As a matter of respect, I've decided to capitalize Old Bag. Besides, it saves me typing quotation marks either side. I have my pragmatic side, if I lack sensitivity.

She (the Old Bag) actually agreed to go fishing. The weekend being a licence-free family fishing weekend in B.C., it seemed like a good idea.

She'd taken a one-day fly fishing course a couple years ago, but never actually employed a rod. She could talk mayflies and humpies and mends and pupae, but she had yet to cast a line.

It just seemed like an opportune time, being the last day of her vacation, and that having been a disaster to this point.

As we cruised toward Rubble Creek, she inquired: "And how is this different? Two hours of driving in silence?"

Yet again, I had to lecture her on how I must concentrate on the road and the other drivers. Besides, we'd spoken in the morning. If we hadn't we wouldn't be on our way, to Rubble Creek.

It's aptly named, that creek. I figure there's about five hundred yards of broken rock and gravel between the road and the river. I did advise her to wear sensible shoes, but I'm not sure she took my advice entirely to heart. At least she didn't wear sandals.

As I threaded the rods, the Old Bag found a comfortable rock and proceeded to read. I'm not sure how this was supposed to further conversation, but it didn't really matter since I couldn't hear her above the roar of the river.

"You go ahead, and I'll watch", I think she said.

Having assertained that there were indeed fish present, I pressed her to pick up the five weight. Just a roll cast, that's all. The high bank behind her and the hurricane driving up-river wouldn't allow her to do much else.

"Yahhhhhh!", I screamed, as she got a hit.

"What?", said the Old Bag.

Well, she tried. She made at least three dozen casts, and had at least five hits, by her own count. Didn't hook any, but she'd fished.

And, with that, she settled on a comfortable rock, eating grapes and cheese and reading her book, while I rose fish after fish.

Perfectly content, I'd say, to sit and read while I fished.

"Just how did you find this paradise?" she asked, as we prepared to leave.

Not sure how to take that, I ignored her, plotting a less arduous course across the rock field.

We stopped for a beer at The Shade Tree on the way home. Kinda weird sitting over a beer after an afternoon fishing and not talking about the one that got away.

No, the conversation tended toward the Baguette, age 16, who declined to join us on this family outing, and whether she was getting away.

Maybe she already had.

"There are no steelhead".