Anything too easy has questionable value.
We knew it would be a long way up to the high country. The end of this rocky trail promised mountain views, lakes teeming with cutthroats, and a place where three brothers and their father could bond. To be sure, the oldest brother insisted on strapping cartons of Coors to our packs, and using his endurance barometer, set a steady but brutal pace for the furthest point on the trail map. The old man groaned and moaned every mile or so.
Early the first morning, before the second cup, they walked down the path to the shore. Toting their rods and reels, they decided to move further to the other side where the river entered the lake. The sun was still short of cresting the ridge, and the river was heavy with flow. The brother saw the shadows first. Closer inspection brought smiles to them all. The trout were lined up from bank to bank like the Russian army. Scrambling for bait and rig combinations recanted from b
arbershop magazines, they attacked the opportunity.
arbershop magazines, they attacked the opportunity.This was a rare collision of providence and desire.
But through all the fun and success using the newest fishing technologies to produce our dinner, one of us, the middle son, (his mother
often thought he would become a man of the cloth, and he did, albeit Japanese cloth), decided to do it an old fashioned way. Sitting along the stream, he quietly sharpened a spear. And though it took a while for him to perfect his craft, while we were hoisting our catch on a skewer, he walked out of the river with a trout on his spear, his way.
often thought he would become a man of the cloth, and he did, albeit Japanese cloth), decided to do it an old fashioned way. Sitting along the stream, he quietly sharpened a spear. And though it took a while for him to perfect his craft, while we were hoisting our catch on a skewer, he walked out of the river with a trout on his spear, his way.
