Jim must have
thought I'd said something else, because he started laughing.
I saw the
snowflakes first in the car headlights. It was late—about midnight—and we had
just passed the highest elevation on Route 91, somewhere north of St.
look—it's snowing," I said.
He looked at me,
and we talked for a while about Indian summers in New England. I told him we
had a good one last year. Jim put his feet up on the dashboard and rested his
chin on his knees.
"Think of it
this way," I said. "This is the earliest we ever got rid of the fly
rods. And don't forget about the weather. Wait'll you see tomorrow."
"Least we got
a house," Jim said.
for the taking," I told him. "Wonder what the limit is in Vermont?"
That's one of our jokes. Catching the limit. We figure we'll worry about that
the day we drive them crazy.
It was sleeting
when we drove up to our farmhouse. Not to worry. To prepare ourselves for the
next day's fishing, we staged one of our famous worm drills in the car
headlights. Usually we do it out on the road, between streams. As I'm driving
along we keep an eye out for a good pasture. When we see one with no bulls and
no farmhouse nearby, I stop the car, we jump out, grab the spade from the trunk
and dig in. That is, one guy digs. The other squats beside each clump, pulls
back the lid of roots and dirt and tears away with his fingers.
Every now and then
we look up and glance around, like deer at a water hole. Then on to the next
spadeful. It's almost as much fun as fishing, and we've never been skunked.
I guess you're a
bit lazier when you sleep between sheets. Next day Jim got up first, at about
nine, saw it was pouring, told me everything was on schedule and went back to
bed. That's another thing. We're not the kind of guys who have to hit the water