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Browsing Tag: #Clinchriver
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…
If my Uncle Dale were still alive, I would be out there swapping lies with him right now. He’s not, so it’s on me to tell this one. And as much as I wish it was a lie, it ain’t. From 2002-2009, when the weather permitted, and TVA was running “big water” (two turbines) at Norris, we’d go fishin’ for rainbow trout on my day off. We’d set off early, before school traffic, and be humming down interstate 75 as the fog lifted off the limestone mountains. I’d be nodding, hopeful that the fishing yield would be worth sacrificing one of my only days to sleep in. Fords get one thing right- they’ve got a heater that blows hotter than the hubs of hell. Combine that with Newstalk radio, the hum of the throaty diesel, the smell of coffee, and you’ve got a recipe to lull Amy right on to Dreamland. We’d put in at the canoe ramp right below the dam, and walk the trailer through the bollards. I’d load our life vests and pop the seats up, readying for embarkment. Uncle Dale would climb in, get the trolling motor cranked, and let it warm up while he tied on his first plug of the day. I’d stand there holding the rope, yawning and shivering in the mist the Clinch is always shrouded…
He called me Pilgrim. We shared a love of peach milkshakes, pickles, peanut M&M’s, home grown tomatoes, blueberry anything, and we’d fight over Shirley Pitner’s stack cake. He taught me how to throw a frisbee, cast a line, shoot a variety of weapons, train a dog, clean my glasses, and identify trees in any season. Oh, and the best advice he ever gave me that I evoke multiple times a day (and it shows): “Eat all you can, every time you can, ’cause there ain’t no tellin’ what might happen before you can eat again.” We listened to Rush Limbaugh and Patsy Cline when I rode in his truck. We watched Star Trek and The Twilight Zone when I stayed with them when I was young. He bought me a microscope, and my first sleeping bag, but not the My Little Pony kite from McDonalds. And we have never let him forget it. My first (and last!) deer hunting trip was under his watchful eyes and sharp tongue. I couldn’t do anything right, but he’d sometimes concede that I was doing alright for a wimpy little girl. This was said in jest, and primarily to get me riled so I could do whatever it was I thought I couldn’t.He thought I should wear heels to work every day and that I should stay redheaded.He mowed my yard and…
