Alaska has an abundance of fishing widows this time of year. With Kings, Reds, Silvers, Pinks, and Dogs incrementally making their way up Alaskan waterways now through the end of summer, men are mighty scarce. Unless one happens to be along a river. Then there's too many.
My own beloved Yukon has joined such ranks after the reeling in of his very own King salmon last week. A passing interest last summer, fishing is now at the root of most of Yukon's weekend and spare-time plans.
The allure is simple; Man goes on boat with other men. Man is dressed in Carhartt pants (canvas things that make his butt look cute) and X-Tra Tuff boots (rubber things that make him look like he knows what he is doing). Man holds fishing pole, waiting for fish to strike. Fish strikes, runs, is eventually caught and ends up in a cooler after a multitude of similarly-posed photographs that are posted on I-Phone to everyone but the President. Well, maybe even him. Fish is brought home to wife who Food-Saves the luscious portions to last the winter through, making Man feel like a Provider. Man beats chest.
Repeat as often as necessary between the months of June-August.
Fish On.
No comments:
Post a Comment