It was hot, hot, hot enough to make two barefoot boys scurry across the pavement by Derek's house. They slowed after reaching the grass and reverted to the slouching, carefree gait of 10-year-old boys without responsibilities, without worries and without plans. Theirs was the summertime gait of boys who were bored out of their skulls.

Derek was on his back deck shooting his BB gun. He cocked it listlessly, raised the rifle to his shoulder and fired without using the sight, clipping the stem of a dandelion flower 20 feet away and causing it to tip and fall. It was a wonderful shot but Derek was not impressed and neither were his friends. He handed his rifle to Jeremy and sat down. Jeremy began shooting, almost as well as his friend. The third boy, Trace, sat down next to Derek, put his chin in his hands and said, "We need to do something."

"Yeah, but what?" Derek said.

"Roller skating? Jeremy asked.

"Rink's closed for repairs," Trace said.

"Swimming?" Jeremy tried again.

"Not again," Derek said. "Hey! What about a BB gun fight? We could get eye protection."

"Too hot," Trace said. "Besides, I have a heckuva time convincing my mom all those welts are mosquito bites."

And then Jeremy had an epiphany, one shared across generations of boys since time began.

"Let's go fishing!"

There was unanimous agreement and all three boys ran to Derek's compost pile, where they filled a can with dirt and worms, then took off in different directions to collect their fishing gear.

They met 20 minutes later at the edge of a large pasture.

"Whoa! What's that at the edge of the woods?" Jeremy shouted.

'That' turned out to be a spotted skunk, uncharacteristically out in the heat of the day. The boys took off in joyful pursuit, secure in the knowledge they would never catch up to a wild animal with an 80-yard head start. Bad assumption. As soon as it detected the pursuit the skunk walked back toward its pursuers. Derek, faster than his friends, was within 20 yards, when he saw the animal's raised hindquarters. He was still trying to reverse course at 10 yards when the skunk let fly. He and Jeremy both took direct hits. Only Trace, who'd come in from the side, was unaffected.

By mutual agreement, the skunk was allowed to continue untouched while the boys headed for the creek. Derek and Jeremy lay in the water for a long time, scrubbing with sand and honeysuckle leaves. Trace found some dried wild vines; he broke off short lengths and brought them to the creek. "Anybody want a smoke?" he asked.

The other two laughed and agreed. Trace broke out a lighter and the three boys lay naked in the shallow water, puffing on burning vines.

It was mid-afternoon before the boys climbed out of the water and dressed. They continued on to the fishing hole to take turns using Trace's rod, theirs being too stinky. Just before they got there, Derek shouted out a warning.

"Snake!" he cried. And then, "Black racer! Let's get it!"

It was a spirited race and an even more spirited fight. A five-foot black racer can move almost as fast through the woods as a boy and is easily as strong. But three determined youngsters can subdue one, especially if the snake bites one of them and holds on, making its head stationary and easy to grasp. At the end of the struggle, the snake was stretched out between the three of them, trying in vain to get free.

Trace was fighting back tears as he watched blood drip from his wrist, but he was still gamely holding on.

"What's the matter with you?" Derek asked. "Snake bite hurt?"

Trace gritted his teeth. "No, you idiot," he said. "My rod got broken while we were fighting the snake. You're standing on the pieces now."

"Oh, sorry."

"So, um, guys. What do we do, now?" Jeremy's wondered, laughing.

"What is so funny?" Trace demanded.

"Catching this snake was almost as stupid as chasing the skunk. The only thing we've done right was catch worms. I'm trying to decide what we should say when our parents ask how the fishing trip was."

Pat Wray can be reached at patwray@comcast.net.