....winter

Karl Seckinger

Karl "Trout Whisperer" Seckinger is an outdoor enthusiast and resides in northeastern Minnesota.

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....winter

Posted by: Karl Seckinger Updated: June 27, 2012 - 6:31 AM

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So after a fine afternoon of fishing, feeling abit of extra hitch in my giddy up, I thought it had been a while since I aired the old outboard out. I secured all my gear, revved the Evinrude up, and roared off down lake. Water with waves was a whizzing by, the air felt so cool under a totally clear blue sky, I felt like one lucky boy. Funniest thing happened, I came round the tip of the only island and there was a gently floating flock of seagulls. Well I went to back off the throttle, but it didn’t, either the throttle struck, or my hand brain coordination was off, but did those lazy white winged birds get a surprise. They lofted up with a gull squadron squawking raucous roar, as I roared right through them, then suddenly the motor went right back to working perfectly. Made me laugh. Made me think, it’s not winter. At the boat landing I was loading up to leave when others with tow ropes and tubes were just going out. Late in the day I was done, and that lake was set to get an afternoon of aerobics from some sunbathers to jet setting jet skiers of what I guessed, based on how they were dressed, college kids on summer break. One young couple said they were going to the island and just do nothing, but lay in the sand, she wanted to work on her suntan, he said he was going along to help, and we all laughed. Suntan as opposed to wind chills, yup I said to myself it aint winter, so you better enjoy it while you can, like last Sunday I was walking out of the local grocery store and one suntan, with two sandals, in a gorgeous sundress went walking past me. I got a smile from her that was wider than the beam on my boat, I’m still not right in the head over that eye candy, but once again, I had to stop and smell the roses, because it aint winter. Its salad season, strawberry shortcake and spotted fawns. Fresh mowed lawn and one glass after another of my neighbor lady’s own brand of lemonade. She makes hers with rhubarb juices and if you’re not ready for it, after one glass you will weed the sugar snap peas until the cows truly do come home. See, it’s not like hot chocolate warming your winter warn soul. This stuff will lighting strike your tongue, it’s deceiving looking, so pink and pale in an ice drip’t tumbler but to revive my taste buds, I bother her until she pours me some, and it may have even washed away one memory of an especially cold day last January. The trout whisperer