By Stephen C. Schultz The mist drifted effortlessly above the glass-like water. Drips from the oars broke the silence as they rhythmically melted into the lake sending endless miniature waves out in every direction. Dawn was upon me, my favorite time of day. Overhead, I heard a faint whistling sound that grew ever louder. I looked up and saw ten to fifteen mallards, wings set, gliding, tipping, and adjusting in unison, as they lit simultaneously on the water about Twenty-five yards from my boat near the lily pads. What a beautiful sight. Mornings like this were common on Collard Lake in 1973. At the age of ten, there was nowhere on earth I would rather be, than in the old aluminum rowboat with my father, stalking that elusive lunker. That trophy large mouth bass that I knew was just waiting in the limbs of the next fallen Doug fir, Cedar, or at the edge of the lily pads just around the corner. I was not new to this ritual, for it was the same every morning we were at “The Ca
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