The biggest fish story
I am not an experienced fisherman, but some years ago I went with a friend on his annual trip to a remote lake in Canada. We spent most of a week at the family fishing cabin on an island surrounded by a vast expanse of water. The boat trip to the island took more than an hour. We fished from morning to evening. In the evening we prepared, cooked and ate the day's catch. In the cabin hung a homemade plaque that read: "Walleye—Tastes Like Cake." It was true.
After dinner, in the dark and around a fire, we told fish stories from the day. My stories were mainly about my ineptitude as a fisherman—how I almost steered the boat onto rocks, how I climbed a cliff with fishing lures stuck in my pocket and suffered the predictable prickly consequences.
As I say, I am not a real fisherman. But it was easy to enjoy myself that idyllic week. Our boat rocked on the surface of crystalline blue water. The sky was wide and open and empty even of jet contrails. Our hours on the water were punctuated by sightings of bald eagles and sonically backgrounded by the calls of loons. I even caught a few fish.
