In Praise of Smallness

Fishing the Little Creeks

By Les Tanner

“Hello?”

“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.

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