The Wilson gar story is a story about the one that didn’t get away. The evening was hot and clammy. You could breathe if you didn’t inhale too much of the clammy air. The Sun was setting behind us as Wilson,
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his son Kenneth, Bobby and me stood on the bare sand bar and watched grass hoppers. The heat crazed hoppers climbed to the tip-top of our fishing rods, then descended down our lines and disappeared into the water. Why? The Lord only knows.
Darkness settled in and so did the mosquitoes. Kenneth lit his Coleman lantern and set it far enough away so the mosquitoes swarmed it, instead of us. Fishing on Red River for big fish can be exasperating; on the other hand, the camaraderie between four dedicated fishermen over a pot of camp coffee can be exhilarating. Our excitement began at exactly two a.m. in the morning. I drowsily glanced in Wilson’s direction and was shocked to see him in full battle with something … something big! His rod pointed toward the sky — its tip toward the river. Sensing his good fortune we all met at his side. “How long have you had him on?” Bob asked.
