How he took Drov to the North Pole to go fishing.

*Hello, All!* There is such a person with the nickname Driver, or simply - Firewood. Hy this is with which we rafted from Kamenka to Treka about two weeks ago. Well, in general, it fell out He’s going here somehow to the distant, distant village of Nyagan, which is located somewhere in the capital tundra. Well, this guy came to me and give me a fishing rod whine. They say - there are fish in the north, you should catch them. Well, I seemed to resist, and then I thought - God bless him. Let him take it fishing. Well, in general, I received my Firewood LOG (this is such a log 6 m long and as heavy as a tarpaulin boot). And he and his friend whistled to the North, where they flow Great Northern Rivers... And on the way back they crossed one such river and stopped next to her. Well, like (predatingly rubbing his hands in the car) - right now we Let's catch the fish. Until we catch a sack (of potatoes), we won’t leave! And they went out from the car, while moving, taking out huge fishing rods with fishing line from his wide trousers, hooks and very, very scary floats!.. Here it is - fish death in the flesh! Suddenly, in the distance, a vague rumble was heard. It grew and grew, turning into a distinct buzzing sound. And because of the forest that grew picturesquely on on the steep bank of the Great Northern River, a huge fiery tornado emerged, consisting entirely entirely made up of mosquitoes, midges and other nano-vampires. And there was in it: wet - 10pcs/cm^3, small mosquito - 5 pcs/cm^3, and other bloodsuckers are also countless. And embraced he was newly minted fishermen, and when they finally realized in full the whole the tragedy of their situation, they were already half devoured. Barely fighting off thousands of micro-attacks, not having time to unpack the fishing rods, the poor fellows were sealed in the cabin of the car. Somehow fighting off that part the vile tornado that seeped into the cabin behind them, they gave them the gas without talking, carrying with it romantic memories of fishing on the Great Northern River, whose geographical name remains unknown. And the polar day continued even at night. And the vile tornado, humming merrily singing some not very old song under my breath, hovering near the bridge over the Velikaya Northern River, waiting for the next batch of pioneer fishermen from the south... /That’s all, All, you can scroll further.../