Trout and Strawberries

We dragged the canoe up to Frog Lake this weekend so Mr. T could go fishing, and so I could paddle him around the lake while he did so. Frog Lake is a pleasant lake lined with evergreens and situated in the shadow of Mt. Hood. We arrived Saturday afternoon, set up the tent and immediately put in.

Approximately three seconds after shoving the canoe into the water, Trailhead Kid piped up. "Didja catch a fish yet, Daddy?" Mr. T began to assemble his tackle. "Not yet," he chuckled. I paddled further into the lake, skirting the shore, and Mr. T threw his first cast.

"Didja catch a fish yet, Daddy?" Mr. T turned and gave me The Look. "Not yet," he replied again. "Why?" TK demanded.

A man fishing on the shore began to laugh. "Tough crowd in this boat," I observed, paddling into deeper water.

"Didja catch a fish yet, Daddy?" Mr. T, a man of ample patience, decided to take the sarcastic route. "Yeah. Didn't you see it?" This did not flummox TK in the least. He giggled and asked the question again.

At length, there was a hit on the line, and a lake trout duly hauled in, dispatched and placed on the stringer. (Yes, I do feel guilty. More on that topic later.) He only caught one on Saturday, but on Sunday morning he caught his limit (five) in about ninety minutes.

This allowed us to break down camp early, and head to Albeke Farms in Oregon City to pick strawberries. Is there any more lovely a scent than a fully ripe strawberry field on a hot day? I think not. We picked nine pounds of strawberries, and went home. (It sounds like a lot, but not really.) Last night I made a strawberry pie, and today I'll whip up some strawberry ice cream. We're also eating them raw. The boxes are stationed at a central location in my kitchen, convenient for grabbing while walking by.

June is good.