and a couple of beat up old cane poles.
“So we cheat today?” Nathan said as he picked up a pole. Nathan and Sam had spent so much time in the creeks of Patience growing up that they would generally creep up to special pools and eddies where the trout would hang and catch them by hand. They shined frogs that way too, never using a gaff. That way they could have the fun without killing the bullfrog. They both liked frog legs, but it was hard to kill a big ol bull frog. It wasn’t about being squeamish, far from it. But most of the time a frog really doeslook like it’s minding its own business. Particularly with all the old stories about the frog prince, lawn ornaments, kiddie frog pools, and frog floaties. The frog has some standing in the amphibian-man world. You can’t just throw a spear through him, especially one that looks like a trident, so that the frog’s last thought was, “eh tu Poseidon?”
“We’ll show ‘em both ways.”
“Which one are you going to teach, my friend?” Nathan teased.
“We’ll all go together there, Farmer Nate.”
The sun filtered down through the tree tops and a gentle breeze made the temperature pleasant. The fresh smell and moisture in the air near the creek and the dark shadows cast from the banks kept the heat of the day away.
They walked, carrying the poles and a small tin can of grasshoppers across one of Nathan’s pastures, ducking under some low lying branches and down a short hill to where the creek ambled by. As they walked over the whitish stones that were the creek bed when the water was higher, Sam saw a water moccasin and pointed it out to Yves and Christine. He demonstrated by curling two fingers over like fangs and striking his arm, “Ne touch pas,” he said.
“So you do know some French. What’s it mean?” Nathan said.
“It means don’t touch.”
“Obviously you’ve met a French girl before.”
“Once or twice,” Sam said with a grin.
The creek meandered under and around oaks and cottonwoods, twisting around with a few straightaways. The depth varied as the creek bit into the banks and created some deep pools and shady spots where Sam and Nathan always found something. It was cool and still under the canopy, with only a slight rustle of the cottonwood leaves at the very top of the trees. The sound of cicadas was everywhere. Sam reached up and cupped a cicada out of a tree and showed it to the boy. He was fascinated by the large, prehistoric looking insect and reached out to touch it right away.
“We’ll turn him into a Missouri country boy yet, just like I did you,” Sam said.
“No, I turned you into a Masai warrior who happens to live in Missouri.”
Sam took a fly out of a small packet in his pocket and tied it to the end of his line and gestured for Yves to follow him to the edge of the water. Sam dropped the fly into the current and let it be carried down into asmall pocket just adjacent to a patch of faster running water. Just as the fly floated into the pocket there was a silvery flash as a trout took it. Sam handed the pole to Yves and showed him how to pull back and land the fish. The boy landed a beautiful rainbow trout just the right size. Sam showed Yves the gunny sack to put the fish in. The kid was way ahead of him. He easily took the hook from the mouth of the fish, dropped it into the bag, tied the top with a cord, and set the bag into the stream, weighing it down with a rock. Yves then took the pole and promptly caught another fish. Just as that happened, Christine picked up one of the fly rods, attached a fly and expertly flicked it into another small, likely pool, almost immediately hooking into one.
“Who’s teaching who, Sammy?” Nathan said, duly impressed.
“I bet they can’t catch ‘em in their hands,” Sam answered.
“No way am I betting against ole Bill Dance there. She’s as good as I’ve ever seen,” Nathan said.
It was true. Christine handled the rod with complete control and touch. It was
“So we cheat today?” Nathan said as he picked up a pole. Nathan and Sam had spent so much time in the creeks of Patience growing up that they would generally creep up to special pools and eddies where the trout would hang and catch them by hand. They shined frogs that way too, never using a gaff. That way they could have the fun without killing the bullfrog. They both liked frog legs, but it was hard to kill a big ol bull frog. It wasn’t about being squeamish, far from it. But most of the time a frog really doeslook like it’s minding its own business. Particularly with all the old stories about the frog prince, lawn ornaments, kiddie frog pools, and frog floaties. The frog has some standing in the amphibian-man world. You can’t just throw a spear through him, especially one that looks like a trident, so that the frog’s last thought was, “eh tu Poseidon?”
“We’ll show ‘em both ways.”
“Which one are you going to teach, my friend?” Nathan teased.
“We’ll all go together there, Farmer Nate.”
The sun filtered down through the tree tops and a gentle breeze made the temperature pleasant. The fresh smell and moisture in the air near the creek and the dark shadows cast from the banks kept the heat of the day away.
They walked, carrying the poles and a small tin can of grasshoppers across one of Nathan’s pastures, ducking under some low lying branches and down a short hill to where the creek ambled by. As they walked over the whitish stones that were the creek bed when the water was higher, Sam saw a water moccasin and pointed it out to Yves and Christine. He demonstrated by curling two fingers over like fangs and striking his arm, “Ne touch pas,” he said.
“So you do know some French. What’s it mean?” Nathan said.
“It means don’t touch.”
“Obviously you’ve met a French girl before.”
“Once or twice,” Sam said with a grin.
The creek meandered under and around oaks and cottonwoods, twisting around with a few straightaways. The depth varied as the creek bit into the banks and created some deep pools and shady spots where Sam and Nathan always found something. It was cool and still under the canopy, with only a slight rustle of the cottonwood leaves at the very top of the trees. The sound of cicadas was everywhere. Sam reached up and cupped a cicada out of a tree and showed it to the boy. He was fascinated by the large, prehistoric looking insect and reached out to touch it right away.
“We’ll turn him into a Missouri country boy yet, just like I did you,” Sam said.
“No, I turned you into a Masai warrior who happens to live in Missouri.”
Sam took a fly out of a small packet in his pocket and tied it to the end of his line and gestured for Yves to follow him to the edge of the water. Sam dropped the fly into the current and let it be carried down into asmall pocket just adjacent to a patch of faster running water. Just as the fly floated into the pocket there was a silvery flash as a trout took it. Sam handed the pole to Yves and showed him how to pull back and land the fish. The boy landed a beautiful rainbow trout just the right size. Sam showed Yves the gunny sack to put the fish in. The kid was way ahead of him. He easily took the hook from the mouth of the fish, dropped it into the bag, tied the top with a cord, and set the bag into the stream, weighing it down with a rock. Yves then took the pole and promptly caught another fish. Just as that happened, Christine picked up one of the fly rods, attached a fly and expertly flicked it into another small, likely pool, almost immediately hooking into one.
“Who’s teaching who, Sammy?” Nathan said, duly impressed.
“I bet they can’t catch ‘em in their hands,” Sam answered.
“No way am I betting against ole Bill Dance there. She’s as good as I’ve ever seen,” Nathan said.
It was true. Christine handled the rod with complete control and touch. It was
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