I watched as he eased the end of the bundle of poles over the bank to the gravelbar below then give the other end a push. The poles toppled end for end and landed with a crash at river level. He walked back to the car for the second bundle. I was pulling the rest of the gear out of the trunk and back seat, laying it in the short weeds nearby. I heard the second bundle thump on the rocks.
"Good enough for now.", he said, looking at the work I'd done. "Let's go get the lines in the water."
He pulled his waders from the gear I'd laid out, sat on a near-by tree stump, and started to kick off his shoes. I went back to the car and got pair of old canvas shoes of mine we'd. I took off my good (or at least better) running shoes and put on the old ones. No waders for me: at age 10 or so I was too short to find any that would fit. I was wearing an old pair of jeans and a t-shirt. By then he'd pulled the green rubber waders on and stamped his feet into the thicksoled boots at the end of each leg. He stretched the suspenders up over his shoulders and flexed his arms to check the fit.
"Ready? OK. Be careful getting down the bank."
We made our way down to where the poles lay. He picked up a bundle under each arm and dragged them to the water's edge. We walked to our left toward where the minnow buckets sat in the stream above the ripple. I couldn't wait any longer and walked in the river. The cool water felt great against my legs. I walked out until it was to my knees.
"You ought to stay dry if you can. You'll be cold in those wet jeans tonight."
"I'll be OK."
He pulled the bucket of water off the liner and dumped the water out into the river. He scooped up another bucket full and set it on the shore. He stood in the water next to the liner, unfastened the lid and looked in.
"Only a couple dead ones. That's good." he said reaching into the bucket and scooping the dead bait out with his hand. He tossed them up toward the shore. Turning to the bucket, he looked at it and then at me and then poured some of the water out on the rocks. He lifted the liner by the handle, then plunged the liner into the waiting bucket. He dropped the liner handle and made sure it was tucked under its rim. Then he picked up the bucket handle and hefted it, testing the weight.
"You get the bucket and I'll get the poles." I rushed over to the bucket and picked it up with both hands, turning to follow him. He'd already untied the two sets of lines holding one of the bundles. One line he tucked into the inside pocket of the waders. The other he moved to the center of the bundle.
Picking one of the poles from the bunch, he took the hook from the eye and looked at me. I hurried over with the bucket. He reached in and pulled out a wiggling silver minnow in his palm. He manuvered it until its head was in his fingers.
"Remember how to do this? In the mouth, out the gill, then into the underside of the tail. Keeps them alive better. It always ends up hooking the fish right in the eye, too." I watched intently. "Here you do this one." he said, handing me a pole. I fished in the bucket among the wiggling minnows and finally got one. I pulled it out and had to use both hands to get the head in my fingers. I took the hook from him and tried to get it in the tiny mouth. It must have known what was happening and clamped its mouth tight shut. "Pull down on his lower lip with the point." Sure enough the fish's mouth popped open surprisingly large. I put the hook in and then out the gill opening. Turning the hook over I slipped the hook into the underside of the muscle of the tail. I felt a tiny pop as the hook went in and the fish wiggled in my hand. I swallowed.
He took the two baited poles and started across the river. The water was only knee deep most of the way across and then in one step it was mid-thigh and with the next up to his waist. He stopped momentarily getting used to the push of the current from his left then felt his way forward. The water stayed near waist height for the next four or five steps until he was standing hear the far shore. He pushed the butt end of one of the poles into the dirt of the bank a foot or two above the water letting the line dangle down where the river was deepest. Taking a step back, he eye'd his work. He gave the pole a final push to embed it deeper in the bank then walked several steps downstream to where the tree had fallen in the water.
Here the water swirled and eddied around the branches hanging in the current. He edged his way up to the branches, the water becoming even deeper as he walked. As he started to take one more step, he stopped. The water was nearly to his arm pits, just inches from the top of the green waders. "Deep here. Can't feel bottom," he said looking across the river back towards me. "We'll get a fish here tonight. Bait me a couple more poles." He turned back to the bank and this time with both hands pushed the pole at into the bank. He angled it to have the line in the deepest water and close to the branches. He started to pick his way through the current back towards me where I was struggling to bait another hook.
We'd started fishing. Only forty-eight more poles to put out -- forty-eight more lines to set.
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