We sat on the banks of the decaying river, armed with Red Ryders, mine still with leather tassels attached, looking into the depths. And yes, we’d provoke them, it wasn’t always easy. Lifting up rocks, they’d fly to another rock and bury themselves beneath. We built a ring of rocks (must have done) and herded them there, where their once wild lives were brought to an end with our barrels in the water. We’d pick them up out of the river, and lay them on the bank to dry and stink. I remember thinking some of them were stronger than the others, they weren’t always the same size, but they all died. Lesson learned? It doesn’t matter how big you are when you’re found hiding underneath a rock. Pow.
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