It was about 1:30 when we began our trip back down the hill. Several times, Kris ended up in a position that made him less than comfortable. One time I looked back as he dropped off a shelf, his right rear tire was about one foot off the ground and teetering. That was enough to add ‘caution’ to his four wheel’in vocabulary. From this point on he opted around a few extreme spots, not wanting to push his luck. About ½ ways down the hill, the afternoon thunderstorm presented itself in all its glory. Shortly thereafter, the rain started. Unlike Kris in the confines of his truck’s cab, Keith and I were getting very wet. Then the hale started. Not just a flurry, but consistent hale, BB size. The ground was getting covered. Then, just to make it interesting, every ten or fifteen minutes the hale would increase to the size of small marbles for a few minutes. Keep your hands, arms, and legs inside, it hurt to get hit. This would keep up all the way to camp. Except for the weather, the trip was uneventful. At some point, a couple of Jeeps caught us from behind, and began to push Kris. Anytime there was a fairly straight section, Kris would loose them. As soon as Kris slowed for the trees, they would be right back on his bumper. We came upon a group of Toyota trucks heading the other way, and pulled over to let them by. Before heading back out, we also let the two jeeps behind Kris go by. They were not exactly patient, and we did not need the aggravation of tail gaiters on the trail. We made it to camp in record time. Less than seven hours round trip. And that included lunch. Once slightly settled, Kris went down to do a pole/line check and yelled back that it looked like Keith had caught one. Keith and Kris grabbed their poles, and after repeated attempts, both decided that the lines were hung up, snagged. They paced back and forth, going over and under each other in an effort to get the lines free without loosing equipment. It was looking like they were both snagged together, one would pull on their line, and the other would feel it. Then Kris’s pole started twitching, and it was not Keith, and definitely a fish. Standing about 20 feet apart, with me in between, in harmony, they both started reeling in. As their lines approached the shoreline I could see a nice trout attached to their combined lines. I grabbed the lines and pulled the fish in, and at that time noticed a second smaller fish attached to the conglomeration of lines. As I dragged them onto shore it was becoming obvious that this was a real mess. There was a ball of string about the size of a softball. Attached to this ball, was a piece of drift wood, two smaller hooks, a triple hook, and a hook large enough to be trolling for Jaws. The bigger fish had two hooks in its mouth, and then the smaller fish with yet another. How many hooks had these guys been using. Two poles, and at least six hooks. Then, to top it off, the first fish was hog tied. With about twenty wraps of fishing line from head to tail, I do not know how he could even swim. I know that if a fish could read and write, they could not pass a urine test. This fish took it to the next level, it was frickin beyond stupid. Let’s see if I have the idea. A hook already in its mouth, dragging around a large ball of fishing line sporting half a dozen hooks, towing a second fish, tied to a piece of driftwood with about four feet of leash, and wrapped in line to the point that it cannot move. Then a piece of bait hits it on the nose, and it thinks – Wow – lunch, and takes a bite. Yea, I need another hook in my mouth. That makes about as much sense as Preble cutting more sheet metal off his truck. The learning curve for this fish must look like Hwy 50 through the middle of Nevada, straight and flat.

I gathered some wood and tended to camp. Keith and Kris fished for awhile before anchoring their poles for the night. They returned to camp and did their share of wood gathering. A little gasoline and a few fire sticks from Kris, and we had our evening fire off and running. We could put aluminum cans in the fire, and it was so hot that the can would actually burn away. The next order of business would be to see if we could melt a metal bean can. Nope, would not happen. My thoughts were that they at least needed a bellows to pump oxygen onto the coals. They agreed that next time, someone had better bring their Popeil’s Pocket Bellows with them. I went to bed and left the two highly enlightened brain surgeons to their experiments. Stoking the fire with enough wood to heat a small state. Filling this can with red hot coals, sitting in red hot coals. They could not melt the can. The rocks lining the fire pit were melting, but not the can. The forest service had called out the borate bombers to put out the fire, but the can would not melt. Kris would say, ‘sure the fire was big, and it was a little smokey, I’ll give you that, but is was OK, really.’ Watch towers at Shasta were calling it in the smoke. In the morning, after it had cooled off, it took eight pots of water to put it out. Keith and Kris checked their poles, and Kris had hooked another during the night. We added it to the stringer with the mentally challenged trout from last night, and it was still mad. I guess hauling around all of those hooks and fishing line had mad it tough. All night long on the stringer, and it was still putting up a good fight. We cleaned up camp and headed for home. The only other traffic we saw was a broken Jeep, needing an AMC20 rear axle. He at least came with a friend who was on his way out in search of the broken part. Keith and Kris posed on top of Chicken Rock for the traditional ‘group’ photo op. Down the Chicken, and onto the highway home. Keith stopped at the memorial spot for my Jeep and we looked around for broken, dropped, or lost parts. We found nothing. The only thing that remains were some deep gouges in the asphalt. Keith remarked at how we were glad it was the memorial for the jeep, and not me. As we dropped down the long grade into Prather, the heat was upon us. We had come from rain and hale storms, into 100 degrees of heat. A brief stop in Prather for a coke and a corn dog, and we were on our way once again. The road home was hot, but traffic free. We had done good. Go one day early, and come home one day early. I am marking that down for next years annual Dusy run. This time be there and don’t miss it.