It's just before 5am, so we made good time. Sun still has a while to show itself, but there's plenty of light to see the water. Little dimples on the surface--not what we're after, but still nice to see some activity. The birds are busy already, dipping and feeding and squawking. Should be a good sign, right? Means the fish are biting...
Why are we doing this? Why do we spring out of bed at 3am, brew a pot of coffee, load up the truck and hit the road before there is any hint of daylight? I feel like a kid. The anticipation is stronger than Christmas morning. All the planning & preparation...checking water levels, following the barometer, reading fishing reports. The thousands of dollars that we've invested in this stupid hobby... As far back as I can remember, I've been obsessed with, addicted to, and haunted by angling. I'm not entirely sure I can explain why, either. I could easily fish for the rest of my life. Every day. Seriously. I might get tired of it, but I kind of doubt it. I'd like to find out. I dream at night about pushing off in a drift boat...whether on the sticks or perched at either end ready to shoot line. That feeling of going with the current, covering miles of water, hitting every seam, tailout, and pocket along the way. We gonna have a 50 fish day, or a five fish day? We're catching fish, I do know that. Least we better... Quickly, my thoughts shift to wading knee-deep in warm salt water, stalking a tail. I see you. I see your cloud, your tail...and your friend. Okay, I've one, maybe two shots at this...don't fuck it up. 20 yards maybe? Stupid headwind. Haul, haul, shoot! Oooooh, that wasn't bad! Wasn't bad at all--didn't spook 'em. Strip, strip, boom! Still shifting... There is a single light on a post by the boat launch. It's orange-ish and has a cloud of bugs around it. I'm glad it's here, though, because it's pretty damn dark. Kinda chilly, too. Glad I brought this jacket. I'll back it down--why don't you guide me on that side--it's kind of tough to see. Boat's floating, I'll go park. I love the sight and sound of that empty bass boat trailer being pulled out of the lake, water pouring off, splattering against the blacktop. Wet trailer tracks lead right into our parking stall--first ones here! Fire it up, let's go, man. You get the sandwiches? Good, let's hit it. Idle past the buoy and throttle down! Woo! That'll wake you up! And possibly my favorite... Okay, there's the tailout. Quiet. See anything? Holy shit, they're rising. Look at all the bugs. Look at all the fish! Holy shit. Are they caddis? Of course they are, what else would they be? Size 16? 18, maybe? That looks about right. Hurry up, fingers. Okay, here goes. Nice! Mend, mend. Let 'er go...let 'er go. C'mon! It doesn't get any better than that drift! You kidding me? Shit, that's a nice sized fish rising right there. Nice cast! C'mon, you bastard...c'mon. Yes!!! Every trip is different. Some trips are 10 days, some are 40 minutes. Some days you're catching fish smaller than your hand, some days you're after fish that could eat your dog. Whether I'm blasting down the lake at 80mph to get to that spot first, or pushing back on the current in order to get a few more shots at that pocket, it's the same feeling. It's one part primitive hunter's instincts, one part solitude and connection with nature, with just a dash of competitive spirit, and sprinkled with camaraderie. Better set the alarm for 3am. //re.
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AuthorI am Earl. Archives
May 2024
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