Ron and Duke don’t seem to be the sorta fellas who are gonna let a good fishing trip plan roll over and kick its li’l feet in the air and expire.
Of course, they DO seem to be the sorta fellas who you read about in the paper- all about how they went on a fishing trip and drowned under odd, but not controversial, circumstances. And possibly rolled over and kicked their size 13s in the air as they expired.
Don’t nobody make a “Hey, Y’all, Watch this…” joke now, you hear?
Big Ron knows how to plan ahead. You know he’s the guy that always has the right bait for what’s biting, he has the tools to fix anything that might slow or stop the boat. Got a sharp pocket knife for getting that hook out the meat of your hand. Got one of those koosey things for putting his cup, can, or bottle into to keep it colder longer.
…and he’s got kegs for flotation when there’s gonna be a chance of the boat going to the bottom of the lake. A case of bottles isn’t going to do you any good when you need a ride back to shore in the direst of straits.
You gotta think of these things. Like Big Ron does.
Oh, Houghton Hollow. That’s the little valley at the end of Houghton lake (named for the famed explorer Sir James Houghton-Houghton) where the dam was built way back in the 1970s. There were some steep banks in the hollow that made the engineers grin with glee as they contemplated their gorgeous new dam. Plus, they got to flood half a town after it was built. Three of the engineers went in on a scuba diving company where you can dive down to “Lower Houghton Grove” and sit in a submerged van, and photograph yourself in a submerged school playground, and swim vaguely near the cemetery and then swim away again fast because it’s freakin’ creepy as hell, with all the drowned trees around it and the headstones and statues and all.
They used to tell a whole bunch of different ghost stories about the submerged town, but eventually they all got smooshed into one big ghost story about a Wukilar that was the mayor’s cursed son (or the cursed Mayor’s son, whichever) and who lived in the church next to the cemetery (graveyard, really, but who keeps track) where he lost his hands or his head in a boating accident. And now he either wanders the graves hoping a statue will lose its head that he can take for his own, or is listening to a walkman and can’t turn it off ’cause he’s missing… well, it’s a weird ghost story anyhow.
That got away from me.
…What I was going to say was “Ron ain’t wrong. Gonna be a lively weekend.”
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