Their mission: to knock off as many tin cans as possible from their precarious perch on the rotting log. To catch and release water dwellers with flies and lures of brightest hue.
Their arsenal: a crossman bb gun, a wrist-rocket slingshot, 3 conventional rods (various) and 1 fly rod (Shakespeare).
Their haven: a friend’s cabin in the ever deepening woods of New Brunswick.
I’m on vacation this week with my brother’s family here, and at least two young male cousins (and two older brother/dads) are in little boy heaven. Back later this week after we’re done hittin’ and catchin’ stuff.
SuperSon Of Author: 3 steel can lids (dented and pierced by the youngest with a crossman air rifle), multiple trees struck and left standing, 1 squirrel that is now wary of young humankind, and one small-mouth bass that lived on the hook for 3 minutes – then got away (first catch ever).
Big Brother Of Author: 2 small-mouth bass, “Man-I-Need-Some-Waders” award, and constant rescuing of young fishermen from their unwieldy rods and lack of “DangerSense.”
PowerCousin Of SuperSon: 3 small-mouth bass, and at least 15 that “hit the lure hard and got away.” Note: The latter fish were all large, 13-18 inch prehistoric beast-fish.
Author: 8 small-mouth bass (personal best; caught and released on a beadhead fly for all my fellow fly-fishing enthusiasts), and one deeply satisfying, familial getaway.