fishing

Say I had a friend who loved to fish. In the company of others. (I don’t have such a friend: no one close to me fishes with a passion. Or at all.) Would I agree to stand in rubber duds days on end with a pole and a line, waiting for a pull? Or, to sit in a hut on icy Lake Menona and watch my bucket fill with bluegills, crappies and perch (that’s what I’m told fills buckets here)?

Surely I would go along, so long as it wasn’t significantly uncomfortable. Maybe I would request a hut with some heating options, like this one:





And yet, there is this to consider: how far would you go to do something you regard as substantially boring with someone you cared for? Not very far. You are more likely to tolerate boredom when you are young. Very young.

Musings on a winter evening, while preparing fish for dinner.