Perhaps the cold temps, or maybe the early hour, but I was feeling pretty lazy. In the dark, everything was so quiet; I didn’t even hurry to make a cast.
I just sipped my coffee and listened to almost nothing. One odd morning when I couldn’t hear the wind, waves or anything for that matter.
First I refilled my cup, then I grabbed two rods, walked down to the shore and with nothing more to go on then I think this is the spot, I took up my post.
I thought right then and there, what a dark thought I was having, and I wished I had invited no one. Maybe last night inviting them all, might turn out to be a mistake. I thought into who I was, and looking around, seeing no one, I could have just driven off without any explanation; they would never have known I was there, and left, but something inside made me stay and I knew, I was certain, loud was on its way.
Legal fishing time came, and went, I still did nothing. I thought about how many mornings I drove like crazy to get here, rushed down to the shore and flailed everything in my fishing armor at marauding fish that over the years, some bit and some did not. Inside I was flinching at quiet thoughts and an unusually soundless morning.
Just prior to the sun bursting over the horizon four ducks slash air literally alongside my head making noise, noise, for the sake of noise, as they swish to a watery halt, one tangling in my fishing line breaking my transcendental state, leaving me wrenched alert.
After I tugged, the duck tussled, she quack’t up quite a raucous that in the end freed her from her momentarily restrained condition. She then physically meandered an verbally me-amphed over to her feathered friends.
I quit watching the ducks as two fathers with two sons each headed to where I was standing and with exceptional volume they all greeted me and the day. All this human chatter set the ducks to quacking and taking flight.
Four excited Boys asked dads all kinds of questions as we got the sons rods rigged and into fishing.
My rod started to dance a second time this morning, and not seeing a duck, I set the hook on what turned out to be a rather respectable salmon, which one son, decided all on his own, he would wade into the great Lake Superior and net it.
With great whoops and hollering he hoisted my prize and roared to shore letting the entire world know that his feet were now thoroughly soaked and freezing. I thanked the exuberant son, paid my respects to the fathers and remaining boys in tow, and I departed. I walked to my truck; gradually their voices were swallowed by the distance between us. The trout whisperer