Fishing is boring, unless you catch an actual fish, and then it is disgusting.
We went to the mountains. We went to the fish. We went to the place where the air is thin, heavy with pine.
In the middle of majesty, small people cried out for bathrooms, but the view was worth it.
In my later years, I lost my love of fishing. I had a suspicion there was something good about it though, and wanted my boys to learn.
The amazing thing about children is this: buy them a ten dollar Toy Story rod and they will find what you lost. I officially love fishing again. Especially off cabin balconies.
We held hands and went to the place where everyone is in Gore tex and floppy hats, collectively perfumed in bug spray.
Strangers held our poles for us and we wore jam on our face without shame. We were outside…
…at a Children’s Fishing Festival, where we practiced the art of standing around. We put our faith in Providence and power bait.
Our hopes were not misplaced, and the fish came to us with it’s speckled rainbow and it’s sharp teeth, a miracle in scales.
Children don’t know about the unspoken rule for limited expectations. Why settle for one fish when you can catch TWO? And, why not have the second bigger than the first? Say, half our body size?
So, we fished and we walked and we threw rocks in the lake. Some of us played with tackle boxes and some of us waxed poetic about the pine trees, and the difference between fishing and Facebook.
Many men go fishing all of their lives without knowing that it is not fish they are after. ~Henry David Thoreau