A whale of a tale

Have you ever had one of those getaways that were magical? This one falls into that category. The river and the camp was at its peak this trip. The fishing, to be truthful, had its moments. The water was too high at times to catch a lot of fish, but when the water was down, the fishing was perfect. I took my new fly rod out on the water, and for the first time in years, I actually fly fished.

You see, Little Clover goes fishing with us on every trip. He took his first steps on a fishing weekend. He got his own pole when he was 2. For most of our trips, he sat on someone's lap while fishing, or played in the river, or threw rocks trying to skip them like Papa Clover, but not this trip (okay, he did perfect his rock skipping, watch out Papa Clover). This trip, he fished, on his own. My little guy had grown up a bit more. The bittersweetness of it allowed me to wade out into the water and be close enough to help him rebait his hook or net a fish, but far enough away that I had space to cast with a fly rod, and I did.

I watched the water for when the fish ate, and how they ate. I looked to see what they were eating. I selected my fly, casted, and after a few minutes, I had one!

It was this big.

(I'll let you judge the accuracy of the picture, but like all good fishermen, I'm sticking to my story.)

Later that night, with Little Clover up way past a decent bedtime, we took a short drive out to a wide open meadow, and watched a field of fireflies glowing in the grass, in the trees, in the sky. It was a field of stars twinkling on the earth. Now, that is magical.