getting the newspaper synchronization without a fire winter

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the black

We've set up camp. Stretched tarps from red elm to red elm to cover our site, chopped plenty of wood for the fire, and put up the tent. We've made it through one day and one night of poor weather. Made it through by playing euchre, eating baked beans and venison jerky, and by drinking. Made it through in familiar, brotherly silence. Communicating through proximity. Nods, hand gestures, facial expressions. I'm relieved that we don't have to talk to be speaking.

It's early May. An overcast day. Cold and peppered with sprinkles. Waders on, ultra-light rods and reels, 4lb test. Light tackle. Tiny spinners and small jigs. Soft-bodied, plastic grubs and worms with curly tails. Plastic frogs and artificial minnows with yellow eyes. Tiny hooks shoved into pieces of nightcrawler or salmon eggs.

We're in it. Thigh deep in the icy water of the Black River. Wading and casting. Wading and casting some more.

“She didn't love you, anyway,” Seth says, taking off one lure and putting on another.

I cast. The current moves the crawler downstream, parallel to the bank for for several yards, then pulls the line away from it, into a dark spot in the water.

“I know she didn't.”

“Why'd you stay with her so long?” he asks.

It feels like I have a bite. I want to believe I do, but when I give the line a jerk, I'm snagged.

“I stayed with her because that's what we're supposed to do.”

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