But by the time father and I - during my teen years - were dipping our lines in the Des Moines River in search of walleyed pike and blue-channel catfish and rowing out hands sore probing the rushes and rock piles of Angler's Bay at Spirit Lake, we were grateful for modest catches. We had to employ more subtle lure than a pitchfork. Despite our fancy tackle and carefully selected bait, we were often "skunked," as my maternal grandfather described failure. Mother had to find substitute protein for the fish we planned to catch and she planned to fry.
Esther's Town, by Deemer Lee