Fishing Is

Fishing is not alone the intelligent pursuit of shadowy creatures beneath the surface of still or hurrying waters.

Fishing is the discovery of pale pink arbutus, flowering in the shelter of an oak leaf. It is the flaming candelabra of a cardinal flower standing erect in a shadowed brook; the fragrance of a wild strawberry; or the shy beauty of a wild rose blooming in the root loop of a weather-beaten stump. Fishing is the awareness and enjoyment of these and other miracles, by the hundreds, along the varied margin of a watercourse.

Fishing is the pause beneath a covered bridge, when, overhead, a passing car sheds shimmering particles of dust which turn to a golden shower in the slanting rays of a waning sun.

Fishing is a pipe enjoyed, back against rock, listening to liquid love poured on the dampening air of the evening by a hermit thrush, unseen.

Fishing is a drink which any wise physician would prescribe at the end of the day, the perfect antidote, second only to sleep, for weariness. And if perchance a clumsy boot has filled to brim with water but lately mountain snow, a drink, indeed, holds power to save a life.

Fishing is companionship with a company of men, each of whom, along the stream or around the fire, divesting himself of all distinctions of the world, reverts to the simple man, welcomed and respected by others who are similarly blessed with the power to comprehend.