December 2012

Da Saints had just stomped Da Falcons in Da Dome. Da Tigers were scheduled to stomp Bama at the championship the following week. And a perfectly-timed (for hunting) holiday cold-front was barreling through.

So spirits were soaring high at Da Camp as we converged the day after Christmas, with Da owners Eddie and Artie arriving elegantly late, as usual.

Exactly which one of Dem owned and ran the deer-club had never been precisely nailed down. Artie’s uncle more or less “founded” Da Lease back around the time “Bum” Phillips resigned as Saint’s coach in a huff.[…]

Speckled trout show a fairly dependable annual cycle. Most (remember that I said most) spend winters in low-salinity, interior waters — lakes, bayous and canals.[…]

It was a hypnotizingly peaceful afternoon. I shuffled along the banks of Little River, head down, searching intently for a pottery shard, an arrowhead — anything that the area’s first inhabitants might have left behind.

The sun’s rays felt good on my back, but the air still had a cold nip to it from a front that had passed the day before.

The sound of dogs barking in the distance echoed through the bare trees. The occasional cawing of crows seemed especially sharp in the dry air.

Otherwise, there was silence.

I felt rather than heard something behind me on the riverbank. I turned but saw nothing. It happened again. The third time, I barely turned my head and peeked out of one corner of my eye. […]