After a dozen holes, though, we're unable to find water more than two or three feet deep. This last hole is no exception. I don't mind fishing shallow water for brook trout, provided it's adjacent to deeper water. Precious minutes of the morning feed are ticking away. Faced with the option of changing locations and wielding the hand auger again, we decide reluctantly to set lines and give it a try.
Confidence plays a major role in the success and pleasure of fishing.
If we had more confidence in the flat-bottomed shallows beneath our feet, we might be enjoying ourselves, instead of stewing about our location. A shroud of discontent hangs in the air, growing thicker with every minute that we stare at our inactive set-lines. Soon, we're gazing longingly toward a cluster of islands at the far end of the lake, and formulating plans to move. Obstructing our view of the enticing waters are our lines, which suddenly start to move. Dad's gad dives sharply into the hole, then springs back with a broken tip and slack line.