On
summer evenings the working men gather to fish in the swift water below
the dam. They sit on the rocks and are silent for the most part,
looking into the water and casting again and again. Lines tangle,
tackle is lost and a fisherman curses to himself. No one
notices. It is simply a part of the routine, like the backs of
their wives in bed at night or short words to the children in the
morning. Only the water holds their attention, crashing through
the spillway with enough force behind it to break a man's back.
And the undertow could take you as easily as a bit of fish line and
toss you ashore miles downstream. The men shout to be heard above
the roar of the water. ANY LUCK? NO I JUST GOT HERE.
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