Instead of just a wishin'."
The song from the 1960s television show, The Sportsman's Friend, kept floating through my head as we headed toward the pasture at the Ninnescah. That little snippet was all I could remember of the lyrics (which, by the way, got a little annoying as it played over and over and over in my mind).
Believe me, I wasn't perched in front of the TV watching the show. I didn't grow up fishing. Sports time with our dad was much more likely to involve throwing or hitting a softball and dribbling or shooting a basketball.
I let my favorite fisherman do the "icky" stuff. Yes, he baited my hook with the beef liver we'd pulled from the freezer. (Just a side note: That's the only acceptable use for liver, in my book. No amount of onions can redeem it.)
After my fish swam down the river, I was less interested in catching fish than "catching" the beauty of the evening on my camera. Patience is not one of my virtues.