Trout Whisperer

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At 2:56 am, Saturday morning, I had made two pots of coffee and started a fire in the fireplace, filled the wood boiler and finished loading my blazer by three am. I’m pretty sure by 4:30 that morning i had put the finishing touches on two dozen blueberry and two dozen cranberry warm from the oven mouth popping muffins.

Everyone was to arrive no later than 5:00 am for the Trout Whisperers Irish fishing sendoff breakfast. The menu to include Obrien hash browns with sausage, ham and scrambled eggs. V-8 juice, orange juice and pots of coffee. Eight non Eskimos’ that fish were well fortified when we stepped outside the house.

My wife said she was going to put the kitchen back together and go back to bed. My daughter took the passenger seat in the blazer and was asleep not more than a mile from our home. The polar express convoy plodded north towards a designated trout lake outside the BWCA but nestled inside the superior national forest

I woke my fishing partner up about a half mile from splake heaven. She bundled and we all started to unload. Patrick at the ripe old age of nine was akin to a lab puppy. He was at the back of all the vehicles and checking out everything at once. This was his first attempt at frozen trout fishing.

Setting up the modern portable fish shelters is a snap, literally. With propane heaters you’re insulated in minutes from the 20 below air temps. Wind-chill's this morning would drop below minus forty. I cut the first hole rigged my daughter and set the transducer. Fish on the bottom at 22 feet. Dropping a white glow jig with a minnow head was the ticket. I watched the bait fall and the trout racing to get it. To red glows on a collision course. At the first tap from the trout my fingers took over and I quit watching the vexillar.

The crappie rod is doubled over and after raising the trout two to three feet I lose it.
My daughter is not into catch and release. She's reeling like mad and the gorgeous splake erupts through the augured hole. Just loud enough to let the fish shanties on our ice block know, she lets out with “I got one”. Moments later from down Anglers Avenue “fish-on”. Now I owe two candy bars.

It becomes a bit of a fishing frenzy. They hit and bite and you bait and hook. Across the lake we all hear, “Fish on”, “I got a bite”, “one on the floor “or “hey, we got a double”.

But the hook setter of fish salutes belongs to young Patrick. There are no walls to stop the enthusiasm in his young spirited voice. It's all one hundred percent little boy, and he's hooked up. We all listen through the fabric walls. This is not eavesdropping. This is the replay of all of us remembering when we were young. ” Dad I got a bite”. Dad's voice….start reeling. No Patrick sounds, all is quiet. Then a staccato of “dad I got him” “dad I got him”, immersed with the most infectious little boy laugh. The he belts out in the wrong order “fish on”. My daughter and I look at each other and just bust out laughing and celebrating with him.

I walk over and shake his little mitt. That grin is what it is all about. And after three fish there's no living with him. Up at the vehicle after it's all over he sez he got nine total, well him and his dad that is.

Driving home my little girl is once again sound asleep. A nap is not to far distant for me as well. On days like today it so cold, but you can't take enough photos or remember enough. I quietly just say thanks. It may have been below zero outside today, but it's pretty warm inside.

Posted by Trout Whisperer under Hunting Stories on February 6, 09 09:05 AM | Permalink

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