Twenty mile an hour winds. Stirred up water. A normal gray Midwest winter day. When it’s almost December in Indiana only a few dedicated folks are out on the water chasing that proverbial dragon. It’s always been weird to me when you call yourself a fisherman or woman and you don’t fish when the weather is not in your favor. It’s easy to fish when it’s warm and you’re in shorts and a t-shirt. It’s not as easy when your hands are numb from stripping line all day, the snot is crusted on your nose, and all you might be doing is practicing your casting but you at least gotta try.
Yesterday we only saw one person fishing a solo mission in his boat. I watched him from across the lake as he worked over forty feet of water and then headed back to a bay to get out of the winds. I like to think we were all on the same page. If we’d have been closer there might have been that nod that conveys a whole lot of info without the need for the small talk that eats away at the real purpose we’re out there on the water when so called civilized folks are warm at home. If I ever become one of those folks you have my permission to kick me in the shin.
I guess I’ll keep a gamblin..