Before bamboo, before graphite, long before we learned to curl an upper lip, before we could distinguish light and heavy, spinning from bait casting, and fly – prior to swearing off the Unclean Thing – and back when everything was mystery, fear, and wonderment, there was this fishing stuff…
Dad mentioned it, and we assumed it was fun due to the change in Poppa’s face and tone when he rehashed it with his liquored up buddies around the kitchen table. We were ordered off to bed, but it sounded like a big thing; a place where Ma feared to tread, whose practitioners returned home bearing nasty stuff that stank.
We adored nasty stuff that stank …
… until Ma mentioned it was dinner.
Before we got all know-it-all, before we argued whether a bead headed fly was still a fly, before indicators were considered dry flies, before we caught everything and claimed double that …
… we were a blank canvas.
… and it was cold, and it was fun, and it was us that was hooked.
I remember hearing stories when I was a kid or seeing photos of caught fish. Lucky I had Dad that enjoyed the sport…still trying to remember the first fish I caught… many good memories
I drive an extra 15 miles to buy the same equipment from the shop with better service and knowledgeable staff
“Is he my friend?” Precious.
That memory is a keeper!
This is what its all about. I like the name he gives the fish ‘Free’.
That was just too darn cute.
A very nice post. Cynically I am tempted to comment by saying – and then we grow up and as Holmes said “life is spent in one long effort to escape from the commonplace of existence.” But if anything what you say reminds me that fishing is simply the best pastime for allowing grown-ups the excuse to play like children in an unstructured, non-directional, uncompetitive way. Can’t be a bad thing.