H. Neal Glanville: Adventures of fishing | CraigDailyPress.com

H. Neal Glanville: Adventures of fishing

H. Neal Glanville

Throughout the years, Roy and I have shared more adventures than most people dream of.

Throughout the 1970s and early 1980s, we hunted and fished across three states. We spent so much time at Flaming Gorge, our spouses suggested we move to Antelope Flats.

His wife “may” have been joking; mine already had packed my bags.

The reputation we earned fishing water that “normal” people would drive by is still carried proudly.

We fished through lightening storms, blizzards, even the occasional downpour. One morning, Roy laid his beautiful pearl white Jeep on its side trying to get us to a stretch of the Green River.

Did that end our trip, you ask? Nope, we righted the now one-sided pearl white beauty and continued our trip up the Green.

Were we fishing fanatics? Maybe, probably, OK fine, we were. Looking back, it wasn’t the fishin’ or the hunting that sent us out each time we left Craig.

Heck, we spent a goodly amount of time lost, just looking for a new secret place to fish or hunt. (We weren’t really lost, just temporally misplaced for a while.)

It never really mattered if we caught any fish or knocked down a big mule deer or elk – it was being out there that mattered.

For that bucket full of those who can’t understand that last part, I’m sorry. I just can’t figure out a way to explain it.

Maybe, just maybe, if you arose from your ever spreading buttocks, piled everybody in the car and set out in search of – it doesn’t matter what you’re looking for, just pack a picnic lunch and look for it, it’s out there.

Speaking of picnics and fishing, I’d like to introduce a new feature of my column.

The weekly fishing report: This week’s hotspot is perfect for picnics, a limit of fish for the kids and that grumpy old couch potato.

There are tables to eat off of, and if the little ones get bored there’s spring loaded horses to ride. (They don’t buck much, but you should be careful if you lean too far to one side or the other.)

The fishing, well I hate to give it away, but it’s two shades over good. Pretty much anything you can put on a hook, they’ll eat. For the tree huggers, there’s a pair of bald eagles, numerous geese and Sandhill Cranes. Oh yeah, the hotspot is Loudy-Simpson Park.

Please remember to pick up after yourself. Nobody else will.

Getting back to rabbits, my brothers and I thought it would be great fun to trap a bunch and make mittens for everyone.

Seemed like a good idea, so off we went setting traps everywhere we saw bunny tracks. Our collection of mitten material (how’s that for political correctness?) was ever growing.

Then it happened. One morning Kris spotted a “rabbit” going down one of the holes we had placed a catching device (again with the political correctness), so off we ran to get him.

Please keep in mind that there were three of us and one old rolling block .22 rifle. We had decided on taking turns, but somehow we always forgot whose turn it was.

Scott had run out of the house with the rifle, so by possession it was his turn. As Kris went pouting back to the house, I grabbed the chain and gave it a pull. It was not a bunny, but a very distant cousin – his lordship, sir skunk of stink. He sprayed both of us. Being highly intelligent youngsters, we thought no one would notice. Back to the house we marched.

We didn’t even make it to the mud room steps.

There stood Grandma. “Strip down, boys, and head for the tub,” she said.

It was the one and only time Grandma used a scrub brush and the most foul smelling soap on the two of us at the same time. I don’t ever remember seeing our clothes again.

That wondrous stench stayed on our boots for quite a while. The janitor at Butler Elementary swore the school had been invaded by a “family of the striped devils.”

I’m not sure what he did to rid the building of that family, but after a bit, they did “leave.”

Until next time :

Yup, there I was surrounded by my third lest favorite thing, when I said to myself “Self,” I said, ‘cuz that’s what I call myself when I’m talking to myself. “When it quits raining, you need to massacre all those freakin dandy lions.”

Thank you for your time.

Support Local Journalism

Support Local Journalism

Readers around Craig and Moffat County make the Craig Press’ work possible. Your financial contribution supports our efforts to deliver quality, locally relevant journalism.

Now more than ever, your support is critical to help us keep our community informed about the evolving coronavirus pandemic and the impact it is having locally. Every contribution, however large or small, will make a difference.

Each donation will be used exclusively for the development and creation of increased news coverage.

For tax deductible donations, click here.

Start a dialogue, stay on topic and be civil.
If you don't follow the rules, your comment may be deleted.

User Legend: iconModerator iconTrusted User