The tortoise and the blueberries


I don’t drive to fast, you can ask anyone and many times people give me the look, like, just pull over you old duffer, and get off the road before I run you over. More often than not, I do, I just mosey over to the road shoulder and they pass me. Today in the heat, the kid behind me came zooming up, tried to attach his front bumper to my rear end, he must think I’m old, slow  and blind, so I angled off to the shoulder. I wiped some sweat off my brow, took a sip of water and thought maybe today aint the day to trout fish.


So I sat there trying to talk myself out of fishing, waiting, and after the gravelly road dust settled, I scanned the ditches looking for lord knows what. Well what’s caught my eye thanks to some Mario Andretti driven teenager is blue. The ground is covered with blueberries. I parked.


The kid whose neck I could have rung real good a few heat induced mirage minutes ago; I would have bought him a beer now if he was old enough. To bad he was in such a hurry and it’s a good thing I aint.


I honestly didn’t know where to start. At first I just picked and ate. When my finger tips were blue and my belly telling me maybe that was enough, I meandered around my noggin for what I could use for containers.


Back at the truck I emptied jig boxes, fly boxes and even emptied one cigar box. I had two plastic zip lock bags from my lunch and I drank the rest of my super vitamin water just so I could fill it as well. The last thing I could find in my truck that would hold anything was my hat.


I filled them all, to the brim. The picking was sinfully easy. Oh there were plenty of deer flies, horse flies and I flipped two wood ticks back in the pucker brush but it didn’t make one smidgen of difference. For the first time in a long time I wished somebody, anybody, would stop, just so I had a witness. I saw one logging truck and he didn’t slow down a bit as I waved so I just kept picking.


The feeling of greed, with so many plump blueberries never came to the surface in my head, it was more like what a waste if a bunch of other folks don’t start picking in this patch.


I decided right then and there I had a good day trout fishing even if I never wet the line. I turned around the truck and headed for home, but maybe with a little quicker pace than when I was headed for the brookie creek. The trout whisperer

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