Skunked

The alarm blared at 0330, a harsh intrusion into the quiet of my bedroom. For a moment, I lay still, disoriented, my brain struggling to catch up with the noise. Then it clicked—fishing day. I dragged myself out of bed, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, and stumbled through the morning routine. I tossed my gear—rods, tackle, snacks—out front by the door and let the dog out to do his business in the pre-dawn chill.

Juice rolled up at 0415, his headlights cutting through the darkness. We loaded the car with practiced efficiency, the clatter of rods and the thud of bags a familiar soundtrack. As we pulled out, I groaned, “I need a coffee. NEED. This is unacceptable.” Juice, ever the problem-solver, didn’t miss a beat. “There’s a Dunks in Rutland that opens at 0430. We can hit that.” I nodded, already tasting the relief. At the drive-thru, I ordered my usual: black, iced, no nonsense. The first sip was a jolt of clarity.

By 0515, we pulled up to the gate at the reservoir. My stomach sank at the sight of three cars already idling in the pre-dawn gloom. “This may not be good,” I muttered, scanning the line. We needed to be in the first 20 to secure a decent boat, and it was impossible to tell how many were ahead of those cars. Juice, always the optimist, hopped out to scout. He returned with a grin. “We’re number five. Solo cars ahead. We’re golden.” I exhaled, tension easing. We were in a good spot.

At 0533, a guy with a clipboard strolled by, handing out boat rental forms. We waved him off—Juice had printed and filled ours out yesterday. We weren’t rookies; this wasn’t our first rodeo. We had our system down to a science, no time wasted. *The gates creaked open at 0549, and we rolled through, headed for the boat launch. By 0555, we were at the shack, checking in. The air was crisp, 52°, with a thin veil of fog rising off the water, curling like smoke in the early light. At 0600, we turned in our form and got assigned a boat. By 0609, we were loaded up, rods secured, gear stashed, ready to push off.

We motored out at 0634, the boat humming as we set the first rod in the water. We decided to troll to our first casting spot, letting the lures dance behind us. The reservoir was quiet, the fog muffling sound, and for a moment, it was just us and the water.

By 0748, frustration set in. The boat was a lemon, stalling every few minutes with a pathetic sputter. We’d trolled to our first stop and cast for a while, but all I got was a nibble from a fish so small it had no business eyeing my Texas-rigged plastic worm. “Dumb fish,” I muttered. “Eyes bigger than its stomach.” Juice chuckled, but I could tell he was feeling the grind too.

Then, at 0837, Juice’s rod bent hard. “Got one!” he shouted, reeling in with focus. Up came a stunning lake trout, its silver sides flashing in the morning light. “Wasn’t expecting that,” I said, as I lowered the net to get the assist. He’d thrown a chatterbait, aiming for bass, but the laker didn’t care. It was hungry. It was also a beauty, and I felt a twinge of envy.

We started trolling again at 0912, weaving through the reservoir’s glassy channels. By 1000, we pulled up to the land bridge, a spot that’d been kind to us before. The fog had burned off, and the sun warmed our backs as we cast. At 1124, we were ready to move on. I’d managed two perch—decent, but not the bass I was after. A couple of bass had followed my lure, teasing, but no strikes. Another nibble slipped away, leaving me cursing under my breath.

At 1158, the action was dead. The water was still, the fish apparently on strike. By 1231, I thought I had something—a tug, a run—but it tangled with Juice’s line, and we lost it. Moments later, he pulled up a smallmouth, smirking as he unhooked it. “You’re killing me,” I said, shaking my head.

At 1243, we called it. The boat’s constant stalling, the spotty bites—it was enough. We were done. By 1301, we were back at the dock, unloading the boat and packing the car. The reservoir shimmered behind us, indifferent to our struggles. I didn’t get the bass I’d hoped for, but as we drove away, I felt the weight of the day settle into something else—contentment. The open water, the quiet, the rhythm of casting with Juice by my side—it was enough. A bad day fishing, as always, beat a good day at work.