Wake up. Saturday morning, it’s too early to get up when you’re not going fishing. Go to work. Stand around wondering why I’m there. No breakfast, there’s work to do. Eat laffy taffy candy I keep finding on random desks. It’s not stealing if they don’t know it’s there. Get sugar rush going, slam some shitty pop for more sugar. Diabetes is probably gonna happen. Do some IT nerd work stuff that’s really uninteresting if you’re not into technology crap that is supposed to make life easier but somehow makes life busier.
Go home. No lunch. Meet with realtor for home stuffs. Buying a home is a pain the ass. I don’t like pains in my ass. Still haven’t eaten. Wife is going to a party. There will be food there she says. Ditch the wife to go fish with Don. I got priorities and fishing is on top of the food pyramid. Stop at a jenky gas station and pick up two granola bars, a cup of fruit, and a ham and cheese sandwich. I’ll eat it when I get to the parking lot at the creek.
Speed limit is 55. The locals do 45. Move. I got to get to a creek to see about a fish. Push the granola bar into my mouth and jump out the car in the lot to string up the rod. Tie on a new streamer. That’s the ticket. Throw on the waders and take one last look at the food. Stomach is burning telling me to eat more. Brain is burning tell me to fish. Meet in the middle and grab the water bottle. I’ll eat when I get back to the car tonight. I have no room to carry food and no time to stop to eat. There’s fish that need to be tricked.
Don and I wade upstream, casting as we go. We pass each other as we go. A few hours in and I’m slowing down. Legs are feeling like lead weights and each step against the stream seems more ponderous. My mind keeps wandering back to the gas station sandwich sitting in my car. It’s not far, just downstream about a half hour away. I could always go get it. Cast again. This time it feels like a bus hit my streamer. THEY’RE BACK! No more pussy trout takes. No more sipping the fly like it’s a fine wine. It’s white trash beer chugging fucking ‘Merica smallmouth bass slams. This shit is what I live for. That mojo is rising and it’s a welcome feeling after weeks of getting crapped on by the fishing gods.
Two healthy fish on chartreuse and white. Switch it out to a brown nasty articulated with a ton of flash in the ass. Floating line is on and I’m too lazy to swap spools. The streamer has no weight but enough zonker to help it fall. Fish with a twitch in a slow pool. If I was a fish I’d eat it. Ten casts in and the biggest and last smallie of the day eats like it’s his last meal. I want to eat. Try to take a picture and he peaces out leaving me with water dripping off my glasses. I deserved that for putting a hook in his lip. I watch the middle finger of his tail disappear into the stream. Later friend.
I’m getting pretty shaky from lack of food and there’s a long hike back. It’s downstream at least, flying spaghetti monster be praised. The little asshole in my head keeps telling me I should have eaten hours ago. I yell back that I caught fish. Fuck off.
Don and I cast slowly as we walk downstream back to the cars but no smallmouth grace us with their presence. I’m so spent I can barely throw a loop. Made a bad step on the bank and took a hard seat. I’m good at making myself look stupid when there’s people around. The bank rats swimming in the creek where I fall probably don’t notice. At the car I strip out of the sweaty waders and break the rod down. The inside of the car is hot and my cold ham and cheese sandwich turned into a ham and cheese melt. The cup of fruit was hot. I’ve never eaten hot fruit that’s served cold. The sandwich smelled spoiled so it got dumped in the weeds for the racoons. At least I got a granola bar left in the car. I caught fish and that Chipotle tasted better than it ever has when I got home.