The Fishing Trip

When I was a kid, once Dad took me fishing. He packed up a bunch of fishing stuff, and we set out for the nearby lake. He parked the truck, and then we headed down the hill. The path was steep, so much so that I clung fearfully to Dad as we traversed the near-vertical trail.

 

Dad set up chairs, helped me to bait the line and send it out into the depths, and then we sat down with our fishing poles. In classic Dad form, he dozed off and on. I eagerly waited for a bite, staring intently at my pole.
At one point, the end of my pole bounced once and that was it. As near as I can figure, the fish must have neatly plucked the bait from the hook and been on its way. On another occasion, the pole suddenly began moving wildly.

"Dad! What do I do? Dad!" I said, unsure of how to respond. My father came over to try to help, but the fish was soon gone. He baited my hook again, but I didn't get any more bites after that. Of course, I still fared better than Dad, who didn't have any activity from his line.

We finally packed everything up and prepared to leave, which meant facing the dreaded trail again. My poor father was trying to carry all the equipment up the steep hill while a small child terrified of falling clutched him desperately. Dad finally said that if I kept clinging to him, he was liable to lose his balance. I grabbed some rocks jutting out of the ground as he tried to readjust himself and all the things he was carrying.

We returned to the truck, some eight thousand feet up the cliff (okay, I exaggerate a bit). Dad put the chairs and gear away, and we headed back home. We didn't catch anything, but overall, it was a fun excursion.

...Well, except the journey to and from. Seriously, who decided that was a good place for a trail?