With a Presidential debate scheduled for the small town of Red, Montana, an outspoken mayor, an indian sheriff, and a cowboy doctor show America how to turn the country around.
The lightweight monofilament line whispered as it whirred lazily three times through the crisp Montana morning air in a slow-motion ever increasing S pattern. Like a feather the line gently landed flat on the smooth surface of Eagle Lake, and a tiny hand-crafted brightly colored yellow fly barely penetrated the surface, accompanied by a soft „plink‟ sound.
Lightfoot smiled in admiration as the good doctor hit his intended target. Before he could quietly offer “nice cast Doc” the lake surface exploded as the full length of a large trout, mouth filled with artificial bait, leaped into space and tried, in vain, to shake the hook.
“OK, score‟s 3 to 2, if you land it,” Lightfoot acknowledged, his deep gravel voice filled with lingering hope the line would break or the trout would jump again and spit out the hook. Four leaps against an ever tightening line brought the big fish into Doc Anderson‟s waiting net.
“The Clever Cowboys are winning against the Idiot Indians” Doc proclaimed, tweaking Lightfoot with a wide smile and a show of white teeth as he held up his beautiful catch for Lightfoot to admire, but Lightfoot was preoccupied with a snag in his reel.
“Must weigh 7 pounds,” Doc speculated. “Sure is heavy. I can barely lift it.” He grabbed the big fish with a bony hand and flipped the barbed hook from the fish‟s mouth. In one deft motion the trout was almost free. He placed it back in the water, letting the motion of the water revive his latest catch. It quickly wiggled from sight.
“Doesn‟t count,” Lightfoot looked up and spoke slowly for full effect, tossing the verbal bait toward his companion. He had fished with the good doctor for 25 years, and with practiced experience he knew exactly how to get Doc‟s goat.
“What do you mean it doesn‟t count?” Doc demanded, rearranging the thick long red mustache on each side of his face in tugs of defiance which were always a sure signal he was about to go ballistic.
“I didn‟t see you land it. Where is it?” Lightfoot challenged, with both hands extended in wonderment.
Doc‟s cell phone broke the tension. He flipped open the cover and glanced at the screen.
The contour lines in his thin face and his deeply set brown eyes indicated to Lightfoot their usual Sunday fishing trip was about to come to an abrupt end.
Suddenly Lightfoot‟s fly rod bent from a massive strike from the largest fish of the day. Doc smiled in premeditated anticipation as the line screamed off the reel. When all the line was gone, Lightfoot noticed too late the line had not been tied on the end of the reel. He watched helplessly as the huge fish and his line disappeared into the blue green water of Eagle Lake.
“How could that happen? You reworked our rods just this morning,” Lightfoot wondered aloud.
“Yup, what a shame your line was not attached,” Doc offered a bit too overly sympathetic.
“How‟d you know it wasn‟t tied?” Lightfoot demanded angrily, his black eyes focused on his trusted friend.