We werenít the only ones with an idea for a Saturday evening walk on the spillway.
There were the fishermen who met us on the way to their cars. Three different groups, and they all had a contented look that said the fishing was good. The first guy said the bass were biting. Another man gave me a rundown a big carp ñ it must have been 10 pounds, he said with a laugh. The third guy mumbled that he caught a few, which translates in fishing language to fantastic fishing, although Iíve yet to hear the latter statement, ever.
Then there was that family fishing by the spillway, the kids all lined up oldest to youngest, and the little guyís pole bending with a bluegill. That was almost too pretty for words. A father and son pedaled past us on their way to the unspoiled waters of the second spillway. You could almost feel their energy and excitement. What better thing to be doing on a Saturday night?
They were all there like us, soaking up the last of the summer.
You could feel this evening coming all week, and you didnít need the weatherman to announce it. There was a change in the air for days. Weíve come to sense that after so many years and generations in Minnesota. Things were going to change soon. The hot days, forget it. They are history. Itís time for cool nights, brisk mornings, a good stiff wind, gray clouds that hint of November. Even the dreaded word ìfrostî is starting to enter the fringe of our thoughts.
Thatís what made the walk so special. The golden sun still had some summer warmth. A heron coasted over the water. Three little water snakes hurried across the gravel. A group of five pelicans floated and turned in perfect unison.
Our friends helped too. We had brought them to the spillway to show them one of our favorite spots. Itís always fun to do that, and even more fun when it is appreciated in rich return, which it was. At one point Gail stopped and looked to the north, the broad river stretching to Brownsville and beyond. She seemed to be breathing it all in. Gail grew up in St. Louis. She said she missed the river. I could tell she needed it, like many of us do, and this little walk was quenching that, a little at least. Every little bit helps when it comes to connecting to something that is flowing in your veins.
And that leads to fishing. So cut to Sunday morning. I biked to my favorite spot and tested the water, and sure enough, those fishermen were smiling for a reason. A fish on almost every cast. Sunnies, perch, catfish, bass, even Cindyís favorite, a sheepshead. I pulled them in steadily, keeping some, tossing some back. My two dogs sat patiently nearby. No one else in sight. It was pretty much my definition of heaven.
The weather changed during those couple hours, like I knew it would. The wind picked up from the west and herded in thick gray clouds. They soon joined together and blotted out the sun. The temperature dropped. A few raindrops fell. It suddenly felt like fall.
I headed back with my load of fish, dogs trotting alongside. A sense of thankfulness settled on me. For this place of unequaled beauty, for friends and fish and changing seasons.
Weíll get our share of Indian summer yet, and some glorious autumn days too. But fall is here, and it couldnít have been arrived in any better way than it did last weekend.

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Caledonia Argus
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