Bonfires, Backpacks, & Brawls

Excerpt

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Chapter One

As the first rays of the sun kissed the serene waters of Happy Trails Campground, I found myself in a rather unusual classroom, an old, weathered aluminum boat that had seen better days, bobbing gently on the lake under the watchful eyes of the vintage campers lining the shore. 

My instructor? 

None other than Dottie Swaggert.

Dottie wasn’t only one of my best friends, she was also the manager of Happy Trails Campground.

She’d taken it upon herself to enter us into a bass fishing tournament and teach me the fine art of bass fishing. 

Why, you ask? 

Because the Daniel Boone National Park Bass Fishing Tournament was just around the corner, and we were determined not only to participate but to win. Well, she was anyways. 

Me, I was just hoping to be able to do something with her that she enjoyed since she was always doing things with me that I enjoyed. 

The campground was buzzing with excitement. Swan paddleboats glided gracefully across the lake, carrying guests in high spirits, while ducks meandered through the water, unperturbed by the human activity. 

On the sandy beach, campers lounged under the sun, some cheering on the kids to venture into the water, others simply enjoying the peaceful morning. Over by the tiki hut, Henry Bryant, our handyman, had outdone himself decorating with festive lights shaped like fish, setting the perfect backdrop for the upcoming tournament hosted by the local Boy Scouts. The atmosphere was electric, a delightful blend of competition and camaraderie.

“Dottie, I always thought bass fishing was a matter of skill and the right lure, not… this,” I said, grimacing as I held up a wriggling worm, its slimy body twisting between my fingers. It was a far cry from the sleek, artificial lures I’d seen in sporting goods stores. “Besides, we don’t have bass in this lake.”

“May-bell-ine,” Dottie chided, with a tone that somehow always managed to be both scolding and endearing. She pronounced my full name in a way that could coax a smile out of me, even when I was knee-deep in mud or, as it happened, elbow-deep in a bowl of worms. 

With her cigarette precariously dangling from her lips, she reached over, undeterred by the swinging hook, and demonstrated how to bait the hook with a confidence that left me in awe.

The moment the line hit the water, it was as if the lake itself was in on Dottie’s lesson, rewarding her with a bite almost immediately. 

“Weeeedogggie!” she exclaimed, reeling in a catfish that seemed too big and ugly to belong in our serene setting. As it flopped helplessly in the bottom of the boat, Dottie turned to me, expecting me to take the next step.

Removing the fish from the hook was a task I was not prepared for. The sight of the catfish, gasping and flailing, was enough to make me take a step back and think about this whole tournament. 

“You want me to what? Put my fingers where?” I couldn’t mask my horror. Fishing, it seemed, was not for the faint of heart.

Dottie stood up in the rickety aluminum boat, and the sudden shift in weight made it teeter dangerously. 

My heart leaped to my throat, visions of us tumbling into the lake flashing before my eyes as I steadied myself using a hand to grip each side of the boat. 

But not Dottie.

She was as cool as a cucumber.

Unfazed. 

She balanced herself with the ease of a seasoned sailor, her focus unbroken. She held the still-flopping catfish firmly in one hand, the other wielding the fishing rod like a maestro conducting an orchestra.

“Pay attention, May-bell-ine,” Dottie instructed, her voice steady over the gentle lapping of water against our boat. 

She jutted the stinky thing in front of my face. I leaned back.

“First things first, you gotta hold the fish right. Grip it just behind the gills—firm, but don’t squeeze too hard. You don’t wanna hurt it more than we already have.”

I watched, equal parts fascinated and horrified, as Dottie demonstrated. 

She cradled the catfish with a tenderness that contrasted with her rugged exterior, her fingers expertly positioned to avoid the spines. “Next up, dealing with the hook,” she continued. The fish’s mouth was slightly agape, revealing the hook lodged firmly inside. “You see here, the hook’s gotta come out the way it went in. No yanking or pulling. That’ll just hurt the fish and make a bigger mess.” With the cigarette still perched at the corner of her mouth, Dottie used her free hand to gently press down on the hook’s shank, the part attached to the line. 

This maneuver, she explained, was to disengage the barb from the fish’s flesh. “Then, you twist it lightly, just like this”—she demonstrated the motion—”and ease the hook out.”

The process was delicate, requiring a finesse that I hadn’t associated with fishing. Under Dottie’s skilled hands, the hook came free with minimal fuss. The catfish, though undoubtedly relieved, continued its frantic dance in Dottie’s grasp.

“Now for the release,” she said, moving toward the side of the boat, which prompted another heart-stopping wobble. “Always gently, back into the water. We’re sportsmen, May-bell-ine. We respect our opponents, even if they’re scaly and spend their lives in the muck.”

With a soft splash, the catfish was returned to its aquatic home, disappearing beneath the surface with a flick of its tail, leaving ripples as the only sign of its brief encounter with us.

Dottie turned to me, a look of expectation in her eyes. “Your turn next. And don’t worry,” she added with a wink. “I’ve got a feeling you’ll be a natural.”

“I don’t think this is for me,” I said, rethinking the whole idea of me begging her for us to do something together that she loved. 

“Hogwash,” she said, pointing directly at me with the fingers now holding the cigarette. “You asked me what I wanted to do this spring, and you said it should be something I loved. Harrison and I loved fishing, and there ain’t no better time for me to teach you something I love than participating in the bass tournament.”

There was no way she was going to let me off the hook like she did the catfish. 

“Besides, Harrison was a Boy Scout, and he was a leader until he died.” Dottie had never really opened up about her life with him. 

I’d learned more about him, as well as Dottie, from Nicki Swaggert, Dottie’s stepdaughter. 

“I know you really love this, but what if I cheer you on from the sideline?” I wasn’t sure how I was going to get out of this situation. “I don’t feel like I’m going to get enough practice before tomorrow.”

I didn’t say it directly, but that was a little dig because I’d been asking her to help me, but she didn’t have time to teach me until today, and the tournament was starting tomorrow. 

“Look at Henry.” I pointed out the handyman who had somewhat of a hankering for Dottie. Yes. As in an eye for her. 

Henry was busy adjusting the fish-shaped lights around the tiki hut, his focus occasionally drifting our way. It was no secret around Normal, our small town nestled in a holler of the Daniel Boone National Forest, that Henry had a soft spot for Dottie. His attempts to catch her attention, usually with a mix of handyman prowess and awkward charm, were as endearing as they were transparent.

At one point, they’d been competing in dance competitions, and though Dottie never told me what happened, they stopped. I’m sure it was to do with her getting too close to him. Dottie was so tough on the exterior, but on the inside she was like a big ole bowl of homemade ’nanner puddin’. 

“Giving up before we even start ain’t the Mae West I know,” she countered, her voice laced with conviction. 

“Harrison believed in trying new things, in pushing out of comfort zones. That’s what scouting taught him, and that’s what he would’ve wanted for us,” Dottie continued, her words carrying the weight of unspoken stories and shared years with her husband. 

The campground, bustling with activity and the spirit of adventure, seemed to echo her sentiments.

The scene around us was vibrant with the life of the campground. Campers of all ages were gearing up for the tournament, their enthusiasm infectious. Children practiced casting lines under the watchful eyes of adults, laughter and chatter filling the air. The scent of barbecue drifted from one of the nearby sites, a reminder of the communal dinner planned for the evening.

“Imagine the stories we’ll tell tonight around the campfire,” Dottie said, gesturing toward the firepit where campers would later gather, sharing tales and roasting marshmallows under a blanket of stars. “About how Mae West conquered her first catch, with the whole campground cheering her on.”

Her words painted a picture, one where the challenge of the tournament faded into the background, replaced by the warmth of community and the joy of shared experiences. It was a vision hard to resist, one that spoke to the heart of what made Happy Trails special.

“All right, Dottie,” I sighed. “Fine. I’ll keep trying.”

With a deep breath, I steeled myself for the task at hand, reaching back into the Styrofoam bowl that housed our squirming bait. 

My fingers closed around another worm, its body cool and slippery. In my determination to prove myself, my grip was too loose, and the worm made a daring escape, dropping onto the boat’s floor with a soft thud.

“Shoot!” I exclaimed, momentarily forgetting the precarious balance required in our small aluminum vessel. I stood up quickly, intent on rescuing the wayward worm before it could wiggle its way into some unreachable nook.

The boat, however, had other plans. 

My sudden movement to the right sent it tilting dangerously, a silent warning I failed to heed in my worm-rescue mission. The realization hit me a fraction of a second too late. 

My eyes widened in shock, and a string of sputtering words escaped me as the world seemed to tilt on its axis.

“Dottie!” was all I managed before the boat gave a final, traitorous lurch, sending us both tumbling into the cool embrace of the lake. The water closed over my head, a shock of cold that drove the breath from my lungs. I surfaced sputtering and coughing, the taste of freshwater mingling with a bizarre sense of exhilaration.

Above the sound of my own splashing, I could hear Dottie’s laughter, a rich, infectious sound that seemed to bubble up from the very depths of the lake. I blinked the water from my eyes, just in time to see her grinning at me, her hair plastered to her head, making her look both ridiculous and endearing.

“Well, Mae, that’s one way to get acquainted with the fish,” she joked, still chuckling as she treaded water beside me. Around us, the boat floated serenely, as if mocking our unplanned dive.

Just as I managed to catch my breath from the laughter and the shock of the cold water, a small splash announced the arrival of Fifi, my little white poodle.

With a grace that only a dog of her stature as a retired pedigreed show dog could manage, she paddled through the water toward us, her determination as clear as the water around her. 

It was a sight that only added to the hilarity of our situation, her tiny legs moving in a perfect doggy paddle as she made her way to her floundering humans.

On the beach, Chester, Hank and my loyal hunting dog, was making his own contribution to the commotion. 

Unable to contain his worry and excitement, he paced back and forth along the water’s edge, howling mournfully. It was as if he was chastising us for our reckless plunge or perhaps lamenting his inability to join the rescue efforts due to an understandable hesitation about the water.

Dottie and I exchanged amused glances, our bond strengthened by the shared ordeal and now by the antics of my dogs. 

“Looks like the cavalry has arrived,” I quipped, nodding toward Fifi, who was now circling us with an eagerness that belied her small size before she caught sight of the ducks close by and started her swim toward them.

“And Chester’s leading the charge from the shore,” Dottie added, laughter still lacing her voice. She reached out to scoop Fifi from the water, holding her up so that the little poodle could shake off, sending droplets flying in all directions.

The sound of a small boat engine cut through the laughter and chatter from the shore. We turned to see Henry maneuvering a small motorboat toward us with a determined look on his face. It was as if he had sensed our predicament from afar, or perhaps Chester’s howling had been more effective than any distress signal.

“Looks like our knight in shining armor has traded his horse for horsepower,” I remarked, unable to resist the pun. 

The sight of Henry, always ready to leap into action, brought a sense of relief mingled with amusement. There he was with his unwavering readiness to assist, whether it was fixing a broken step, stringing up fish-shaped lights, or now, rescuing two wayward fisherwomen from their unintended swim.

As Henry’s boat drew near, the engine’s hum grew louder.

“Need a lift?” Henry called out, a grin spreading across his face as he cut the engine, allowing the boat to drift the final few feet toward us. His eyes twinkled with a mix of concern and mirth, clearly amused by the sight before him but ready to lend a hand.

“You owe me some cigarettes.” Dottie held up her waterlogged pleather cigarette case once we were settled in Henry’s boat, the warmth of the sun drying our damp clothes. Dottie leaned toward Henry with a conspiratorial gleam in her eye. “You know, Henry, I reckon Mae just ain’t cut out for this fishin’ business,” she said, her voice rich with the melodious twang of the South. “She’s more suited to dry land adventures, if you catch my drift.”

She paused for a moment, allowing a playful smile to dance across her lips before continuing. “So, how ’bout it? Would you like to take her place in the tournament? Lord knows, we might stand a chance of catchin’ more than a cold with you on the team.”

Henry, ever the gentleman, chuckled at Dottie’s suggestion, the idea clearly appealing to him. His eyes met mine in the rearview mirror of the boat, a silent question hanging in the air. 

“You can have the day off if you get me off the hook, literally,” I said with a smile. 

It was a proposition that made sense. Henry, with his keen eye and steady hand, was undoubtedly more adept at the nuances of fishing than I could ever hope to be on such short notice.

“I suppose” was Henry’s answer.

As the boat glided back to shore, the laughter and lighthearted banter between us underscored the unbreakable bonds that tied the three of us together. And the little hint of romance between Dottie and Henry that I thought had been lost… It was more alive than ever.

end of excerpt