He was my husband, Robert, a normal office worker five days a week and as honest as the day is long. His imagination only took over when he met with his fishing cronies and then his stories made him the biggest prevaricator of them all. Proof that he loved fishing with a passion.

As early as Thursday night, he prepared for the fabulous Opening Weekend which he planned to spend in Thompson with our son, Bob. Rod, reel and tackle box stood at the ready. Next came the fishing clothes: ancient pants with a large safety pin at the waist, orange sweater stretched out of shape (the elbows mended with contrasting yarn), and the fishing cap with the broken visor. Each had a distinctive ambiance all its own. Sweated through with incredible luck, they were worth their weight in gold, never to be discarded.

Bob and his friend, Fred, had everything arranged. "I know where the fish are," said Fred. "I'll take you in my Cessna. There's only one small hitch. It's still on wheels parked at the airport. I need to get it on floats. We'll take your wife's truck to the airport, Bob. We load my little beauty on backwards with the wheels on the ground. This way we'll tow her to the Floatplane Base on the Burntwood River and take off." Fred saw no problem with the whole procedure.

It didn't seem so simple to me. "The wings will spread clear across the road and you have at least three miles to go. How can anyone pass?"

"That's why we do it before five o'clock in the morning when there's no traffic. Bob and I stay in the truck and follow you and Robert. He'll lead the way. Stop anyone who wants to pass should she or he be stupid enough to drive about before the crack of dawn. It won't hurt them to wait."

Fred looked at me expecting me to comment on his brilliant idea, but I suddenly was at a loss for words. "Wonderful," said Robert. "A good way to take me where the big ones are."

The project must have worked. I was only semi-conscious as I waved good-bye to them. I watched as they winged their way to the Lake With No Name where no fish had ever in its life seen a man or woman with a fishing rod.

They were back at sunset, each with a stringer of fish. Robert waved his in the air and had me take a picture. I noticed that he was dripping wet and overjoyed.

"Did you fall into the lake?" I asked.

"Only toward the end, but I got out fast because the water was quite cold so early in the season. Did you ever see such beautiful pickerel?"

"You got up at an ungodly hour this morning. You came back sunburned, and almost eaten by black flies, mosquitoes and I don't know what else. You could have drowned. And now you tell me you had a great time?"

"I pulled out one fish after another and I caught the biggest one of them all. And now I'm not supposed to be happy?" he asked.

Well, can you find anything wrong with this philosophy of life?

So ends my fish story.

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