Fishing With Dad
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Mostly they are good memories, up early in the morning
and heading to the foothill’s lakes and streams.
I’d fish near the car, while he'd go further off
coming back with a basket full of trout.
One time at the Kananaskis beaver ponds,
he came back early because he’d lost his
glasses when he’d disturbed a beehive.
When we went back to look for them,
the bees were still mad and we had to run
but never found his glasses. Another time,
I played peek-a-boo with a young otter and
neither of us fished. Then we’d head back,
often stopping at the Cremona Hotel, where
he’d buy get me a soda pop and chocolate bar
and I’d wait in the car, while he went inside
for a beer before driving home.
A few years later, I had my own waders and
the Zebco reel, I’d saved months for.
I would fish upstream, while he’d walk downstream
before turning upstream to fish, catching up with me
in a couple hours, always with more and bigger fish.
Once on the Fallen Timber, he met me on a deep pool where
I’d raised a big brook trout and we spent about ten minutes
teasing that fish to no avail and again I ended up
waiting outside the Cremona Hotel.
A year or two later, a glorious Indian Summer day
I headed upstream as usual and caught some good trout.
Around dusk, Dad hadn’t joined me, so I hiked up to
the road and walked back towards the car,
to meet him driving up the road and this time,
I had more and bigger fish. Nothing was said but
we didn’t stop that night at the Cremona Hotel.
Copyright © D.W. Rodgers | Year Posted 2020
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