Sam Venable  

Special Contributor

None of this would have happened if the September heat wave had continued. As long as my house, my truck and my office remained air-conditioned, I would have been perfectly content with those Key West mornings and Saudi Arabian afternoons East Tennessee was experiencing.

But no, the weather had to change. A cold snap had to blow in and make me start thinking great thoughts of autumn.

I loaded my fly rod, a .22 rifle, some grub and an assortment of canned elixirs into my bass boat and snuck out of town before daylight. I headed for upper Norris Lake with the express purpose of wreaking havoc on local populations of spotted bass and gray squirrels.

This is a rite of fall left over from my outdoor writing days. I am powerless against it. I go through this ritual six or seven times between late September and early November—or as often as I can steal away before some drooler at the office gets wind and starts asking where the heck Venable is.

Norris Lake is deserted this time of year. No pleasure boaters. No waterskiers. Nobody but AWOL newspaper columnists. It’s marvelous.

If I take a notion to fish, I fish. If I take a notion to climb a desolate hardwood ridge and hunt squirrels or poke around the lakeshore for arrowheads or stretch out in the grass and grab 4,327 winks, that’s precisely what I do.

I do not, however, enjoy this experience so passionately that I beg to be marooned while my bass boat goes floating down the lake.

For that reason, I found myself sprinting out of the forest a few mornings ago, racing across a barren, rocky flat and baaaaarely grabbing the S.S. Venob before it drifted into the channel.

I’d gone ashore to hunt briefly, you see, and thought I had pulled the boat far enough out of the water. This was an incorrect assumption.

I’d climbed only 75 or 100 yards before a puff of wind came up and tugged at the craft. If I hadn’t heard the grating sound of aluminum against shoreline rocks and beaten a hasty retreat, it would have been Isolation City.

“All right, fool,” I cursed myself at the next hunting location. “Don’t just pull the boat ashore. Tie it. You’ve got a rope. Why not use it?!”

So done. And sure enough, the S.S. Venob was securely lashed in place when I returned with a brace of squirrels. I untied the rig, pushed off and prepared to step in.

What occurred next remains a mystery.

Perhaps I tripped on a rock or a root. Perhaps I got tangled in the rope. Perhaps my boot caught on the trolling motor cable. I have no idea; everything happened too fast. All I know is I lost my balance, big-time, and started to topple—one foot in the boat, one foot still in mid-air.

The human mind can perform brilliant feats of decision-making on occasions such as this. In the space of .0000000001-second, my brain sized up the situation and commanded me to spring back in the direction whence I came. I obeyed immediately.

The leap was a thing of beauty. Despite an awkward start, it was executed with Olympic grace and strength. And to my great relief, I escaped with little more than damp boot bottoms.

Unfortunately, my brilliant .00000000001-second brain failed to remember that every action has an equal and opposite reaction. Which is why the S.S. Venob—minus its good captain—shot straight toward the middle of the lake.

I have never felt so alone, or so stupid, in my life. I was still clutching my rifle, and for a brief moment the thought of filling the (bleeping) boat with .22 caliber holes toyed with my angry brain. Fortunately, sanity prevailed. There was nothing to do but say “pshaw–pshucks–pshoot” (or words to that effect) and start peeling clothes.

I didn’t have to swim, thank heavens. Another puff of wind arose before I reached the “buck nekkid” stage of undress. I had to walk down the bank a distance, but eventually the boat blew in, and I was able to continue my great autumn adventure without further incident.

I’ll be back to Norris Lake in a few days. It takes more than being stranded on an island to deter this kid. But next time, Natty Bumpo here will remember to tuck his cell phone into a shirt pocket.

Sam Venable is an author, stand-up comedian, and humor columnist for the Knoxville (TN) News Sentinel. He may be reached at mahv@outlook.com.