On the proper Sunday afternoon she dons her fishing clothes, packs a picnic, in a birch open topped basket, everything swaddled in a large cloth she will use as a tablecloth once she’s at the base of the falls.
First things first, she scrounges some firewood, hooks a worm and tosses it in the big pool letting it settle wherever it may, then like opening a gift she packed for herself out of the cloth comes her Sundays supper.
The fire is quite small, just a simple drift of uprising woodsmoke, she don’t need it to cook, its far too warm a day to require its heat, but, she just relishes the smell of a campfire.
A piece of cold chicken was interrupted by a brookie to small to keep, no matter, rebait, rinse fingers, no worries, no hurries. By midafternoon, the contents of the basket were getting fairly sparse, reloaded with three keeper brookies, all cleaned streamside, she tosses the remaining worms in the deeply swirling hole, feeding them to get bigger, she figures. Lofts her little basket, cradles the fishing rod and up from the falls she comes. Always gives one last listen to the cascading waters, gives the place a genial smile, closes her truck door and off home she goes.
--The trout whisperer
