One Fish, Two Fish, Red Shoulders, No Dish
This weekend I did what any respectable Harrington transplant does when the sun’s out, the breeze is mild, and the fish haven’t yet filed a restraining order against me: I grabbed my fishing gear, my wiener dog, and hit the great outdoors. Somewhere between Odessa and Harrington—coordinates redacted because a girl never gives away her secret fishing hole—I set off to finally catch the fish that have eluded me all season.
But let’s start at the beginning.
Saturday morning kicked off strong. Winnie (my four-legged child and celebrity in these parts) and I took a three-mile jog/walk around town. Most of you don’t know me by name—no hard feelings—but you definitely know Winnie. I can’t count how many times I hear “Hey, it’s Winnie’s mom!” at the grocery store. She’s the real star here. I’m just her chauffeur with a debit card.
Post-workout, I decided to reward her with some lake time. I packed up all the essentials: tackle, poles, snacks, water, the cooler, and of course, Winnie. The drive was beautiful. The air? Crisp. The vibe? Immaculate. I even hiked the shoreline to scope out the best spot. I was determined to catch something—anything—to erase my shameful zero-catch streak.
And then, the wind happened.
I was mid-cast, rod in hand, full of optimism. Winnie was tethered to a rock and shouting encouragement (read: barking). That’s when a gust strong enough to take down a birthday party tent came ripping through. Suddenly, my chair, chair bag, cooler—with my keys, wallet, and emotional stability inside—all flew into the lake. I had a fish on the line and a sinking Jeep fob floating off to sea. The ultimate fisherman’s Sophie’s Choice.
Spoiler: I lost the fish and my dignity.
Winnie, ever the supportive sidekick, barked louder. I ran down the beach like a madwoman, uttering words that I’m sure echoed all the way to Lincoln County. I dove in up to my knees, fished my belongings from the water, and discovered—because of course—I had my phone on me the whole time. Thank you, fanny pack, for your loyalty and waterproof-ish lining.
After that ordeal (and scaring off every fish within a five-mile radius), we reloaded and drove to Coffee Pot Lake. At this point, I was soaked, sunbaked, and determined not to go home skunked. And guess what? I finally caught not one, but two fish! A teeny bass and a bite-sized walleye. Practically fish sticks. But after four months of coming up empty, I was riding high.
Winnie, meanwhile, had figured out the whole fishing thing. When I reeled in the bass, she barked, lunged, and promptly got smacked in the face by its tail. The look she gave me said, “You brought me here for this??” Still, she sat patiently beside me on the dock for the next catch. She even started dozing off beside me—content, sun-drunk, and covered in fish scent. Like a true outdoorswoman.
By the time we got home, Winnie was out cold and I was… well, medium rare. My sunburn now rivals the shade of a ripe tomato and the pain is a solid 8/10. But every time I shift in my chair and wince, I remember that glorious moment: a fish on the line, my dog at my side, and just enough chaos to make it memorable.
And isn’t that kind of the whole point?
Living in a small town like Harrington means you don’t need flashy resorts or five-star adventures to make a perfect day. Sometimes, all it takes is a wiener dog, a tackle box, and a good sense of humor when everything goes wrong. In fact, the disasters tend to make the best stories. So next time your cooler takes a swim or your dog gets tail-slapped by a bass, just remember—you’re making memories. Slightly sunburned, possibly waterlogged memories.
But the best kind, nonetheless.
