"Fishing nets?" Dale asked as Clementine the trusty pickup truck rolled to a stop. "Please tell me you brought fishing nets."

"Nope! No nets!" Seth called from the bed of the truck. The back window had a sliding window necessary for communicating with those banished to the back.

"Poles? Please say there's fishing poles."

"Left those on the counter." Warren said innocently, "My bad."

They'd plotted their fishing trip to Sheep's Creek for a month and they'd forgotten everything. Everything needed for a successful haul. Dale had gone so far as to check in with Connecticut's Game and Fish department to see when they'd be stocking the creek. The fish truck had just dumped 2,100 adult trout into Sheep's Creek, and there wasn't a fishing pole in sight.

True, Dale was frustrated with the lack of poles, but he and Warren had grown up in the wildwoods of Indiana without fishing poles. They knew all sorts of different methods for catching fish.

"I found a bow, and a box of 12 gauge shotgun shells," Bracken piped up, wagging a fiberglass arrow by the back window.

A smile broke out on Warren's face.

"No! No, we aren't-"

"Forest Service would be long gone by now! There's nobody at the creek, and most people don't even know a single fishing law!" Warren argued, gesturing to the tourist free bridge connecting both banks.

Sheep's Creek was a hidden gem, found completely by accident when Stan took young Dale and Warren out for a camping trip some thirteen years ago. Four wrong turns and an entire George Strait CD later, they'd found themselves parked by Sheep's Creek. Dale and Warren, Indiana born and bred cowboys, learned to love Connecticut thanks to the hours spent trying to catch a stubborn rainbow trout.

Dale heaved a sigh, "Get the bow Bracken, leave the shells. No, don't look at me like that, we're not blowing fish out of the water with a 12 gauge!"

"I've never hunted fish with a bow before," Bracken mumbled as he and Seth leapt from the bed of the truck. "You seem excited about it, Warren. Is it difficult?"

"Kinda, you have to compensate for the glare of the water, but other than that, you should be good. I'm catching by hand. That's much much easier."

"They're fish, they're slippery. I believe you've listened to too much disgusting music, and now you think you're John Wayne."

"Pin them beneath a rock and you just grab 'em," Warren said as he peeled off his tennis shoes and traded them for a pair of boots. "And don't ever disrespect Toby Keith's Beer for my Horses or I'll make you walk home."

"I just don't understand what makes country music so appealing."

Dale, who never took his boots off, took off his Bass Pro Shop hat and put it on backwards, "The more you listen to it, the more you like it. You should start by listening to Three Wooden Crosses by Randy Travis. Then you should listen to Garth Brooks."

"Garth is the king," Seth agreed, launching himself out of the truck with the tacklebox in his hands. "I'm a New Yorker and I love Garth, that should go to say how good he is."

Seth, who had yet to gain a pair of cowboy boots, settled for going barefoot into the creek with his gym shorts. He set down the tacklebox, and waited for Warren to join him. An idea brushed through his head. Seth began to unlace one of his sneakers, "Hey Warr, can you get me a stick?"

"You're way smarter than you get credit for," he countered as he found a perfectly sized twig to Seth.

"That's what I keep saying," Seth proudly held up his makeshift fish stringer. "Ten bucks says we turn Bracken into a farmboy by the end of this trip."

"It's a deal."

The tacklebox settled in between several rocks, ready to carry the mountain of fish Warren was certain he'd snag. Warren tugged his AC/DC t-shirt over his head. His bright orange General Lee cap sat backwards on his head. He'd trapped a fat trout beneath a rock in minutes, and it writhed in his hands only seconds later. Dale shot two fish farther up stream. Even Seth had managed to catch a single trout.

But the best sight of all was Bracken, an esteemed fairy prince, sitting soaked in creek water beneath a bridge with a fish in his hands.

"Does this qualify me to be a cowboy now?" He asked innocently, tossing his caught fish into the open tacklebox.

I'll probably add in several more details later! I'm just so excited to get this out there! Thanks for reading!