He hung in there for six hours. Fueled by gummy worms, twizzlers, and blue gatorade, he flogged the water with a thrift store rod and an indicator.
With a deftness that defies his five years of age, my son thrust the net forward at precisely the right moment and corralled our quarry. We knelt in water still frigid and stained with sediment from winter snowmelt. Grinning from ear to ear we were mystified at what we were witnessing.
For our next trip the kids demanded we bring two sponges, I’m more than happy to comply with their demand.
I caught my share, just to convince my self it was real, then was content to row, man the net, exchange high fives and hoot and holler with an ear to ear grin for the remainder of the day.
Then the line came tight. A large swirl followed and I got my first glimpse of what was on the line. This wasn’t your average trout. My son had the net at the ready and forgot all his previous reasons to go home.
Cruising down the two lane highway the world lights up with colors only seen during the first few moments of the day. Looking back I take a final look at the sunrise as I pull the boat towards the river.
Shot’s and Bonefish, Barracuda, Tarpon and Permit filled our days. Cold beers quenched our thirst and the living was easy.
At the Murray, Lefty Kreh, George Anderson and a who’s who of the fly fishing world look down upon the patrons. It’s mid afternoon and the bar is lined with seasoned guides, young fishing bums, and a few more well to do anglers who have long since retired from their day jobs.
Fishing isn’t necessarily about numbers but when the sun sets and you’ve brought maybe three fish to hand compared to thirty that were caught by the eight year old fishing in the boat next to you, on what you consider one of your home waters, you can’t help but take notice.
Utter joy on the part of the kids was punctuated by complaints that “this is a terrible day to be out, the bugs are awful”. We worked to connect the dots.