Brookies For Supper?

     I’m headed up north for some brook trout fishing today. You won’t read about this trip in the paper. It’s just my son and me, off for a low-key day on our own. We’re bound for a lake in the Finland area, and there are plenty of stocked trout lakes up there. We might even hit a couple. Lucy, the yellow Lab, will come along, too. I’m sure there will be a lot of lakeshore that will need exploring.
     It strikes me that going fishing must be like heading for the casino to gamble, although I’ve never tried the latter. Your odds of "winning" — catching fish — are difficult to calculate, but we have success just often enough to keep us coming back. And, already today, I have that same feeling I have before most fishing trips: This could be the banner day. We could nail ’em, baby. Big ones, piled up on the ice.
     Which, I figure is kind of what most casino-goers must think every time they go.
     My son and I will be geared up. We’ll have some waxworms and maybe some dead minnows. We’ve got some cute little ice jigs. We’ve got information from the Department of Natural Resources and a hydrographic map of the lake. And we’ve got some Polish sausages for lunch.
     What more could a couple of guys need on a February morning?
     Oh, yeah. Luck.