1/11/19: Solitude

It just so happened that some good news came my way a while back and then a few days later the bad followed. I won’t get into it but just know that for those of us who fish because we love it and not because we are constantly hunting for that stupid grip and grin photo that gets us a few clicks on the internet, the act of fishing is therapeutic. I woke and didn’t know what to do with myself. I wandered around the house alone for at least two hours before I finally said f-it and loaded up my stuff. I didn’t know where I was going, I just got in the car and drove. I know the water well enough. I got gas and then headed in a direction not east. I turned onto a gravel road as most of us do and parked my car. Three guys were loading split logs into the back of a pick-up near the bank of the creek when I walked up. We discussed the fishing for a few minutes. The basic gist of what I got was this creek isn’t worth fishing anymore and if you’re going to fish it go upstream. They spoke of days when the holes were deep, apparently those days have passed. Seems like we are always thinking back to when things were better. The lack of snow and air temperatures in the upper 30’s makes me do the same. I think about the first year I moved into my house and how it snowed for two days solid forcing me to jump from my second story window to a snow pile below just to dig the front door out. I miss that.

Fishing. It happened. I walked downstream mostly unmotivated, streamer attached to the end of my line. I fished as I hiked downstream. I moved a few browns, missed all but one. The wind was blowing and the cow pasture I was fishing did little to block it. I hiked down until I was satisfied that the description the three lumberjacks gave me was accurate. I fished up from my car afterward. The first hole was deep and I moved a few browns. The second hole was deep and I did the same. The third was shallow and I opted to leave. This is atypical for me as I will hike a stream all day long but I just wasn’t feeling it. In the car I put on music and drove to a house off a pebble paved road and knocked on the door. I’ve been here before and I know what to say. Just up the road is a bridge underwhich is a deep hole holding brookies and browns. I’ve fished it before and I know the consequences of not knocking on this door. The rotund little lady smiles at my request and I leave knowing I’ve done my duty. I stayed for just thirty minutes, long enough to miss an 18 inch brown and land several brook trout ranging from 6-10inches, colorful fish but I don’t need to tell you that do I?

I left again. Drove exactly seven minutes and parked at another bridge. The overcast skies and wind continued into the later afternoon. I fished downstream and took note of a section of water I’ll have to revisit in the future, lots of potential here. Upstream I saw small trout rising regularly. I ignored them for the most part and chucked my streamer with little to show for it. I moved a few fish but I wasn’t trying. I could have added split-shot and dredged the bottom of deep blue holes but instead I just hiked looking for the occasional fish willing to hit my fly in four inches of water. Upstream I watched the sun get low in the sky and devised my plan to hike out avoiding both the road and the creek. The creek was lined with ice and I nearly lost it several times. I miss the snow. I hiked out and called it a day. It doesn’t sound like therapy but trust me it was.