|
|
 |
Painting Canada - The trout
The trout
Our daughter, Sierra, had been talking about fishing for six weeks. She had made up stories about fishing, drawn pictures of herself fishing and asked me when, oh when, would we go fishing. She had even located bait, a secret cache of worms hidden under a log near the fire grate. They were checked daily to make sure they were fresh and ready for any last minute fishing expedition.
My voice echoed and thundered inside the shell of our canoe as I carried it over my head down the path to Moab Lake. We talked about fishing, Sierra and I, as the sun glistened off of the little blue lake that we could see through the trees. I answered all-important questions about whether or not worms could see the fish coming to eat them, and when to let go of the yellow button on the dinosaur reel for the perfect cast.
Out on the tiny mountain lake, fish were rising for insects. Their little splashes were the only imperfections on a mirror in the mountains. We paddled through the centre, unzipping the lake with our wake, until we got to the tangle of fallen logs at the far end. I baited the little purple fishing rod. Sierra watched as if it were surgery. She raised the rod, checked her thumb on the yellow button, flung it with all her might, and frightened herself with a noisy plop! as her offering splashed into the water beside the boat.
I explained to her the art of presentation, and she tried again, this time with better results. Her gooey worm-gob hung suspended in the light rays of the shallow water.
The little bobber floated serenely and peacefully on the surface. I leaned back and faced the sun, closed my eyes and breathed in the mountain air. I smelled the dry pines and the new growth of the alders. Swallows twittered somewhere overhead. I began to drift like the boat…
“Daddy!” She whispered. “Daddy!!” I half opened the eye closest to her. The little bobber had come alive, diving below the surface once, twice, three times and not to return. Sierra held the little dinosaur rod as though it was Moses’ staff turned to a snake. She was about to toss the whole crazy mess overboard when I came fully to life. Snatching the rod from her hands I quickly set the hook. There was a bright silver flash in the water below as the trout began its erratic fight. Sierra’s eyes widened as she saw the rainbow-colored gem being drawn overboard, but she quickly decided it was all too much for her and would only face the front of the boat from then on.
I’m not sure if it was fear or guilt that had overcome her, but I took the opportunity to quickly dispense of the trout with the net handle. No amount of coaxing would convince my daughter to look back at the fading fish in the back of the canoe. She had set her face forward, and hardly spoke as we paddled across the lake.
“What’s for dinner?” Sierra asked as I worked in the tiny trailer kitchen.
“Fish,” I said with a smile. “I’m taking his guts out now.” At dinner she watched Linda and I eat with a look of disgust on her face.
We’ve put the little purple dinosaur fishing rod with the yellow reel under the bed for now, since Sierra hasn’t spoken about fishing for days.
Author: | 0 Comments
| Post a comment | Topic: | Permalink
|
Article Index
 |