Streams Essay

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Streams Cold morning air filled my lungs as I stepped out of the car and onto the gravel. It was still very dark outside on this early June morning. It can’t have been any later than 5:30 am. My dad was getting equipment out of the car, going over a checklist that he had in his head. I could hear him mumbling, “Reels, polls, weighters, tackle box, lunch, bait,” as he got everything out and set it on the hood of the car. Once all the equipment was out, my dad handed me my tiny little tackle box and an eight and a half foot pole. The pole was massive in my four year old hands. We began our hike up to Devil’s Mouth, the stream that my dad had been fishing since he was a young man. The hike felt like it took forever. I could smell the wildflowers along the river getting closer and, as we finally approached the river, the sun began to rise, its golden beams bouncing off the rippling surface of the water. My dad helped me rig up my pole. I cast it as far as I could into the rapids, feeling my weight bounce along the bottom, tick, tick, tick, until my weight was now downstream. My dad said, “Boy, you’re at the bottom of your drift. Reel back and try again.” Within an hour I had landed my very first steelhead. One might find it amazing how the act of fathers and sons fishing together can really do a lot towards bringing a father and son closer together. My father was invariably a busy man all around. He and my mother divorced when I was a year and a half old. I only ended up seeing him a few times a year. Those early mornings spent fishing together were some of the best moments of my childhood. When I was on the river with my dad, it was easy to forget that I hadn’t seen him in a month or that he’d never taken the time to call. In those moments we were close, father and son doing something we both loved to do, etching a lifelong love of fishing into my

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