18 Jan 2014

There comes a time, generally in Jan., Feb, March or April, that I get all nostalgic about one of my favorite pastimes.

  Fishing.  

Maybe it's the smell of a pair of old waders in the attic or a landing net in the garage that kick off these feelings.  Or some one's painting of a lone fisherman along a Canadian stream in early morning mist.  Or even one of my own photos of a good friend on some stream, lake or ocean. 

 I suspect that at this time of year, there are others out there in the ether that have these same gooey feelings.  If you too are of the fraternity of seekers of piscatorial delights, just sit back and let your mind wander for a moment to your favorite place and favorite old fisherman's tale. 

I am, and the Pike Place is hot and steaming in front of me!

Long before I ever picked up a camera, I could be found wading a central New Jersey trout stream or sneaking along some pond casting for bass.  Of course there were those years, starting at age 14, that I learned to stalk the stripe bass of the Chesapeake.  And for forty plus years the on male bonding trips to Lake Winnepasaukee in New Hampshire in search of Landlocked salmon.

For some reason, I don't do much of that anymore!  Once in a while I try to educate a few of the smaller creatures over at Lake Murray.  I would like to more but duty calls from other directions.  So I live it vicariously in those early morning cups of coffee.  And you dear reader must  suffer through my ramblings.

I grew up in a time when the outdoor writers for the likes of Field & Stream or Outdoor Life were those that actually did go out and fish or hunt and were simply story tellers.  Such great writers and such great stories that a teenager like myself was taking trips to the great spots in America, Canada, Scotland and South America.  All on the shoulders of those fantastic writers.  Today, the closest magazine to those old issues is the Gray's Sporting Journal where one can still find great writers.

Today when I see a bunch of fish in the shallow waters of my mind, I can harken back to laying out forty feet of fly line and landing a dainty Royal Wolfe fly in front of the nose of a record breaking brown trout.  Done that and been there....both mentally and physically.

So, I guess my personal old man's regression is still through the literary annals of other writers who are now doing the "Doing".  I have walked that walk and now enjoy watching others doing the walking.