It's getting closer. I can almost feel it. The anticipation is killing me!

It's just about time to take the canoe out on numerous local lakes and ponds to see if the largemouth bass are biting. And after watching the Bass Masters Classic on television recently, the old bass chaser blood is just ripping through my veins. Not to mention the fact that Jordan can hardly control himself.

About the time the lakes froze over and the wind got to cold for weekend jaunts to the water, my boy started greeting me every Saturday morning with the phrase -- "Let's go fishing" or "I want to go fishing" or various adaptations of the same. He is, after all, his father's boy.

Seems the longest season of the year is that time when we have to wait for ice-out. We wait through deer season and football season and through the holidays. About the time you hear that first "Gentlemen -- start your engines" come from the announcer's both at Daytona, we're raring to go out and slide that big green canoe off the shores of some lake, all the while hoping to surprise some unsuspecting, half-starved, pre-spawn largemouth into munching on a crawdad-colored spinner-bait.

Don't get me wrong: we're not prejudiced against other fish. For instance, if a slab crappie feels the need to slam into one of our offerings, we'll take it. And if we pick up a stray channel cat or two, all is well.

We've been spending time getting ready for that first fishing trip of the season. We've been buying new baits, cleaning out tackle boxes, and spooling new line. We've been catching up on reading about how to coerce the fattest, greenest bass out of their hiding places and onto our lines. We've been talking about fishing and dreaming about fishing and planning what we'll do when that day comes. We've even been watching other folks fish on television. How sad. I mean, what could be sadder than a fisherman sitting in the family room watching other folks fish on television?

I guess that's part of why it seems so long between fishing seasons.

Climbing tall mountains and shooting giant elk at 400 yards on the other side of a valley is something I probably will never do. Hooking into a giant sail-fish in the deep blue waters off Cabo San Lucas is probably not something I will accomplish in my lifetime. Putting a razor-tipped arrow through the lungs of a musk ox on the Canadian tundra is not something that you'll find in my appointment book.

I don't feel bad watching those things on television. They're kind of out of reach.

But when some guy steps to the front of a bass boat on an overcast day, rips a spinner bait past heavy cover, sets the hook and pulls out a hard-fighting five-pound largemouth, all I can think is -- "I could do that."

And the fever intensifies.

The Shepherd's Heart appears on Thursday.