Social Fisherman

As we prep to embark on this year's summer camping adventures, I came across a recycled paper journal with my musings from last year, shoved in a bin with some flashlights and other camping paraphenalia. Here's an entry from Blue Lake, Modoc National Forest. July 12, 2010.

Some people are social drinkers, others are social eaters. This trip reinforced a comclusion I had reached years ago: my husband is a social fisherman. Hailing from some die-hard linesman, the only time I have ever seen him with a net in hand - because you need a license to wield a pole - is with his parents and his brothers.

So, shortly past five in the morning, I smelled coffee, heard the fire popping, and the tent zipping shut. And he was off. Hours later the boats returned to drop off the morning catch and retrieve the next generation of fisherManns - Riley, Dylan, and their cousin Ephraim. They split up the novices, putting Riley and Eph in the rowboat with Grandpa while Dyn accompanied Uncle Shannon, Uncle Abe, and Grandma in the motor-driven craft.

While the boys were occupied, Jake and I headed to the hills. Because the last snow was Memorial Day weekend, Spring was late in arriving and the meadows were blanketed in an array from the vivid red and yellow columbine to the sunny blossoms above the fuzzy lambs' ears and the odd, pale orbs of the ranger's buttons to the blood red of the menacing thistle.

While I like to eat fish and I like water, this was more my pace. Sitting captive on a boat, watching people dangling lines in the water...not my idea of fun.