I went out in the rain, I caught one nice brown two pools down from Dave’s house, then snuck up to his back door. In a steady, light rain I checked my knots, all of them, and then made my cast.
One of those times I thought I might have moved it with my fly, but I couldn’t be sure. Just like I couldn’t be sure that it was the biggest of them all because I hadn’t caught it. But not being able to catch a fish many times surely means it must be the biggest.
If you only carry one of something, say a lighter, then when it runs out of fuel, you’re done. Unless you have a second way of starting a fire, like matches. Then your two ways has become one, but you still have one.
In a couple places there was just enough room for the canoe to pass in between protruding limbs and naked, sun-bleached trunks. They looked like old bones. Skeletons of the woods in their temporary resting places until higher waters would eventually move them again. They’d end up in the lake someday as smaller, whiter, polished driftwood stacked against a far shore.
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