2/12/2024 0 Comments She got stuck in the quicksand![]() ![]() The harder she pulled one leg, the deeper the other would sink. Her rubber, knee-high boots quickly became enveloped into an inescapable vacuum. The tall grass and riparian buffer concealed the mud in which we would soon find ourselves to be trapped. We noticed the ground below us becoming softer as we approached the stream. Along the way, we discovered a hidden danger that would keep us from ever fishing that day, and ultimately, the rest of trout season. Soon after my father was out of sight, my mother and I embarked on a short journey to our designated fishing spot. Any mortal man would have sustained a concussion from such an impact, but not my father. Just when I thought the cord could take no more, the net would snap back at the speed of sound, striking my father in the back of the head. Each time the net became entangled in a sticker bush, the elastic cord stretched to the verge of its breaking point. Like Lewis and Clark, my father forged ahead with great determination. Not recognizing this as a sign of what was to come, I waited for the elastic cord to fail but it never did. Watching the net become entangled in every sticker bush he passed, I studied the thin elastic cord linking the net to his tattered K-Mart fishing vest. I focused in on my father’s fishing net as he disappeared into the brush. If there was a trout fishing Hall of Fame, my father’s vest would definitely be on display. Before she and I even put on our boots, my father was off. My mother and I were left to fish the section of stream closest to the car. He owned that hole, and he was not about to let some local worm slinger beat him to it. Shortly after arriving at our local put and take stream, my father hastily put on his gear and hurried downstream to get to his favorite hole. One of my earliest fishing memories was the day my father put off saving my mother’s life because he was sure there was a brown trout at the end of the run he was fishing. If not for her patience and foresight, I may never have become an angler. Picking her spots carefully and methodically working a section of water, she would often out fish the men who begrudgingly looked on from the next hole down.īut unlike my father, who would let me cry on the bank and fend for myself, my mother took the time to untangle my line or walk me back to the car to get dry clothes after I inevitably fell in. With a more patient approach than my father, she didn’t move around the stream as much (or chum). She, too, was quite proficient at slinging corn for stocked trout. In my earliest trout fishing trips, I always seemed to end up with my mother. If not for my mother, I may never have survived my earliest days on the trout stream. ![]()
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