On the Columbia River near Vantage, br Washington, we fished for whitefish br in the winter months; my dad, Swede- br Mr. Lindgren-and me. They used belly-reels, br pencil-length sinkers, red, yellow, or brown br flies baited with maggots. br They wanted distance and went clear out there br to the edge of the riffle. br I fished near shore with a quill bobber and a cane pole. br br My dad kept his maggots alive and warm br under his lower lip. Mr. Lindgren didn't drink. br I liked him better than my dad for a time. br He lets me steer his car, teased me br about my name 'Junior,' and said br one day I'd grow into a fine man, remember br all this, and fish with my own son. br But my dad was right. I mean br he kept silent and looked into the river, br worked his tongue, like a thought, behind the bait.