Rankin Dam

My cousin was twelve, I was eleven and we usually spent the Summer's fishing. Or, I spent the Summer fishing, my cousin was too afraid to knit his worm onto his hook and he would scream when he actually had any type of nibble on his line. I always had to grab the wiggling fish in my hands and remove it, and slip it on the big paper clip type thing that held your flapping fish under water. The smell of earth, worms and pearly fish scales stuck on your fingers were a part of Summer. The scent of dew worms, left too long in a tackle box, and eventually forming a pudding, was also a smell of Summer. We would buy our worms, and ride our bikes out to The Farmer's Field, or the Rankin Dam. From what I remember, it was a long journey to the Dam, especially because I was always stuck carrying the tackle. We would take our lunch with us and usually be gone for the day. We never thought anything of taking off for hours, and probably, it was a relief to my parents. They could boogie to the sounds of their oldy mouldy's like Saturday Night Fever or eat Bugles, do the Hustle or do whatever people in their early 40's did mid 1980's. The noon day sun scorched us, as we rode up to the Falls, and then drove our bikes through the woods to get to the onyx water's of the dam itself. This time we had taken T-Bones, the big, but friendly dog, with us. (St. Bernard, Lab, Sheepdog mix, that we had picked up at theSauble Marina when the puppies were being given away). I remember seeing light glinting through the trees that we passed on the trail. The trees were a dense canopy of green and the trail itself was thick with pine needles and that black earth that smells like cottage life. We had put our lines in and were getting into the fishing mindset. That Zen, where you are so focused on the end of your fishing rod, that everything else seems to melt away. The rustling of footsteps broke our tranquility. I remember, that they were coming towards us from the other side of the dam. Out of the woods, emerged two men, probably early 30's, very scruffy in their acid wash jeans, and long dark stringy hair that fell limp at their shoulders. "Rocker's". I whispered to my cousin that we should take up our lines and pretend that we were just leaving. We reeled in, and started to pack up our stuff, but the guys, kept talking to us for a long time (too long), one showed us a fish he had caught. I remember that they were getting closer and closer. The feeling of unease was heavy. Suddenly, a Conservation Officer came out of the forest. I remember him taking the guys aside and as we took off, we never felt so relieved in our lives. I as usual had peed my shorts and my cousin was wailing as we rode, as if to beat the devil out of the woods. We never went back. The odd thing is, that was the first and only time I had ever seen a Conservation Officer (or whatever they are called), walking the woods. "Divine Intervention" as Jules from Pulp Fiction says.