Fishing at Sunset

As the sun set, we packed our poles into the Syncro and followed the windy road up the White Salmon River.  After ten minutes, Steve pointed to a large pull-off and motioned to stop.

"Crap, looks like we won't be alone," he said in reference to the two pickups parked along the metal guardrail as I rolled to a stop and pulled the parking break.

Grabbing out waders and rods, we quickly made our way down the rough trail towards the sound of rapids and the cool breeze of snow-melt river.   Staking out our positions along the water in a clear but inaudible negotiation, we readied our gear and cast into the current.

Familiar with our surroundings and excited to a freenzy by chatter from the other fishermen that Steelheads were already this far up the river, Steve and my mom cast repeatedly into the rapids, hoping to the catch the season's first fish.  I, on the other hand, watched for the occasional dive of a nearby Osprey and listened to the gurgle of the water rushing around a rock.   Distracted by my surroundings, I was content to simply be back in the water.

Despite the differences in our attentions and number of lines casted, we all fared the same.  Not so much as a nibble.  As the last rays of light faded, we marched up the hill back towards the road, each one of us smiling for our own reason.

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August 10th (Picasa).

Fishing at Sunset

"So let me get this right, we are fishing with Canadian worms, grown in Michigan and trucked to Maine?" I said as if pondering the ins and outs of space travel. "Why the fuck wouldn't they just grow them in Maine or at the very least, call them Michigan worms?"

"Not sure, perhaps Canadian is some mongoloid earthworm bred for fishing" Tucker chirped, distracted by the writhing worm lanced by his size-4 hook.

"Regardless of its etymology, it's not like worms give a shit about where they are grown. I mean, mangoes only grow in the tropics, but worms can grow any where there is fucking dirt, right?" I swore out of the corner of my mouth as I untangled the bird's nest surrounding the end of my fishing reel.

"Yah, not sure," Tucker quickly dismissed. "Leave it to Walmart, they were the only place open," he said, pulling back the bail arm and clutching the line with his forefinger.

With a cast and a plunk, the question of origin of the name and need to import fishing worms was laid to rest as our attention transferred intently to the orange bobber swaying to and fro on the evening's waves.

Casting and then reeling in as our patience flowed in a wave-like motion, Tucker and I watched the sun slip towards the trees and vacation houses on the other side of Messalonskee Pond.

Contemplating the cloud formations, what we will be doing in five years and the origins of various bird songs, our conversations meandered with no agenda. Focusing on our bobbers, time slid by as we watched for a much anticipated movement of signaling a curious fish.

The Canadian worms; grown in Michigan and skewered in Maine.

After an hour and a half, an overzealous cast snagged a sixty-foot pine tree hanging over the bank. Tugging and swearing, the line snapped, ending our evening of fishing. Other than the tree, we caught nothing. Not even a bite. We will be back tomorrow.

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Fishing at Sunset (Picasa).