The bass, the waters, the cabins, the feel of the late '30s through the '40s, the wood smoke in winter. Go to the cool creeks and pitch a Lil' George across to the shallows of the other bank, bump it and then reel quick to keep the treble hooks clear of the snags, and suddenly you've got a good one on. You're fishing an ultralight spinning rod you've bought at a pawnshop, or one of the good old cheapos, a Zebco or Shakespeare. It doesn't matter. Anything that gets it out there and pulls 'em in. The great poet Richard Hugo fished for lake trout in Montana from a Buick convertible with swing band music on the tape deck, a heavy sinker and worms on the hook. However, and whenever, I'm a warbling poet of the waters, exhilarated by fishing pals like the great Evans Harrington, who ate everything he caught, including a 14-pound catfish that moved our boat around like a great sea creature. Harrington grew up with an uncle who used a single bait, the classic Lucky Thirteen. Imagine Tiger Woods doing it all with one iron.