Montana Woods N Water July 2016 Print Edition | Page 21

TONY REBO UNLEASHED CONTINUED
15 years ago on a hot fall evening my son had asked to go camping with several friends down by the river. I gave my permission and soon
the boys had packs loaded up and were getting ready to head out. None of the boys were old enough to drive so they were all riding bicycles. Now one of the boys was right next door and all the other boys including my son went over to help him pack. I thought I would take
a moment and double check their packs to make sure they hadn’t forgotten anything. I opened my son’s pack and it was full of beer. Oh
my word I was ready to hit the roof. I quickly evaluated the other packs and found the same. Hmmm a plan was needed and soon. I so
wanted to teach the boys a lesson, so I emptied the packs and filled them all with big rocks. When the boys returned I hung out right next
to the packs so as they would be too chicken to take a chance and open a pack in front of me, and my plan worked to perfection.
The boys loaded up the packs onto their back and away they rode on their bikes. I figured I would let them have their fun that night sucking on a rock, all the while I could think about the punishment. Well those boys got down to the river expecting to find a stash of beer
that each boy had been stealing over the course of the summer from their fathers. I can only image the look on their face when they
opened that first pack and found the rocks. Each pack was opened in haste only to find more rocks, and then it settled in that someone
had taken their illegal contraband. Oh and that someone was JR’s dad. I know that the boys were each writing a will or at least a runaway
letter to their parents.
Ok now skip ahead 15 years, back to the site of three boys who were laughing and slapping each other on the back howling at the site of
my face as I peered into the backpack that I had just carried for 3 miles. I reached in only to pull out rock after rock after rock…………….
Fishing Continued from page 4, A Cane Pole, A Tiling Spade and A Bobber
Upon my return, breathing heavily with shovel in hand my Dad in a very agitated tone would say, “Boy one of these days I’m going to
have a field full of shovel trees, the way you leave them lying around.” The insinuation was that we (I) left the shovels along with all the
other tools just laying all over the place and they would sprout roots and grow. Yeah...a little over exaggerated. I never found the first
tool tree in all the years on the farm but I did find some rusted tools...oops.
Leaving the shovel story behind it was off to the creek or pond. As I approached the pond or creek you could
smell the fish, you know that earthy musk scent. I could not get that line unwound fast enough and in the water.
With the shiny gold Aberdeen hook in hand, it was decision time...which worm, a big fat one or a skinny wiggly
one? Should I use the whole thing or just part of him. How deep should I set my bobber?
Okay the hook was baited and it was time to decide which spot was best from past fishing experiences. Hopefully I would not have to yield my favorite fishing spot to old Mr. No Shoulders (Cottonmouth Snake). With my right
hand I raised the tip of the cane pole to the heavens holding the baited hook between my fingers with my left
hand and in one fluid motion I pushed the pole away from me at the same time releasing the baited hook as it
swung out over the water to its intended destination. Gently and quietly lowering the hook and boober into the
water with barely a ripple...finally I was fishing.
It was now a waiting game...oh the constant nagging, maybe I should have put it over there, is it deep enough, I
hope I don’t get hung on something, is that a turtle stealing my bait and so on. Fishing with a cane pole required
a lot of “on the fly” decisions, constant attention and problem solving skills. Little did I know I would use those
skills later in the military.
Because of the short length of line, the action was almost immediate and you did not have to worry about setting
a drag like modern reels…the only drag you were worried about was where you were going to drag your fish upon
to the bank.
The thrill of watching the bobber so gently bounce in the water as the fish nibbled at the bait or dart across the
water as the fish swam sideways or quickly and suddenly disappeared into the deep dark water was one of the
finest sights I knew as a boy. What was on the other end was just a bonus. Even a bad day of fishing was still
better than digging post holes and stringing fence, painting the barn or the other mile long list of farm chores.
I think I will grab my tiling spade, dig some worms and go bobber fishing this weekend…”JR (my son) where is my
tiling spade? I see the apple did not fall far from the tree!

Gotta hook ’em to cook ’em!
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