I worked all morning in the studio yesterday, but didn’t resist the call to go with Rufus and Sharon fishing for brookies. We drove up the Castle Town road and stopped at Zikmund’s. Vickie was mowing and Roger was haying, like every other rancher, but they gladly gave permission to fish. We walked to the stream and I became Rufus’ student. This is how you hold the pole…don’t let go of the line…let the fly float… those bookies will be in the shade… you’ve got to fool the fish. He continued to unfold the mysteries of fishing and I remained his clumsy mostly attentive student. My eyes were on the rippling live water, a transparent skin defined by the rocks and grasses it rolls over. It would be enough just to watch, but today I am with a devoted fisherman who learned from his daddy in South Carolina more than 60 years ago. He encouraged me, he encouraged the fish, but it was Rufus who reeled in dinner. Rufus fought them out of the water and I clutched them in the canvas creel carried over my shoulder with the brookies fighting against my hip, hoping for escape. “We are fighting for sport, but the fish are fighting for life"... wisdom passed on from Rufus’ daddy.
