Читать книгу Never Cry Halibut. and Other Alaska Hunting and Fishing Tales онлайн

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MY DAD DID EVERYTHING RIGHT to raise his three sons to be fishermen. He taught us to spin cast, troll, fly-fish, and halibut fish during outings that generally involved hours of untangling lines and existential crises. Quite frequently on these fishing expeditions, I was convinced I was tottering on the edge of hypothermia and perhaps even death. When I whimpered, my dad would try to set me straight.

“You don’t know how lucky you are,” he’d say over the pouring rain and howling wind, a string of cohos over his shoulder, me sniveling and shivering in tow. “When I was your age, I walked miles to the dam on the Sacramento River to catch twelve-inch hatchery trout.”

Dad’s diligent, often frustrating labor paid off for the most part. His love for fishing passed on to my two brothers, who put in their hours each year. My older brother, Luke, enjoys fishing so much, he’ll even cast for humpies and chums—he eats them too. My little brother, Reid, told me the other day he might enjoy fishing more than hunting, which is the most controversial statement I’ve ever heard him make. Every family has its black sheep, and in regards to fishing, I guess it was me.