I fished a small creek every day I was able for the last week. This is a feat that amounts to four separate occasions angling since Saturday. Since I usually fish when I am working through some stuff, I quickly ascertained that I had a lot going on, even though my discernment of those many areas of tumult is usually worked out in the writing. My mind is a wreck after I got the sense that I am writing too much, and not reading enough from a trusted writing friend.
This week, I decided that I would fish my Thomas and Thomas made Exocett (8 weight) so that I would have a chance to use it, rather than allowing it to gather too much dust in my closet. I bought it recently at a fly fishing expo in Atlanta salving my experience of the loss of that paradise bass fishery known as the Lake Guntersville. I believed when I bought the rod that it would be my most versatile rod yet, and that I might use it for stripe, carp, bass, and slot redfish. The truth is that I have been timid about taking my flats boat out of the garage, because a few years ago at the start of Covid, I had an accident in it and blew out the lower unit on the motor in some hard clay. It was repaired before production and distribution problems began. At least I hope it has been repaired. I am unsure because last summer I golfed too damn much and failed to run it. With all that I am dealing with mentally, I am timid about running it now, because if I discover that it is still broken, I don’t think I can handle the hassle of trying to recoup the thousands I spent on it having it repaired two years ago. In other words: I have been enjoying wading the creek. And, ignorance can be blissful.
My buddy Logan had a birthday on Monday, and I invited him to join me for some creek angling. We fished pretty hard; we left no seam unswung, or bank unbeaten. I asked my father to babysit by riding Trey around in the side-by-side-atv while we fished. This may seem selfish, but I thought my father understood how difficult it is to be a teacher by listening to my constant whining. I needed decompression after a day of not screaming at the disrespectful ones as would have felt good, as would have felt just, but as this was capitulation for making an impact in their lives I typically thought better of this approach. Also, I have grown more reflective and contemplative than ever since I am considering leaving teaching, and giving over to the universe the power to make or break my life. I needed the tao of the water rolling gently over logs and boulders. I needed the feel of the pebbles under my boots as I walked around searching the depths for a spotted bass. I shuddered out thoughts of a looming drought that could ruin all fishing from creek panfish to Coosa carp, and I focused on the zen of catching sunfish in this miraculous present moment in which the water level was just right for wading.
There was a lingering hope for a redeye, or an Alabama bass, but I haven’t proven they are in this creek yet. I will though. As Logan and I caught a few sunfish I called my father for the pickup ride. No answer. Then he said he was at the barn on the next call. I asked him to bring Trey and come pick me up. The dependable father turned out to be a maniac grandfather. He took a bad route over a precarious beaver dam road. There were so many dry roads to take, and he decided that he would take the one less traveled by, and so he and my four year old son had the Kawasaki Mule tires slip three feet off the road, and into the silver mud of a ten foot deep pond. They almost went swimming. When I approached I saw Trey wandering around on the dam with my father at the wheel spinning tires. Trey seemed relieved to see me and made some unintelligible noises over the whir of the spinning tires. He ran towards me and stepped very gracefully over the winch cable like he was Jackie Joyner Kersey over a hurdle. The cable was outmatched for this very heavy duty job. Fortunately, Logan’s Land Rover had a 12,000 pound winch on it. Trey stood in an ant hill for good measure. Dad wanted to try harder with his little winch, saying, “If you go get Logan that will just be a vacation for you.” He was stucker than stuck, and it was obvious to everyone but him.
Logan was a sport, and was more than willing to be late to his own birthday dinner with his wife by helping my poor father save his atv from this micro scale crisis. It was a crisis that would have been fine on the weekend, but it was Monday and most of the world had jobs to get to the next day. But I digress. I love my father. However, his route made no sense. Maybe the beaver slide he was driving up gave way, and forced him leftward. Anyway, Trey sat in the Rover loving every minute of seeing the winch save the Mule, and he cooed “Stuck,” for the rest of the evening and into the next day. Three tires came off the silvery Gumby mud making a fairly disgusting noise when they were freed. The tire noise resembled the sound of a wading boot that has come untied and you just slosh around anyway because you are too fat to tie your shoes anymore.
On the way to save my father, Logan and I walked and talked. He seemed to understand that fishing is the escape, and once you leave the creek, then life inevitably returns. I appreciated this 30 year old’s wisdom. I only want to stay in the creek, but I need to figure out an alternative route for caring for my family. It may be helping my father with his loose ends and treat the next year as a sabbatical in which I work on my own act, and my father’s. Needless to say I needed to stay in the creek more, read more, and write less.