The Tire

 

The Tire by JG

The day began like a dream. The sun cast a golden glow over the pristine stream, its gentle currents sparkling like liquid diamonds. I waded into the water, fly rod in hand, the crisp air filling my lungs. Each cast was poetry in motion, and my patience was rewarded when a massive trout struck the fly. The fight was exhilarating; the rod bent as the fish darted and leaped, its silver scales flashing in the sunlight. With care, I reeled it in, marveling at its size—easily a three-pounder. I could already imagine the story I'd tell when I got back to camp.

But as I approached my car, triumph turned to terror. A grizzly bear was hunched over one of my tires, gnawing at the rubber with unnerving focus. My heart stopped, and so did my feet. Clutching my trout and gear, I froze, then decided discretion was the better part of valor. Dropping everything, I bolted into the woods, tripping over roots and babbling nonsense in panic. Hours later, rangers found me disheveled and wild-eyed, trying to explain what happened. The fish was gone, my tire was shredded, and I was left with nothing but a ridiculous tale to share—and maybe a little less pride.