I scoff at the idea! I totally agree that a pedicure and manicure day may be just what the soul asks for. Seriously, who doesn’t enjoy a French manicure every now and then? However, I have a secret. Worm guts under fingernails can be just as nice. Fishing, casting, baiting, luring is what this princess is all about. I find the quickest and easiest way to start cutting my mountain of weekly stress is to grab my stick, find my worms, and throw them away. I won’t say that fishing dominates my life to the point of having that bumper sticker that says, “A bad day at fishing is better than a good day at work.” I just choose my moments. To be honest, I have a magnet on my fridge that says so, what about it?

I’m the typical blue-eyed (true) blonde who loves to be pampered. I’m not ashamed to admit that I have to buy Clinique toner just to get the free bag. I’m also that woman who loves to watch fishing shows, hunt at night for night trackers, and get a little pissed off if someone is in my favorite spot. After all, I got up at four in the morning. Not early enough? I know all my fishing friends understand what I mean. I am the woman who does not mind at all carrying my tackle box, my poles, my folded chair, my backpack, my old paint can. I’m also that girl who doesn’t mind carrying my bags of goodies from my favorite store. I think you get the idea. I get all the funny stares, inquiring stares, and satisfied smiles as I walk along the pier. Over time, these veterans return. Year after year, I go through the same thing as I choose new places to hone my skills. I can almost hear what they are saying to themselves. What’s Barbie doing here, folks? Well, it shouldn’t go that far. However, as I said, they usually appear. I have made many new friends at my fishing spots, and I have learned a lot. It is the best free education there is, as every new fisherman I know teaches me. Who needs a book? I prefer fishing magazines anyway.

Fishing for me dates back to the wonderful summers I spent with my grandfather in Colorado. He and I used to fish in the Dolores River. We would drive to Telluride and walk to the most remote places. He and I fish for soul mates. He taught me about fish, fishing and calm. He invited me into his world of serenity. Fishing for my grandfather is a way to recover from WWII. Your favorite places make your mind forget for a moment. It shouldn’t be said that he searched for these moments often. He was a lucky man; my grandmother enjoyed her love of fresh mountain air, tranquil lakes, and the occasional moose sighting. He taught me to be still, to be patient, and to be happy even if he didn’t bite me. He gave me the gift of respect for nature (although I admit it, I didn’t speak to him for a week after I found out he was hunting dear, I was only 11 at the time). He made it clear that if you do not intend to eat it, please release with a kind heart. I am a lucky girl.

I have three nieces who have shown some interest in the good sport of fishing. I take them out every spring. We don’t bother with those starter poles. We poke fun at a Dora the Explorer post. We want an open sky and a line that we can see. These girls are not fooled by bobbers. It’s fun and sunny for them now. I love that. I know that as they grow, they will reap the benefits of a stress-free day on the lake. I know when opening day is around the corner they will be cleaning up their tackle boxes. Every January, they will wrap your fishing license in aluminum foil and put it in a plastic bag. That little bag will lovingly stick to the inside of your tackle boxes. Veterans will ruminate on their presence in their places. At the end of the day, they will be old friends. The legacy will live on.