The Birchwood Lure

It was the summer of '76, when the world felt simpler, slower, and stitched together by the hum of a good radio station and the scent of fresh-cut grass. Hank Whitaker, a man built for patience and solitude, sat in his old aluminum boat, drifting on Lake Marigold under the amber glow of the setting sun.

But Hank wasn’t just any fisherman. He had a secret—one crafted by his own hands in the quiet hours of the night, in the dim light of his barn. A bird, carved from birchwood, its wings spread as if mid-flight, with careful strokes of paint mimicking the iridescence of a kingfisher. It was his masterpiece, his lifeline to the biggest bass in the lake.

The idea had come to him years ago, watching birds skim the water’s surface, diving down and startling fish into movement. If the bass were aggressive, territorial, they wouldn’t tolerate such an intruder. Hank wasn’t luring the fish in with food—he was provoking them into battle.

His hands, calloused from years of carving, tied the lure with delicate precision onto a thick fishing line. He flicked his wrist, and the wooden bird arced through the air, landing with an elegant splash near the lily pads. He let it settle, watching the ripples dissipate, then gave it a slight twitch.

Seconds passed.

Then, an explosion of water.

Hank barely had time to react before his rod bent sharply, nearly yanking him forward. He held firm, gritting his teeth as the bass thrashed and dove, testing the limits of his tackle. The fight was long, brutal, each moment stretching into eternity. But Hank knew the game well—knew when to give, when to pull, until finally, with one last desperate reel, the fish broke the surface, glistening in the twilight.

A behemoth. A trophy.

Hank exhaled, steadying himself, looking down at his creation—the carved bird, still intact, still holding its magic. He chuckled, running a rough hand over the wooden wings before gently releasing the bass back into the depths.

Some men used store-bought bait, fancy lures with names they swore by. But Hank? Hank had carved his legacy from birch, his legend written in the ripples of Lake Marigold.

And as he paddled back to shore, he knew—no matter how fishing changed, how the world shifted—his wooden bird would always have a place in the water.