More Than Fishing

The conversations crackle and squelch along with the percolating coffee. Snapping grease from the frying bacon hisses and gurgles as it barely penetrates my eardrums over the humming of the generator.

The chill of the wind and the dew now caked on the inner walls of the tent drop after each cuss word flies from the mouths of adolescent minded youths donning senior citizens garb.

They move with pain and caution and without waste of motion, all taking part, rhythmically negotiating past cots, the wood burning stove, and one another with the tightest of clearances as if in a salt and pepper haired orchestra.

Melodically playing their individual instruments in harmony. The days forecast not only calls detailed accounts of lighthearted excursions in beautiful countrysides but the reminiscence of previous trips where friends whom are no longer able to make the annual trips because of a bad heart or knee or death are spoken about in caring regard and with the orator grinning as he holds court during his makeshift eulogy.

Some fishing will take place along the reservoir and off the banks of a lake known to produce beautiful trout. Mainly though, the picture will be a handful of salt of the earth retirees each sitting quietly yards from one another in each his own comfortable peace knowing the men he has surrounded himself with have kept no secrets nor would hesitate to protect him from what may come.

With their minds as still as the water on a the lake void of a breeze, they rest, and wait with the a patience that only a man who has seen a thing or two throughout his many chapters can genuinely appreciate. Hoping for a bite, and the thrill of the catch and the tale of the time when they all shared and remembered what it had been like then.


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