WhatFinger

I loved that fly rod. It was a work of art, fashioned from split bamboo cane

You Ain’t Fishing If You Ain’t Fishing Cane


You Ain’t Fishing If You Ain’t Fishing Cane All day long I watched the fly. My arms ached; I had a crick in my neck; I was tired and hungry … but determined not to quit. My father, watching from the lake’s edge as he grilled hamburgers, thought I was wasting my time. Even a kingfisher seemed to smirk at the futility of my efforts as he preened himself and whizzed in blue blurs from one cypress knee to another.
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