A river runs through it

I have yet to read Norman Macclean's classic account of growing up in the mid-west (shamefully, it sits on the shelf gathering dust like so many other novels; I now reckon my remaining lifespan in terms of unread books. By my rough reckoning I have about 300 books I have yet to read sitting on shelves in the house and my office. Even in my most wildly optimistic scenario of reading two books a month and a couple more during the holidays [and refraining from buying any new ones in the meantime - an utterly fantastic notion I know, but indulge me], it would take me 10 years to get through the backlog. And don't get me started on all the back issues of the Dublin Review and the New York Review of Books that are piled up under, around, and occasionally, on top of the bed).
But I digress. To repeat, I have yet to read Mr. Macclean's short story (I will, I promise), but even unread I reckon there were more fish caught in it than what me and Cian managed last Saturday.
Our house is too small and family lifestyle too busy to justify having a dog or cat, so what we have instead for pets are various types of fish. At the moment we have one goldfish, one crayfish, nine loach, and an exceedingly large school (swarm? brood? host? gathering? team? collective? posse?) of tadpoles. However, all this aquatic richness wasn't enough for Cian Costeau, who wanted to add to his collection. So last Saturday we ventured into the woods beyond the University in search of fish. My colleague Mike had regaled us with tales of all the fish he and his son used to catch up there when he was younger. So, suitably inspired we grabbed our nets and headed up the trail.
Only to be nearly eaten by a grizzly bear!



 

Well, maybe not a grizzly bear, or even a bear really. Sanae, after looking at the photographs, says it was a Japanese racoon, and a small one and that too. But she wasn't there. It was a bear damnit, and if it wasn't for our Forest Kozan acquired consummate wilderness skills ("throw something at it! Stones, sticks, anything! Just make it go away!"), we would surely have been devoured.
Thankfully, we got to the river without any other excitement (though Daddy did have to extract a tic from his leg that was feasting on his rich, type O blood. Obviously, a geographically savvy tic who had no problem with taking Irish blood, unlike a certain scarlet shaded hospital. I still squashed the fecker anyway). Unfortunately, there were no fish to be had, no matter how many rocks we poked under, which led us to conclude that either (a) it is too early in the season for the fish to be out and about (still very cold, snowmelt water flowing down from the mountain); or (b) Mike is a lying sack of s*** (Cian's words). We vowed to return next month and if we still can't find any fish, then we are going to feed Mike to the racoon, sorry, bear.