Old Man River

This is my father.

This is my father fishing.

And these are other pictures from our fantastic day in the Poconos on Saturday, which involved a lot of granola bars and discussing where we want to go in life, and me writing a little bit and then falling and denting his brand new several hundred dollar lense, which made me want to cry. He wasn't angry though, and that made me want to cry even more.

My father is one of my favorite people in the world.

Devil's Hole Creek,

Mt. Pocono, PA

My father is having a "what would Gavin do?" moment, which is of course what happens when he has exhausted the opportunities of a particular pool but remains doggedly optimistic that more can be dredged from its depths. 'Of course there's a fish,' he says. But in the absence of his loyal sidekick, he's left with me, and the company of his own imagination, neither of which are very helpful at the moment. The fly he has chosen to replace the first does no better than its predecessor, and he stalks off toward the next pool, muttering under his breath the darkest of curses towards the wild fish, which he is now determined have played him for a fool, and are laughing at his from their safe holes beneath the turbid waters. I'm laughing too, but only once I'm sure he can no longer see. Surely Gavin will get an earful for abandoning him on this venture, leaving him with a daughter who writes instead of fishes, and laughs instead of offering insight into the twisted minds of the local fish. He's moved three pools up by this time, but I can still hear his angry mutterings just below the din or the rushing water.

'Of course there's a fish.'