Sometimes the river is so lovely, the light falling softly on the water or the mist creating an air of mystery, that I forget why I'm there. The fishing lost in birdsong and the sound of the water in the riffle. Last night was one of those nights. Oh I caught fish, for a few minutes smallmouth came almost every cast, right at dark stacked up in an eddy below a fast run. But what I'll take away most from tonight was a basswood leaf looking like nothing more than a broken heart drowning in the water. And walking down to the water, the buck that walked out into the field and then jumped when he saw me, reminding me of how when you walk right up on someone and they turn and jump out of their skin when they see you. It's hard for even a buck to keep his dignity when frightened that badly.
I looked around at the last minute and couldn't find anything I wanted to take with me to eat so I stuffed a half empty bag of marshmallows in the pack and feasted, feeling like a little kid roasting them over a twig fire on the riverbank. A beautiful fog came with the night slowly covering the river in a soft blanket for the night.
I fished live bait on the big baitcaster. A small drum about the size of my hand, hoping for a big shovelhead. Sometime in the middle of the night a fish took it but then let it go. On the other rod I fished nightcrawlers and fared much better. A sauger, three drum, and two small catfish. And a big carp, not a giant, but big enough that his tail flopped over out of the landing net.
