This story won Honorable Mention in the October 2002 "Write to Win" contest in Writer's Journal magazine.

With a smudge on his cheek and streaks down the front of an already soiled shirt, the stranger finished off two of my hotdogs--heavy mustard, relish and onions of course--which I bought for lunch on that steaming August day. The stranger’s eyes held a kind of wisdom I have not seen in any eyes since, nor have I been able to forget him. Just one afternoon on the shore of that pond and my life was changed forever.

          I had just turned twelve and my days consisted of fishing at Turner’s Pond, Lake Scorn, the Delving River and the un-named pond off highway 26 that we kids just called the Hole.

I spent most of my days fishing at the Hole, a secluded area about a quarter mile walk from the highway and miles from any houses. I tried more than once to ride my bike in, but never quite made it to the water without having to ditch it in the woods.

It was the twenty sixth of August, ten days after my birthday. My mother had given me a new fishing rod; she knew and encouraged my obsession with the sport. My father on the other hand called me a slacker and complained more than once with his backhand for my laziness and lack of work ethic.

From November to April, I dreamed of fishing (though occasional ice fishing helped to quell the urge) and from May to October, I lived my dreams. That day began like most of my days. I awoke early and loaded up my bike: my fishing pole, tackle box, a can of squirming night crawlers and my backpack, packed with four worn copies Field and Stream magazine, a rain poncho, a half full bag of Doritos and bug repellent.

Leaving that morning, I came face to face with my father who was already up working on a cement mixer from one of his construction sights. When he saw the fishing pole, he slapped me on the side of the head. I still remember the flash of light, the searing pain and the distant look in his stare. The sun had not yet peeked over Hadley Mountain when I was well on my way north bound on highway 26.

The roads look different that early in the morning, kind of surreal with the mist and fog hanging over them, colors have not yet returned from the custody of the grays and the blacks of nighttime, the sweet scent of the pines and hemlocks not yet driven away by the stifling heat of the sun, as inky clouds hold their position and the woodland animals move about on their nightly walk for food and companionship.

That morning a deer bounded the highway directly in front of me; three coyote were chasing her. One of the mangy creatures paused long enough as if to say – What are you looking at kid? I hope to this day that the deer was able to outrun them.

I went directly to my favorite spot and fished for nearly four hours. I wasn’t having much luck that day and my stomach growled in hunger. The Doritos made a great breakfast, but the sun looked like it was nearing lunchtime. I left my gear right there, no one ever messed with it before, and anyone else who fished down there knew it was my spot.

Directly across from the path leading to the Hole was a diner named Sandy’s. The best hotdogs in the county are served there, and though I am now thirty-seven, I still go to Sandy’s whenever I am back visiting my mom.

I had enough money for three hotdogs; money earned from the bags of collected returnable bottles and cans that lie scattered along the roadside from the passing cars.

“Any luck today Bobby?” the cook from behind the counter asked.

“Nah, waters getting too low and it’s too hot for em. May have to go to Lake Scorn for the rest of the summer, but it’s hard fishing there without a boat.”

“Here you go, a box of dogs, works.” I could see the pitied look as he noticed the side of my face, which must be bruised.

“See ya later Mr. Simmons,” I said rushing back across the highway and down the trail, a trail I could follow with my eyes closed.

I approached my spot. A large man dressed in ripped blue jeans and a dirty white peasant shirt sat on my log, using my fishing pole. His long black hair was matted and pieces of straw stuck out randomly. He turned toward me as I approached. He wore a smile that took away any anger I initially felt. His face appeared serene, covered by a thick beard that appeared to have never been trimmed. His blue eyes sparkled in the sunlight reflected from the water.

“Hiya,” he spoke with a calm, nearly musical voice. “My apologies for the intrusion, but the temptation that fishing pole presented was just too much for me to overcome, seeing as I was out here alone. I added a few fish to your stringer, which if you choose, you can release if you like.”

There were three bass on the line, all larger than any I had caught in all my days fishing. I learned the pleasure of catch and release that day.

          “Wow, where'd you get them?” I asked. He motioned with his eyes directly in front of my spot.

“I'm John,” he said after several minutes of silence.

“Bobby. Pleased to meet you.” I offered my hand.

The man’s feet were bare and covered with fresh red scrapes, probably from the briar patches around the Hole.

“Feels good to let them loose, doesn’t it?” he said, as I let the bass free.

“Not really. Well, I guess so. Yeah, it really does. I never caught a bass that big in my life.”

“You will some day. I'm sure of it.”

“Want a hot dog?” I asked handing him the box. He didn’t answer me, but he did take one. We sat silently watching the water while we finished them off. A single hot dog was left. For reasons I still don’t understand, I gave the stranger my second hotdog. He looked hungry and I was glad I did it.

“Why are you out here anyway, mister?”

“I died in Vietnam,” he answered.

I thought about his words and my alarm must have been obvious.

“Oh, I'm no ghost, Bobby, so don’t you worry none. It's just my old life is over. I came back to nothing, so I decided to come here. I grew up close to here and fished here everyday. This used to be my spot.”

“My dad fought in Vietnam too, but he’s… Well he’s not like you, he’s kinda mean.” I felt self-conscious even saying it.

“Well,” he said, sitting next to me, “different men handle their memories differently. When he gets mad and starts to cursing, just put your arms around him and tell him you love him. If he goes to hit you like he did today, tell him the war is over and that you understand, and that it's time for him to come home. The first few times may not get you anywhere, but don’t give up on him, Bobby. Not like everyone else.”

We talked until the sun began to dip over the trees. John showed me different ways of casting under arm, ways to use some of the unused lures lying in the bottom of my tackle box, ways to take a fresh look at my dad. His voice was so calm and his blue eyes were so real, so honest.

Before we parted, I pointed to the smudged mustard on his cheek. He laughed and wiped it away with his sleeve. I can still see that smile as he disappeared into the wooded trail. I never saw him again after that, though every time I went back to the Hole I scanned the woods for him. In my mind, he is still walking in that forest.

I tried taking his advice and he was right, though the first few times I got smacked hard for my effort. I nearly gave up, but thinking of John, I persevered. It began to work, and until the day my dad died of cancer eight years later, we were close, a real bond had developed. A year before he died he told me he was proud of me, I never cried like that before.

Today I am a professional fisherman and manage a good living doing what I love. When my children ask about their grandfather, I have John to thank for the answer.