He purchased a brand-new fishing rod, a first for him, and a day later a nonresident Minnesota fishing license; he was ready. He inks the permit, we slide the canoes in the water, he takes aim with his paddle, and asks, waving the blade, “Is that an island” I said, “Sure is, and we can just go to it and hike around, I said absolutely.
For the next two and one half days, I saw him fish but a few times, unlike stepping out of his canoe, at each and every island, they so fascinated him, rocky shores, sandy shores, mucky bottoms, large pond weed in the bays, crowned out cedars. For a grown man, he really liked the impromptu swimming quite a bit, he handled endless freshwater clam shells, pointing out dipping birds tracks, he started a drift wood collection that simply got out of control, he dialed back his wet wood souvenir shopping finally settling on one rooty web of tangles, and if he would have had to portage it, it would have remained shore side, it was fairly heavy.
At the trip’s end, everything was tied on top of the trucks, and like a true showstopper, there was his regal piece of driftwood. He had it packed up top so, going down the road, nobody would be able to miss it. And his favorite part of the trip wasn’t any huge fish or the memory of a moose; nope, never mentioned a sunrise. I never saw him take one picture; he just kept smiling at that piece of driftwood.
--The trout whisperer
