TWENTY SEVEN MARCH OF THE YEAR OF EMERGENCE

I sit here in a now very quiet house sipping my Star Buck's Pike Place Roast and am motivated to ruminate of things gone by.  I guess the older we get the more of that sort of thing we do.  Sorta stopping long enough to smell the Roast. 

We had a cold front go through the Carolina's last night and this morning.  A thunderstorm sometime in the wee small caused our spaniel, border coley mix to bark and wake us all. Did I mention that she loves to chase thunder storms.  Now the storm is done and all is quiet.   It's a cool 47 degrees, misty, a little foggy, and just a little nasty out there.  I probably should get moving and do something constructive.  But first!

Mornings like this bring back fond memories of the big lake in New Hampshire and rainy, foggy, nasty mornings like this.  We loved them, the fishermen that is.  Even those tied to the shore and not able to find, afford, or maintain a boat on the lake.

This is the small creek in Wolfeboro, NH which generally has ice out before the rest of the lake and which attracts fishermen almost 24/7.  You can see the fog, feel the dampness and looking at the clothing they are wearing and just feel the chill.  The water has a flow and is about 12 feet deep.  Land lock salmon, trout, and later bass are caught along that fence to the left.  In years gone by, this spot was our first stop before going to buy licenses and tackle.

This morning, I am far better with my coffee but do long to revisit that spot and that activity.

Once the day gets up, the lake can take on many and varied personalities of weather conditions.  But foggy is my favorite for fishing and photography alike.  The largest salmon I ever saw was caught in the fog by, unfortunately, someone else.  It was a Sunday morning and I was out alone in "Putt", our 14'  tin boat.  The boat in front of me had two anglers and had stopped to play a fish.  A word about tackle and salmon if I may.  Most fish with fly rods weighing only ounces, gossamer leaders and hand tied flies.  Salmon are tenacious fighters and extroardinary leapers.

Well, there was a bit of thunder and our trusty dog just did her protective thing.  End of the quiet around here.  But...........

The other boat could have been manufactured by the same company as our aluminum craft.  You know the kind, no frills, small outboard, and if you dropped an oar lock it would reverberate for miles on flat water.  The fisherman was standing and an apparent eight foot fly rod was bent in an ark where the tip almost touched the water.  He was a big man about six foot, so the extension of arm and rod were slowly wearing down the fish.  The entire scene was shrouded in fog and the flashing of the jumping fish could only be heard as the man did his predatory thing.

Once caught, he held it by the gills and the tail of the fish almost reached the floor of the boat.  Now this was not an Atlantic salmon (just the land locked brother),  but the fish was huge.  A solemn nod to each other as we passed and a simple "Nice fish" is a traditional greeting.  I slipped on by wondering if I would be next. 

Alas it was not to be.  The fog lifted and the beautiful lake made her appearance.  The salmon went to sleep or wherever it is they go when the fog lifts.  I was successful that morning and caught my two fish limit.  But more than that, I had two additional memories lasting for almost half a century.  That fish and that lake.