A Waterfowlers Commute

Then, there is only the sound of the expansion joints passing beneath the tires in a steady rhythm.  This time is special to few- most would rather stay within the warmth of their chambers, their minds wandering through the unconscious, bodies still.  The rig hustles West on Route 6.  Every overpass brings with it a streetlight, growing brighter and briefly illuminating the cab of the pickup as it approaches and passes under the bridge- gone in an instant.  A cup of gas station coffee rests in the console and the steam rises, mixing with the smoke of a lit Parliament cigarette.  Hanging from the rear view a braided duck call lanyard swings with the rhythm of the highway, occasionally tapping off the dash with an audible "CLACK!"   The lights of distant farms dot the indistinguishable horizon along with the occasional opposing headlight reflecting in his eyes.  Winter is closing in, but the truck smells of mid November.     

It is during this time that a mans mind can take the path of the unconscious, his body at home behind the wheel as if he were still supine in his bed.  As the pickup speeds off toward the marsh, his mind races  into the abyss- towards what is privy only to him.  While this may resemble the common daydream, it would be foolhardy to treat it as such- first, because it is not yet day, and second, because daydreams are the work of school children and liberal politicians (both of whom seem to have a knack of getting them paid for by someone else).  The hour he spends driving to his sanctuary is as significant as the first minutes of light over the marsh.  A clearer image; with depth and contrast, emerges from the throws of the night.  In this sight he finds whatever answer he might seek without ever really knowing the question.  The road is empty.  It is a simple hour.  There is no music, no fanfare.  There is only the lights, the coffee, the cigarette and him.  It is here though, in the truck that smells like mid-November, that he cares not for reality.  He must let go, for come mid-December, when the marsh is frozen, he may just discover faith.  The rig hustles west on route 6.

God Loves Ugly

After bangin out the bill payin work for the day, Porkchop and I headed out on a little excursion to check the water conditions.  Shipwreck city.  I mean cookin. 

I thought about what days like this mean to other anglers.  As one who pursues river fish, your life revolves around the flow.  In cycles.  We ride along on this rocketship while the water is right, but one storm or bump in temperature is all it takes to change us into this "high water zombie", prowling access points and staring at unrecognizeable runs or holes thinking: "Damn It".  Some are satisfied with just looking up the numbers on a website.  I however, seem to embrace the visual effect the sight of the river has ripping along, high and muddy.  I get lost for a minute and my life slows down. 

Its part of the pursuit.  Watching a river is something I simply cannot help.  Just like it's impossible to look at a beautiful woman and not wonder what she looks like naked.  Think if the first time we laid eyes on every river we ever fished, they were all running high and dirty.  Would some be like that girl you thought was hotter than she actually was once her clothes were off?      

When the water sucks, we bottle ourselves up.  Get on the vices (literally and figuratively).  Get bored with tying.  Go to the beer store.  Go to the head shop.  Go to the fly shop.  Go back to the beer store.  Go to our other fixes that are readily available until we've exhausted our patience (or money) and then go stare at the river some more.  Everything slows to a crawl when the river is fast. 

But maybe its the way the water balances us.  High water days bring us back to our "civilian lives" just long enough to make us remember why we'd rather pursue one in waders.  Dishes get done.  Clothes get washed.  Sleep gets slept.  Girlfriends call off search parties.  Fly shops see the guys they like.  Booze flows like the river, and who doesn't want that?  If anything, I think we should enjoy our bad water days as much as our good water days!

So in celebration, I have a 6 pack of craft brew on standby and some fresh materials to tie with.  I think I can smell breakfast on Thursday morning.  Now here's your daily dose of Slug, you'll feel better in the AM.