fdelano Posted July 29, 2013 Share Posted July 29, 2013 Sweet Trick In those days we fished with cane poles, woven line and cork bobbers. In the shallow, still waters of the lake that fed the deserted mill trace, even a boy could swing his night crawler to a likely spot. I sat, content, smoking my pipe and watched my motionless line leading to a spot near the perfect cover for an imagined lunker, lurking cautiously near the rotten log. My reverie then ended with my son's intrusion. He sat near, almost touching, gave me a big grin, his silence hiding his obvious plan as he lifted and lowered his pole to gently plop his bobber within inches of my own. I smiled as it sank rapidly. Too much weight. The weight that sank his float bent his firmly held rod double, its tip pointing at the large fish struggling to reach bottom. I gaped and wondered if the fish outweighed the boy with bare feet shoved into the bank. The fish would not budge, so he stood and slowly backed up the bank, sliding his prey along the bottom until it showed its moustache and white belly flopping in the mud. Still silent, my son and I wore huge grins. He now fishes with a priceless, antique split bamboo fly rod, loaded with silk, no. 6, waxed line, bought by me for my own pleasure just to watch him catch fish that I will never snag with my old crank reel and metal lures. He ties his own flies, taking pride in his contribution to the perfect angling combination. At almost any moment of a fishing day, I see him grin the same grin as he remembers stealing the big blue cat from under his father's bent nose. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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