Big Brook :: Personal Narrative Fishing Essays

Big BrookWhen you reserve this place, you will al right smarts remember the nights fishin up on Big Brook, my vex once told me. And to this day I have never forgotten my experiences up on that little tributary of the Namakagon River in northern Wisconsin. My father always dreams of the old days when he would go out with a creel all over his shoulder and catch a meal of fish. Work takes too much of his time now, but I remember the times we would go up to Big Brook after work and spend the last hours forwards the sun set fishing our favorite holes in hopes for a risky trout to bite. I remember this now, many years later, but my memories are nevertheless perfectly clear. We would get home from work, dad would say, Alright, I am goin up to Big Brook, if ya wanna come with, I am leavin in five. This was our cue, my brothers and I would exuviate everything we were doing, grab our rods, and head out to the garden to pick a smattering of worms. The garden was always the best spot f or the worms they seemed to love the dark exuberant soil and always grew the biggest. Even though we dug them every week, on that point would always seem to be more the next time we went out. When we arrived at the meandering stream, Dad would say, Alright, I get the first 100 yards downstream, everything else is indeterminate season for you all to fight about. My brothers would usually get the section estimable upstream, cause they were bigger, and I didnt have much say in the matter. So there we were, all the guys in the family on the river, my father chief to his favorite spot, my brothers marching upstream together, and I left to make my way downstream, through the blackberry brush to the beaver pond. When I left the river to manner of walking downstream all the difficulties from the day were left behind. I walked through a grove of aspen, and looking under a clump of brush I saw a cottontail rabbit, but he knew, if he didnt move I wouldnt see the little guy so I passed qu ietly, in hopes not to scare him. As I walked I would be occasionally wafted with the smell of wild roses, or the smell of sweet air that would blow through the trees.