We’ve been gloriously “unplugged” all week–no phone signal, and just a wireless hotspot (sometimes) by the Redfish Lodge’s front door.  The Editor giggles every time I say I’m going to “walk up to the internet” to post our blog…

***

After he cleaned a Limit of fish (that’s a unit of measurement, isn’t it?) I complimented my husband on his glittery makeup of fish scales–but he confessed the glitter was actually from the bait goop he’d been using.  No doubt that explains why they market it under names like “Ultra-Turbo-Testosterone-Torque-Bait”–so a guy can feel okay about his glitter…

Last night when we turned in, he said he’d put our ice teas in the fridge (actually, he probably said “icebox”–it’s one of the vocabulary choices that defines the generation-gap in our ages)–in any case, he was putting them on the sill of our open window.  And I’m here to tell you it was effective–the whole room was an icebox when I woke up, and I’ve never in my life been so disinclined to get out of bed.  Mr. Eager Fisherman was rubbing my shoulders and petting my hair, hoping I’d wake up so we could go fishing, but that approach leaves something to be desired as a method of convincing me to get OUT of bed–I just purred and snuggled in deeper. I finally took pity on him (he was being very kind, after all, considering the array of icy objects near at hand with which he could have chosen to get my attention) and struck a bargain: I’d get up if he promised me a very strong, very hot cup of coffee.

His breakfast of Italian-sausage-gravy over flaky biscuits had the whole gang replete and groaning, as we’ve been after every meal this week–The Editor says his “glory-meter” has been on overload for a few days now–but moments after I’d pushed my plate away, I spied my purse (iPad, keyboard, camera & all) being walked to the car, which I took as a signal it was time to head for the lake.  Cooler full of lunch, “tackle box” (well, a Western Family paper bag with its hodgepodge of fishing stuff) and poles, blanket for me to spread on the beach–we’re set.  The Photographer’s husband complained that he hadn’t had a bite yet, so my husband put down his pole, waded over, and bit him on the shoulder.

That seems to have done the trick, and the glitter-goop is certainly bringing in the fish–we emptied our little cooler pretty quickly after arriving (having no place else to keep the catch), so our iced teas are heating up in a line in the sand, and the pissed-off trout are periodically letting us know what they think of this arrangement by whacking the heck out of the inside of the cooler with their tails.  I’ve been stretched out on a beach blanket, jumping up with the net whenever one of the fishermen hollers–which means I’m doing more hopping than napping–an Idaho hula to the rhythm of ballads by Israel Kamakawiwo’ole playing on the iPad.

Three generations of a tourist family from the South piled out of a truck to snap pictures of the lake; grandpa (with Jack Daniels hat and drawl) chatted amiably about catching catfish at home, while mom asked if she could take a picture with one of our fish.  She was rather more enthusiastic than I’d expected–exclaiming over his “cuteness,” naming him George and kissing him on his mouth before reluctantly returning him to the cooler.  I didn’t have the heart to tell her that George & Co. will be frying in bacon grease in the morning…

***

It’s our last night–we all walked down to the Lodge after supper for coffees in the log-built furniture of the dining room. Judging from the glitter spread across the sky, God has been fishing today too…