Shivering and nearly hypothermic, guarded by my fiberglass cocoon in a drenching December rain or scorched by a sweltering August sun. Fighting a thirty-five mph wind so cold water freezes in the rod’s guides and they must be thawed by hand before the next cast. Bailing yet another two inches of rain out of the boat as one more shower, brief but biblically determined, passes overhead. The sheer joy of a perfect, postcard picture day in June whether the fish are biting or not. Yet another year in my life as an angler; this is what I live for.

The intermittent, rhythmic swirl of the trolling motor’s propellers in the water and the happy gurgling of the lake as it dances beneath and around a slowly moving hull. The early morning chant of the birds that come and go and the quiet conversations, muffled by fog, mist or rain, of anglers rigging rods in the glow of another dawn. Yet another year in my life as an angler; this is what I live for.