Since last Saturday, weather and work squeezed out any fishing time for my husband and me until today. This morning we finally had time to go to the nearby pond. The legal limit for trout there is five per day per person. I caught the limit in less than an hour. None seemed to want to hitch on to Vic’s line, though we were using similar lures.
One trout rode my hook, and I reeled him in to shore, only to have him jump back into the water. After a brief time, he evidently regretted his escape, and swam back to the shore and stopped there. I reached in with my grippy glove and lifted him from the water. He was passive or exhausted. I handed him off to Vic for dispatch. He discovered the source of the trout’s passivity. In a previous encounter, he had swallowed a hook and escaped with it. The hook was lodged in his stomach. How sad; but I suppose he appealed to us to end his misery. Vic has read that fish have no nerves in their mouths, but that is not to say that a hook in the stomach doesn’t hurt.
We returned home with the five and Vic prepared them for canning. They filled three quart jars.
Fishing is such a blessing. I’m violently allergic to fish, but I love fishing. My husband also enjoys fishing, and fish is a healthy component of his diet, as well as a food he finds very agreeable.
Our Lord shared fish with His disciples after His resurrection. Fish is a Gospel food, and all we catch is thankfully consumed.
Preparing fresh-caught trout for canning
I printed a selfie that my husband took of the two of us at Dworshak Lake when we were there fishing last week. I think it is the best photo ever taken of us, and I printed an 8 x 10 and mailed it to my mum-in-law, who lives in the small, artsy town of Aurora, Oregon. I mailed it in a 9” x 12” manila envelope, certified mail with tracking, from our local post office in southeastern Washington State. I included a note of thanks for the wonderful, thoughtful trove she sent for my birthday.
A tracking email informed me the envelope had left our local post office. Today I received a notification of formidable progress. My mum-in-law’s mail had arrived at the post office. In Atlanta, Georgia.
Oregon zip codes begin with 9. Georgia zip codes begin with 3. I live 365 miles from Aurora, and 2,386 miles from Atlanta.
I called our local post office, presented the facts, and asked how these things happen. The clerk posited that my envelope piggy-backed onto another piece of mail and wound up on the wrong plane. She said Atlanta would put it on another plane and send it on to the addressee, probably making delivery a day later. I thought that she might be a bit over-optimistic, but the content is, after all, replaceable; the photo is in both my and my husband’s computers.
I called my mum-in-law and told her I didn’t want her to think I was remiss in posting a thank-you card, and the fact that her card was sent to Atlanta. She thought it was wonderfully funny, and appraised the situation in her usual way, “All is in divine order,” and this time she added, “And it makes me laugh, too!” Her buoyancy is one reason I love her so much.
Friday evening we stood on the edge of Evans Pond and caught eight trout in about an hour and a half. Cottonwood fluff balls stuck to our lures, competing unsuccessfully with the trout.
Saturday, we returned with Pisca-Dory to Chief Timothy Park, hoping to catch bass and crappie. We caught no fish in three and a half hours, but the quiet and beauty of the day, and especially the pelicans, made the day significant and delightful. Rain fell off and on, but we stayed warm and fairly dry with our gear.
The large flock of pelicans still held counsel on their island, and a smaller cohort occupied a smaller isle with a tree. I named the small isle Pelican Island, because the tree gave the tiny outpost a sense of enchantment.
is the best dirt bath in the whole world!
I’m honestly not either; at least Effie’s candid about her tastes.
Effie, Warrior of the Brome, works out a strategy. . .
to take no prisoners.