Oregon posted bounty on a fish lovingly called the Northern Pike Minnow aka Sqawfish. You see, Northern Pike Minnows have this bad habit of eating salmon smolt. If you catch enough Northern Pike Minnows, you can earn five dollars a fish. I figured it up sans calculator. All to soon I had visions of a bulging bilge of green-backed Northern Pike and a bulging bank account with green backs of another sort. I untied Lulu from the dock and set out to make my fishy fortune.
Northern Pike Minnows haunt the shallows where small salmon congregate. I own a sailboat with one of those things that sticks down about five feet. We call em keels. They keep one upright in the wind and downright stuck in the sand. The keel meant that I had to anchor out in the rapids as opposed to the safety of the shoreline. Lulu, my sailboat, settled up-stream of a wing dam. I suppose that I have to describe a wing dam for the non-native species among us. Interestingly enough, wing dams have nothing to do with wings or damming the water. Rather they redirect water and more importantly sand flow They help to keep river channels open for commercial traffic—read barges. Wing dams look like a tepee without the skin.
Lulu hated anchoring, and so does her skipper now. She started lunging and lurching at her water-bound tether. I felt before I knew that something had gone awry. Somehow the anchor line had wrapped itself around that keel. Lulu started spinning and slipping quickly toward the wing dam. Wing dams from the road appear rather small in contrast to the mile-wide Columbia. Let me assure you. Up close they have enough bulk to sink a sailboat with one wing tied behind their evil backs.
As Lulu slithered toward the wing dam, I started my motor to keep me requisite eight or so inches away from death. Running forward with a knife in hand (don't try this at home) I cut my anchor and escaped. Anglers watched wide eyed as I nonchalantly eased away from the wings of death. This day I felt glad to have covered my entire body with a water-proof rain suit. It failed to keep me dry on the inside if you get my drift.
All real sailors have a secret suicidal side. It really took little time to talk my friend Dave into an anchor recovery mission. With a grappling hook and fifty feet of line, we transversed the very burial grounds of my anchor. In short order we lost both the hook and the line. Dave has a firmer grasp on reality than myself. “Wait, till Summer. When the water level goes down, I bet you can stand over there and retrieve your anchor. This comes from a guy who fished his cell phone out of eighteen feet of water after having left it there for two days. It still worked. ” I figured with his record that I should listen.
Summer came. I took a pitchfork and carefully probed the river for my anchor. My boating adventure next to the wing dams had garnered some stares. However, if you really want to draw attention to yourself some time, try walking in the river with a pitchfork in your hand. “What's that?” The pitchfork caught on something. I pulled up his grappling hook, his line, my anchor, and my line. I pulled them ashore with a smile as if I always fished for anchors with a pitchfork nice summer days.
I never really understood the whole trident (pitchfork) thing with Poseidon. It makes sense now. For all you Greek mythology scholars it has nothing to do with dishing out godly disciplines on mere mortals. The poor guy just lost his anchor.
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