Wet lines

We all have memories of fishing trips past.  We may not remember what lie we told last about how many fish or how big they really were, but we remember the faces and the friends who were with us.  Sometimes it all gets lost in the moment. We compete for the best holes, curse those who are fishing in our favorite spots, and strive to be the one to catch the first biggest and most.  But when I look back at it I don’t remember who caught the biggest fish or the first or most, but the people I was with.

I can remember the delicate finesse of a fly rod in my mothers hand.  I still hear my brother laugh when he hooked one.  I can see my dad at the oars, directing the action and pointing out wildlife along the way.  I can see the Joy on Kelly’s face, holding a fish.  For me its just simply being there.  The escape from the daily grind to a world filled with fishermen present and past.

I don’t know when it happened in my life but somehow I have become sentimental.  I have started to wonder while wading a stream how many have come before me.  How many fish have been caught in the very place where I stood and how much fishing joy a spot might hold.  When the early morning mist is on the water does it carry the souls of fishermen past?  Do they whisper to me, telling me where to cast?

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