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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Les Tanner

About Les Tanner

Les Tanner is shown here with his late wife, Ruby, to whom he was married for more than sixty years, and who also was on the staff of IDAHO magazine. When Les, a retired teacher, isn’t working on the magazine's calendar, proofreading, fishing, writing, playing pickleball, or pulling weeds, he’s out looking for Jimmy the cat.