Fishing with Dad...
I could tell I hadn’t had enough
sleep; sleep is valuable to a twelve year old. Dad’s
encouragement to hurry was helped along by the smell of frying
onions and pancakes. The onions were going into the Dutch oven
that would be buried in the ground for the afternoon meal.
The pancakes… well I’d dispose of them before
we left this morning. Six o’clock a.m. was early, but Dad
didn’t want to
miss the early bite. My oversized waders kept the early morning
dew at bay as we hiked through the meadow towards the creek.
After dodging a few ominous Hereford bulls, we arrived at the “hole”.
Tying on #12 Captains to a fresh leader was a chore with my
cold hands. Dad started up river and me down. We’d meet
back at noon.
It was a great morning; the Cutts were
on the bite. In the
70’s
our equipment wasn’t what it is today, but the fish
didn’t
care. Upon arriving back to the “hole”, there
was Dad cleaning a limit. To watch Dad cast a fly was a thing
of
beauty. There wasn’t anything shabby (as he called
it) about his cooking either. The anticipation of pulling
that
old black pot from the ground full of lunch was about as
much expectation
as waiting for the sunrise, it was the perfect complement
to being out of doors.
I miss you Dad…and thanks. 
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