Re: Planers
I tried the planer last year.
I'll try again with your helpful info.
The fact remains... I have to get to the other side of the river!
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October
Never mind that I have a whole stretch of river bank to fish. I need to fish the other side!
My bobber floats down the current, mid stream, and my arm is suspended high. I am trying to avoid a large belly in my line. I mend it, but am unable to reach that pocket that must hold thousands of big lunker chinook. They are just out of my reach. Plans run through my head... the canoe! I could put the canoe in, run over there, sit on that rock and then I would be into these fish!
The fish may not even be there, but my imagination insists they are.
They are there, therefore I am not.
The canoe might be dangerous, I tell myself... I have kids who care, ("My Mommy drowned trying to get those fish") and besides, how would I haul that 50 lb chinook back to home base? My mind races with possibilities, scenarios.
Back to the garage to get the side planer. This is my canoe, my poor mans drift boat. Thirty minutes at my kitchen table, reading and building my weapon of choice, I head out to experiment.
It's like learning to fly a kite. Constant maneuvering, constant attention paid to which currents are swift enough to carry my lure, and yet deep enough to hold the weight off the bottom. I will get to that magic fish producer over there. I am an addict desperate for a fix.
Two hours, and two aching arms later, I know. I must get the canoe. Yeah, sure, the side planer got me over there, but the fish need bait. Eggs and shrimp, not a wobbler. (A spinner, not a herring. Eggs, not shrimp. The Wilson, not the Trask...A drift rig, not a bobber...) Those fish are still there, those magic, invisible fish that are eluding me. They eluded me the whole of Chinook season on the Kilchis last year. This year I cannot let that happen. My fish ego will die.
My fitful sleep was full of ideas last night. I did trouble shooting in my mind.
Bill could get out the drift boat and give me a ride. "Please, Bill.... to the other side". He will comply, but will he remember I am there? Will he begin mowing the lawn, the last of the late summer growth, become absorbed in his chore list and forget me? Would darkness come and I would be lost in the forest? The fish I caught become bait for the bears to come get me? Or would he see me catch those fish, become green with envy and purposely leave me there? Would some friendly drift boat-passer by have mercy on me and let me hitch a ride?
"Let's give that poor girl with those big fish a ride home." I don't think so. It's hard to play innocent girl on the other side of the river when you have a limit of fresh, chrome chinook.
I do know, if I could only get to the other side of the river, life would be good again. Salmon would be dancing on my line, cast after cast. Dream upon dreams will be made.
From my standing place on the bank, I stare past the waters that hold me back as effectively as a bull in a meadow. That moss covered rock over there, where I would lay out my tackle and bask in the dim winter sun. The dark, green, depths of chinook holding water, so close to me that I could reach out and touch the backs of those silver flashes in the water.
The grass is always greener, the river always more full of fish... if I could only get to the other side.
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The goal in Life's Journey is not to arrive at the grave safely in a well preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, totally worn out, shouting "whooo hoooo (!) what a ride!"
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