The Magical Mysticism of the Ancient Sacred Arts of Fish Summoning and Conjuration.

So, what does one do with a blog? One blogs of course. Now, what to blog about? Blogging? No! Blogging about blogging may cause a rip in the fabric of space and time. I, for one, am not ready for that kind of adventure.

 I've read a few blogs. Mostly from well traveled friends. I, too, have "been there and done that"and, honestly, no one cares.  Others I have read are political rants full of illogical and misinformed hogwash. Others still are people declaring themselves the imminent expert on whatever their blogs are about. I'm not an expert at anything. However, I know a little bit about a great many things.

 Dear reader, my first blog will simply be about fishing. I could bore you to tears with talk of gear,  lunar cycles, knots, and so on. I'm not going to. I'd rather share with you the intangibles; the things you can't see, hear, or quantify, but you know exist all the same.

 I've fished as long as I can remember. My father taught me as his father taught him. I am teaching my kids. When it comes to pass, I hope they teach theirs. It runs deep in our blood as if it were the undertow of a mighty river.

 My earliest memories include damp, foggy mornings and being up before the sun. The wet, dewy grass squeaking under my shoes on the way to the Old Man's giant, green beast of a car. I don't remember if it was a Grand Turino or a Toronado, but I remember the leather seats and how they felt so cold, yet inviting, first thing in the morning. I remember the smell of the water and the feel of the cool sand under my feet, as I have surely taken my shoes off in the car.

 Fishing, at the time, seemed like magic. Chucking bits of metal or wiggly bits of plastic into the water and pulling out fish was obviously sorcery and my dad was the grand wizard. He could catch anything it seemed. Whether they were beautiful green fish that gleamed in the sun or ugly, mud colored beasts with cat whiskers, he was indeed a master at conjuring them from the depths.

 I was in awe at the magic he possessed. My dad, the man who drove the giant, green, land yacht of a car and had a mustache that looked like Mario's from Nintendo, was a magician. He didn't dabble in smoke and mirrors or bubbling cauldrons, but he was a magician none the less. From my cool spot in the predawn sand along the banks of the Arkansas River, I watched him weave his magic into the day.

 The sun itself  seemed to be under his spell as it waited for the perfect moment to rise. As if it were waiting for him to arrive and give the all clear to start the day. I remember him offering observations pertaining to water clarity and depth that I assumed were all part of the spell he was casting. I figured words like confluence and riffle were his versions of Ala Kazam and presto change-o. Like a secret language that only he and the fish understood.

 Thirty years later, the Old Man still looks like Mario from Nintendo. The great, green beast of a car is gone, as is the Arkansas River. It's half a country away as we moved north ages ago. In the passing years, I absorbed as much of the sorcery as I could. I know all the right magic words and just when to say them. I know just the right way to chuck the little metal things and shimmy the wiggly bits of plastic to make fish magically appear. I know what the pretty green fish are called now. I am not yet as grand of a wizard as the Old Man, but I'm learning more and more of the tricks every year.

 The fog crawling across the water is still a mystical sight for me. The wonder is fresh and new in my eyes every time I see it. I still take my shoes off and put my toes in the sand. It makes me feel connected to magnificence of the world. I swear that the Earth is alive and I can feel its pulse in the sand. Sometimes it seems the sun is rising just for me.

 I hope to pass on the magic to my kids. I want to be their grand wizard of fishing. I hope that, when I use the mystical words of fish summoning like current break and rip rap that I learned from my father, my kids are listening. I hope that some of the ancient wisdom absorbs into their brains and stays a  while. Mostly, I hope they keep the magic alive and pass it on someday.

 My oldest is already a stealthy fish ninja. She has instincts I've never had. Instincts can't be taught. It's as if the Ancestors are leading her on a spirit quest to the fish. She knows where they are and what they are hungry for as if the fish themselves told her. I am a sorcerer skilled in the mystic art of fish summoning , but  she is truly at one with the fish. She just simply knows.

 She will quickly rise to the status of grand fishing wizard with instincts like that. I take pride knowing that it will be me that shows her the mysticism that fog creeping over the water has. It will be me that teaches her the lexicon of magic words and just when to use them.

 Magic, true magic, truly is all around us. To find it, one must stop looking with open eyes and ears. One must look with and open mind and, more importantly, an open heart. Then, and only then, will you be blessed with magic.