeth that matched his shirt.

I shuddered and quit smiling.

“Any luck?” He asked.

“Some. My uncle caught six. I only got two.” I shrugged, like such is life.

“What are y’all catchin’ ‘em on?”

“Rapalas, shallow runners.”

He nodded thoughtfully. Hurry up, I willed my uncle. The fog was thick enough to muffle the sound of the diesel, but here it come, I could see the lights, thank ya Jesus.

“Y’all be careful gittin’ back to Sevier County,” Snaggletooth Sam said, and turned back into the fog from which he came.

“Yew see ‘at guy?” I asked my uncle as he took the nylon rope out of my hands.

He looked around, fog still walling us in. “What guy?”

“Guy in the yellow shirt.” I shivered. “Creepy.”

“You’re just weirded out on account of the fog. Here, flip them seats down. Git that paddle and push it out some.”

I obeyed the stream of commands willingly, constantly looking over my shoulders and his. I pulled the plug and watched the water drain, splashing and returning to the mighty river. I retrieved our life jackets and put them behind the seat in the cab and made sure everything else was secure. I was very relieved to climb into the passenger seat and lock my door.

“Lockin’ the boogeyman out, Pilgrim?”

“You didn’t see him. He was seedy.”

“Ehh, just some ol’ bachelor, down here sneakin’ him a pint.”

I looked out the window, expecting him to pop his head up. “He could have slit my throat while you lollygagged gittin’ the truck.”

“Well, I had to take a leak.”

“That’s great. That’s how it goes on Dateline. You turn your head for one second, and the girl who lights up rooms and is the life of any party, the one everyone adores and was successful in anything she put her hand on- body snatched! Never heard from again!”

“Ahhh, you’re safe, then.” And side-eyed me.

“I’d hit you if my arm wouldn’t so tarred from reelin’ all them fish in. They ‘bout fought me to death.”

“Which one? You only caught two!”

“They made four of every one of yours, though!” I countered, a bald faced lie if there ever was one.

“Good thing that hoodlum didn’t carry you off, I’d have to tell that. Then it’d be, it’s all over now, ‘cept the sad singin’, the slow walkin’, and the deep diggin’.”

And he rolled out of first gear and caught second, grinnin’ like a mule eatin’ saw briars.

Yeah, a bad day fishin’ beats a good day doin’ pert near anything else.

Postscript: this was the eeriest thing. Not just the prompt, but I had literally been discussing potential and past fog events on the phone with my friend moments before. We talked about wrecks, and how to avoid them in foggy weather, and places around with known fog (looking at you, Portland, Tennessee). Then I asked for a number, and this is what I got. Tell me that won’t make the hair stand up on your arms. I started to write it as a car wreck, since that had been the focus of our conversation, but that felt like tempting fate. Then I thought about a hiking story, but I didn’t want to scare myself. Then, of course, my beloved Clinch River. Parts of this story are true, but ol’ Snaggletooth Sammy was pure figment of my imagination.

I hope you enjoyed. I enjoyed reliving those Thursdays.

Love from Appalachia,

~Amy