By Paul Desimone

August 15, 1975

5:30 a.m.

It was a typical humid day in the mountains of Maine. I woke up just like any other day, slapping my alarm clock till it stopped ringing. I was looking out at a small lake, the sun just beginning to pour its light in my face, the cracked window I needed to fix before fall reminding me of my lazy summer days. I had two rods next to the door, and a small bucket of live bait. Two eggs, bacon, and bread was my breakfast. It was a short hike to the lake, with the sound of heat bugs ringing in my ears and the heat coming off the ground like a space heater. It was going to be a really hot day. I looked down at my bucket: my bait minnows were still alive. I was at my spot where I could sit down and relax before I baited and cast. My hands secured my seat, the rocks still cool from the night’s kiss. I dipped my feet into a small pocket of water, checking to make sure no bears were around. I felt the water trickle through my toes. My first cast sizzled through the air, the plunk of water splashing up.

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