News

Paddling down memory lane: Our big fish story

A calm, overcast Saturday morning many Junes ago. A canoe. Two fishing rods.

Myself, a young woman, home from the city, and my dad. A body of water, off-limits to motorboats, that we have fished together for years.

We embark on established rituals: hefting the canoe off the van, trekking the tackle box and night crawler tub and snack cooler off the county road and down the bank, keeping the tops of the rods out of the overhanging branches. He drives the van off a ways and parks it. I set up the seat cushions on our canoe and position the paddles. By the time he’s back, I’m in the front of the canoe, already floating on the water, peering down at the minnows dancing beneath the surface. It’s an easy push from the shore, and in seconds we are out away from land, each paddling clean strokes across the lake.

Previous ArticleNext Article