- Keywords -
- Category Hunting Stories
- Region -
- Prostaff Member Trout Whisperer
Say hello into a canyon and you get the echo. Hello, hello, hello, generally comes back to your ears. The word echo means repetition of sound .from reflection of sound waves. So by vocalizing a single word, a single time, in the canyon, the sound is recreated.
Now I let go with the word fishing, and not in a canyon. No echo. But the sound waves go forth. To my ears, it is first and foremost brook trout fishing in small streams. Its how I acquired my nickname. The first feeling that wells up in others could be a daredevil tossed for pike, the next, hand lining for lake trout, or jig and minnow for walleyes. How about those buzz baits for bass or tarpon fishing in an ocean blue with huge fish, as big a fish as your landing net can get around.
So quietly to yourself, cast the word fishing. Let the sound drift. Twitch it just a bit and see what strikes back
Maybe a red and white bobber floating over a crappie bed. The silent swish of a fly rod in a roll cast on a western trout stream. Your daughters fingers in the worm box and simultaneously eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
Wind whipped white caps and the bow spray off your 17 ft with the ninety horse, or the kayak cutting into fresh lake fog in the boundary waters canoe area. The water shipping over your hip boots as you attempt to toe around that big rock, to make one last cast for the night. That's cold water, the nine at night water leaking into your hip boot.
Rods and tackle and fish. The boats, the bugs, and the people who went with you. The times alone and the moose that strolled by. Rain storms or wind-chill off the frozen lake. You got the minnows? Did you get a license? How big are the fish in this lake? What are you gonna try today? You bring the cooler? No, wait I got a bite. Get the net! Get the net!
How many business deals have been negotiated trolling some bay? Political conversations that did not turn into shouting matches anchored off a rocky point. Good looking women or that great baseball team discussed until the sodas ran out. Volumes of prayer to the god that created it all, please lord let me catch a big one, please don't let me lose this one, just ten more minutes dad.
The line broke. The knot broke. The hook broke. The rod snapped. Ah, I lost him. Nobody has ever lost her? Don't lean that far in a canoe. How far? I didn't think it was that tipsy?
Some of my fishing echoes have grown old. Metal minnow buckets. Oars, ahhh the oars and oar sounds. It's hard to remember the day before you knew or realized that two plus two equaled four. Picture some old row boats without an electronic fish finder. No live wells. Anchors made from concrete in a coffee can. I remember wrapping the pull cord on my dads old outboard and warning my little brother to look out. Didn't do it a lot, but enough.
As I get older, a lot of my buddies tell me I'm getting hard of hearingâ. I think Im just re-listening to old echo's.