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Strange are the passions of humans in how they come and go.
As a kid, I was a fishing nut. Couldn’t get enough. Almost every summer day, there was fishing somewhere. We rode bikes from town out to a Crow Wing River bridge to try to hook redhorse suckers, the occasional rock bass, or the rare walleye that moved into a hole beside a midspan pier.
After we grew big enough to wade the river, we were up and down it chasing the northern pike that hung out under snags and behind stumps. When my parents took us kids to visits friends and family at “the lake,” of which there were several, they had to drag me off the dock to get me into the car to go home.