The First Fish Part I: The Campground by Mark A. Trujillo

The Campground

Dawn arrives in the mountains, casting a smoky light over the landscape. The smoke from the campfire slowly glides through the air creating a hazy, translucent window overlooking the incredible view of pine trees that surround the campground. Silence abounds except for the occasional crackle of the fire. Even though it is deep in the summer season, a welcome chill is in the air, inviting a slight shiver from the little girl.

The little girl is excited. This is the day she is going to catch a fish! How does she know? Her Grandpa says she will. Even though it is early in the morning, the little girl is awake and lively. She shuffles around the fire, kicking up dust, and giggling to herself. Despite her excitement, she is patient. She stops shuffling when her Mother comes out of the tent.

“Come here, Pookie! Let’s get your hair combed!” her Mother commands. Pookie glares disappointingly at her Mother for a moment but eventually begins her slow walk toward the tent.

Pookie sits in her small pink camping chair, ignores the dust that that has accumulated on her tiny digits, and stuffs her two middle fingers into her mouth without hesitation. Her Mother grimaces. It is better than the alternative, which involves wrestling, tears, and hair that isn’t combed.

Her Grandpa, Father, and older Brother are gathering the supplies and loading up the white Ford F-250. Her older brother by 2 years skips around with a Batman fishing pole, the red and white bobber swinging back-and-forth. “Boo Bear! Careful! You don’t want that hook coming off and getting you!“ his Father tells him. Boo stops for a second but continues his skipping display, deciding that the risk is worth it.

“Ah! Let him be! He’ll be fine!“ Grandpa says. Father rolls his eyes knowing there will be no wrong done by the offspring this weekend. “Coffee, dad?” asks Father. Grandpa gives him an affirmative nod. The coffee pot sits on the camping stove making percolating sounds, steam rising from the short spout. Father searches the camping supplies looking for the white styrofoam cups that he knows he packed but have now suddenly disappeared. Frustrated, he looks over to Mother and asks, “Hey, have you seen the cups, babe?”

“They should be there!” Mother replies. “You need to look around. They’re not going to jump out on their own.”

“Ha ha. Funny!” Father retorts. He continues looking. Mother observes the spectacle for awhile with a handful of Pookie’s curly hair in her hand. She expertly parts Pookie’s hair down the middle and creates a pig tail on the right side of Pookie’s head. She ties down the pom-pom looking glob of hair with a few flips and snaps of a tiny clear rubber band. “Don’t move, Pooks!” Mother warns.

Mother walks over to the camping supplies with a thoughtful, annoyed frown, her eyebrows shaped in an upside-down “V”. Father is still bent over looking for the cups and fails to notice the imminent danger lurking behind him. Mother finds a hidden brown grocery bag buried behind the garbage bags and the battered box used to store the camping stove. She slaps Father on the butt. “Is this what you’re looking for, Sherlock?” Mother asks sarcastically, handing over the new package of styrofoam cups to a surprised Father.

“Oh ya! Gracias!” Father acknowledges with a wink and grin. He walks to the stove, picks up the gurgling pot, and pours the steamy liquid in three cups. The warm aroma of the freshly brewed coffee and its tantalizing strings of ascending steam add a cozy touch to the already inviting atmosphere.

Mother takes her coffee, sips, and returns to taming the other side of Pookie’s hair. Grandma finally emerges from the travel trailer with a wide smile, “Good mooorrnnnning!” She walks over to her seat next to the fire, situating herself so that she can see all the bustling. “Who is going to catch a stinky fish?” Grandma asks.

“MEEEEEEE!” Brother and Pookie screech, waking every living creature on the mountain range.