Sewanee Born and Bred

Whoosh! 

I scrambled downhill from the bluebird box, thinking some animal was in distress.

Whoosh!

When I cleared the alder, I saw the young man on the opposite beach, fishing. He threw out the line with such force and accuracy that it startled me. While I watched, he caught a fish, pulled it in, removed the hook, and tossed it back into the lake.

"Third one today," he called.

"Do you always catch and release?" I asked.

"Oh yes, ma'am. Always."

"Like my nephew," I said. "I don't actually understand it. Sometimes the trout he catches sure look like they'd make a good dinner."

He continued to fish, and I stalked Odonates. I found a dozen or more mature Swamp Spreadwings, close enough for clear and sharp photographs. 

I decided to walk over to the fisherman at the very moment he started to reel in another fish.

"May I look?" I asked.

"Sure!"

"What is it?"

"A largemouth bass," he said and held the fish for a couple of photographs. I wouldn't want my thumb or finger down past that tongue, where I saw some mean-looking serrated jaws.

The next thing I knew, the fisherman told me he would be getting married soon and wanted to move back home, to the mountain where he was raised. I heard about his work as a volunteer fireman in Sewanee, his application to become a Chattanooga firefighter, his mother and her breast cancer and her all-clear prognosis from the doctor.

Before he drove off, he said, "When I see you again here at the lake, I'll stop and chat."

"Great!" I said and waved as he drove off.

Today, I came to the lake looking for bugs and left thinking about what it means to be Sewanee born and bred.