Gone fishin'

Beautiful June days, with a full strawberry moon on the rise, makes me think that we should go fishing. I think of my brother-in-law, Art, this time of year. He died five years ago from brain cancer, on a night with a full moon rising, the same time of year we had always met somewhere to go fishing. My sister, Pam, and nieces, Cori and Lindsey, gathered this week in his memory and sent me some pictures from their trip to the ocean, including the funny sign here.

Think I'll post a little piece I wrote on the first anniversary of Art's passing, as a way to celebrate his life, and also as a little reminder that it's about time to pick up a pole and head to some water.... How about you? Are you going fishin' this summer?

A part of this tale Art and I came to call "The Last Cast." We never realized how it was truly the final chapter. This was two years ago, under the first full moon in June. We were canoeing the Flambeau River in northern Wisconsin on the last day of what would be our last fishing trip together.

We had two vehicles and had spaced them out for about a half day's trip from one to the other. It's a beautiful stretch of river, and the thought was to catch a few smallmouth bass. But mainly, as always, the idea was just to be on the water.

Art was always very focused in these deals--juggling gear and tackle, piloting the canoe, and figuring out how to catch a fish in a new stretch of water--all in a fast-moving channel. After a couple hours, Artie got the knack for how to catch a fish in these waters. Had to do with a certain lure lobbed almost on to the shore. The smallies were right up against the bank, and you had time for one quick cast in each promising pool. I think I was stubborn and stuck mostly to my own unsuccessful techniques, until a couple of football-sized bass of Art's won me over.

Now let me stop time and roll us back up the river. It was a place where we had stopped to have lunch. We had come to a section where the rapid flow widened into an area braided with sandbars and islands, and then divided in to two main channels. A long rocky sandbar above the fork presented itself as an easy spot to beach the boat. We stopped for lunch, to stretch, and cast a little.

I remember that after awhile we started picking up rocks and telling little stories about the life forms that were ensconced in that river. The narratives took us back a couple of ice ages ago. I don't remember the stories, and I'm not sure we brought home any of those rocks. (I'm going out to check my tackle box this evening.) But I know that for a few minutes we transcended time and felt in touch with something eternal.

Stories told, we pushed the boat back in the river and continued downstream, with the same pattern in place. Art catching fish. Me not. A couple hours later, we came around a bend and saw a few hundred yards away the towel that we'd tied around a tree to identify where we'd parked my truck. It would a matter of careful timing to get the canoe back across the river. We had to hurry. I still hadn't caught a fish, so I joked that I wanted to make one last cast. Art stuck an oar in the water and battled the current to give me time. Yes, indeed, I really did catch a beautiful football of a fish on The Last Cast. We laughed and laughed, high-fiving, then doggedly paddled across the river to shore.

Today, I think of that fork in the river, where we had lunch. How a year later, Art went one way and I went the other. I've learned that the water flows in both channels. It's just that I can't see him over there on the other side now. But I know that the river comes together again.