I tried
I gave it every ounce of energy I had. Just when I finally put the 12 weight with a full 450 grain sinking line and a double-jointed articulated chicken with hooks down, just then our guide, Matt Reilly, set the hook on a 28-inch trophy. I can hear some of you mumbling: “But Cola, a musky should be 40 inches to be considered a trophy.” That is beside the point for this adventure. It may have been mine and my father’s last fishing trip together, and I wanted it to be perfect for him. A little over a month ago, my father’s neurologist revealed that he is afflicted with Alzheimers, and consequently this diagnosis explains his terrible shortterm memory loss. The musky trip with Matt Reilly was supposed to be something I did on the back end of a second opinion in Baltimore, and I had loosely configured a group of guys to join the adventure. From the moment I planned the trip my father wanted to go. In some ways he wanted to see this part of Virginia because he understood it to have genealogical significance to the history of our ancestors. The burden of Southern family history was still a very real force in what was left of his memory. Reilly came highly recommended by a fly shop owner that I respect, and as I had never tried for these lazytoothy-bastards, I only knew it was going to be physically taxing to cast that heavy rod for about 10 thousand casts. I knew it was 37 degrees and sleeting a bit. I knew my father was not the same physical fellow who had taught
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S.C.O.F MAGAZINE
S.C.O.F MAGAZINE
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