A friend had called the previous evening inviting me to the early morning rendezvous.
“Bass are hitting like crazy,” he had said.
The kitchen light of the old farmhouse shined dimly through the window pane as I pulled under the soft maple tree draping over the driveway.
The faint light provided evidence that my friend had not yet stirred from the comforts of slumber. The clock on my dash read 6 a.m., the exact time he had insisted I be there.
Just as I flipped the headlights off, a ghostly figure materialized in the living room window. Jim met me on the massive sandstone steps of the front porch.
“I didn’t get in bed until 2:30 this morning,” he moaned. “Listening to a soon to be ex-girlfriend. Go on down to the lake. I will come down later.”
Deep in thought and lost in the beauty of my surroundings, I had just finished readying my rods when I heard a vehicle coming down the hill toward the lake. I knew who it was.
