Easterncaster | Thursday, 19 March 2015
... and where did it start? Were you a shadow to an older brother? Did your uncle drive up early on Saturday morning to get you out of the house, so your parents could be left alone to fabricate your sister? Maybe your grandfather set you up out on his dock to catch Bullhead well into darkness for the next day's breakfast?
I can't remember when and where it all started. Many of my early memories are hidden in photographs like the one above. That's me wearing the empty holster. The lucky dude holding the fish is my brother. He has far less hair now than in the photo - that's what happens when you hog the fish holding time. The dead fish is a Brook trout from a small club that my dad's family belonged to in the Southern Adirondacks. I can't believe how serious I look, about a fish! Check out my hands poised for potential holding, should my turn e v e r arrive. Or maybe it's the other way around, maybe that's my fish and I was being gracious, allowing my brother to cradle the coveted gem. Man, the addiction started so early.
Back then I couldn't understand for the life of me why the adults didn't stay out on the dock fishing. They all went into the club house to talk and clank ice cubes while my brother and I remained on guard, pressed up against the railing squinting at our red and white bobbers searching for signs of movement. Later there would be the sound of my father's foot steps crossing the gravel parking lot between the clubhouse and the dock, and then the creaking hinge connecting the ramp and the floating dock as he came out to check on us.
So we can't recall smells but I swear I can, the creel at our feet. Back in the day it was perfume to me. Within it's patina held the scents of many fine days not cooped up in the house.
Enjoying some back-country Glacier National Park - my brother waiting to hold another fish ;)