In Praise of Smallness
Fishing the Little Creeks
By Les Tanner
“Ken? This is Les.”
The static, the thunder, and the rain hammering on the roof of my SUV were a bit distracting, so I wasn’t even sure I was talking to Ken, a former student of mine.
“Hey, Les. What’s up? I was beginning to wonder.”
“We’re halfway there and waterlogged.”
“A bit damp here, too, I’m afraid.”
“How’s the river?”
“Chocolate and rising. Won’t be a hungry trout around until July.”
Ah, the best laid plans . . .
“I guess that does it for this time, my friend. Maybe we can try again this fall.”
Ken agreed, and since there was not much more to say, I hung up, and Ken went to make sure his cows were okay.
“So this is what your weather-guessers call ‘scattered showers,’” said Michael. “Back in Chicago, this is called a storm.”
“Bunch of wimps.”
We were parked at a C-store, and I knew of a motel up the road a piece. “Want to camp in tonight? I assume wimps prefer dryness.”
By chance, the first night of our camping and fishing trip was spent in a place called the Indian Village Lodge.
“At least it’ll keep our wigs wam,” said Michael.
“You could be Siouxed for a remark like that.”
“If anyone knows about poor puns, it’s Ute.”
“You are hereby Bannocked from speaking for the rest of the evening!”
“Okay by me. Anyway, I’m teepee, so I think I’ll just Hopi into bed.”
And we still had four days to go.