“I know what I’m doing, big brother.”
“I’m just a bit cautious after having to hide from that truck last night. We will be home soon. I’ll just drive slow and be prepared to hide.”
The miles melted away, and by five o’clock, they were only twelve miles from downtown Ashland. “Granny B, I don’t want to drive into Ashland during daylight hours without taking a look-see around the town.”
“I agree. Let’s get off Highway 5 and onto 273 up ahead. Then we can drive closer and camp at Emigrant Lake if it’s abandoned as I expect.”
Tom remembered boating and camping at the lake from time to time. “That’s an excellent idea. We’ll be close to Ashland and the ranch. Highway 273 is a twisty windy road, and navigating it in the dark could be difficult.”
“Then let’s get started.” Granny B smiled and patted Tom on the back.
The road was fun to drive in a sports car but was treacherous in the dark. The twists and turns kept Tom’s nerves on end and bumping a few bushes and trees didn’t help the matter. They crawled along for over a quarter of the eleven or so miles. Jackie gasped when they approached the overpass. “The road dead-ends!”
“No! It loops around and down the next hill, and then we go under the road and back on our way to Ashland,” said Tom.
“How in the dickens will we know when we get to Emigrant Lake?” Jackie wondered aloud.
Granny laughed. “Don’t you remember the time we came down Highway 66 and the front tire blew out on your grandpa’s old Chevy? That was right in front of where this road ends. We’ll only be a short distance to the lake when 273 ends at 66. Then a few feet west is the start of Old Highway 99. It takes us on to the lake.”
Jackie nodded. “I remember now. That takes us to a deserted part of the lake.”
“Yep. Most of the local folks picnic and fish on up at the northwest end of the lake.”
They camped on the side of the lake about three miles from Ashland, as the crow flies. Tom took his fishing kit from his bugout bag and opened the six-inch by four inches by a one-inch plastic container. It was filled with Spyder Wire, a six-pound test monofilament line, several fishing lures, split shot weights, hooks of several different sizes, and four small floats. All Tom needed was a cane pole or a small sapling for a fishing pole.
Tom headed down to the lake with Sam in tow. She wanted to learn how to fish.
Tom cut some small saplings down and stripped the branches to make fishing poles. Then he tied the line to the end of the rod and tied a hook on the free end. He added a lead split shot about a foot up the line and then placed a small float about a foot above the split shot. He made a shiny piece of aluminum foil into a small fish-like shape and pierced the front of the fake fish for the hook. “Here, try your luck with this. If you don’t catch a fish in a few minutes, move it about five feet up the bank. I’m going to find some bait.”
Sam looked up from the fake fish bait. “What do I do if I catch a fish?”
Tom snickered. “Pull it in, take it off the hook, and clean it.”
Sam stood there with her hands on her hips. “You’re joking, right?”
“Yep, call for me.”
Tom left her fishing and started turning over rocks and logs. He picked up the grubs and worms and placed them in a small sandwich bag. He soon had half a bag full and no call for help from Sam. He walked up behind her, saw she was watching the bobber dip, and move around. It disappeared, and she just watched. He said, “Sam, raise your pole high in the air.”
She raised the pole, and it bent over because of the large bluegill she’d hooked.
“How long has the bobber been dancing around and going under?”
“What’s a bobber? Do you mean the floating thingy? It started bobbing and going under as soon as I dropped a line in.”
Tom shook his head in wonder. “The float thingy is called a bobber because it bobs up and down when you catch a fish.”
Tears came to her eyes. “You didn’t tell me that.”
Tom removed the hook and placed the fish on a stringer he’d made from a length of paracord. He tied one end to a stick he’d pushed into the soft dirt by the water’s edge. He turned to see Sam sitting on a log sulking.
“Sam, I assumed you knew something about fishing. I should have given better instructions.”
“I thought you were my friend. Friends don’t make fun of their friends.”
The statement surprised Tom. “Sam, I’d like to be your friend, but I’ve avoided that since we know you’re going on north.”
She began sobbing. “I know about as much about fishing and surviving as you do about women.”
Tom stuttered while he sat down beside her. “You could fill a book about what I don’t know about women.”
“Why do you hate me? You treat Brenda, okay.”
“I’m sorry if I came across like I didn’t like you at first. I
