About time I got back to fishing lunch hours. Driving along the Delaware & Raritan Canal well before I got to Round Valley, I thought of how much fun I had last fall, even though I caught few pickerel. Sometimes the thoughts I have while fishing make my steps dance involuntarily. I recall Stony Brook in Princeton Township during my teens and the way I danced on rocks as I covered fishing range--not even knowing the stability of stones until they took my weight--that could have broken legs. I moved like a wild creature, but ecstatic with feeling no beast can ever know. The clacking sound had a resonance like percussion subtly suggesting time deeper than I knew, seemingly having foreshadowed life ahead.
I simply lay my body down on that dock after I whipped out my marshmallows and mealworm, propped up my arm on my elbow and read a favorite novel by Victor Hugo, Notre Dame de Paris.
It was the sweetest feeling I've known in weeks. I didn't even think of my getting skunked.