A Fish Story

I am always embarrassed by the truth. For one thing, I am a writer of fiction, and know that coming
from me it will not be believed, nor does it lend itself to neat conclusions in which the hero and heroine
discover the lost silver mine. So bear with me, or read something else. This is true--and because it is, not
quite satisfactory.
We three were on a fishing trip along a certain river in Minnesota. We had put Bruce's boat in the
water that morning and made our way in a most dilatory fashion downstream, stopping for an hour or
two at any spot we thought might have a muskie in it. That night we camped on shore. The next day we
would make our way to the lake, where Bruce's wife and mine would meet us about six. Rab, who had
never married, would ride as far as Madison with my wife and me. We had not caught much, as I
remember, but we had enough to make a decent meal, and were eating it when we saw the UFO.