Fishing I never go fishing alone Oh, to the inexperienced eye it may seem as if the car holds but a single occupant with only one lunch in his vest, and there may not seem to be another soul within 100 miles earshot of me in a wave-bounced boat or on a cool shady stream bottom. Even on a frozen windswept lake with not one place to hide does my ever-present companion show to those unwise to the ways of the fisherman. But she is always there. There are times when even I think I am alone, but always by the day's end I remember the various faces that my companion takes on and recognize her choice of the day. Some days have more than one outlook, for she is a master of disguise and camouflage with a judicial sort of honor and pride interspersed with just a hint of mischievousness and a jagged streak of pure mean. Some may recognize my companion as "Lady Luck", or to her insightful friends just a casual "Karma" would do. She without whom there would be no fishing, only catching. Having "Fate" for a big sister and being close cousins with the "Lady of the Lake" and the "River Goddess," she has her own style of how to deal with a fisher in the pursuit of just a little kindness and perhaps a little special notice. After an April of sleet and brisk northerly winds, there is nothing like a May of strong east winds to bring cold rain and despair to a fisherman. Left alone on a thawing desolate world of slate-colored water and ashen skies where even footfalls make no sound on the dead of last year's leaves, catching a dream might have been easier than trying to rekindle the hopes born during the last two months of waiting. Waiting and planning with charts, calendars, and expectations while the wind raged and the rain and sleet carved new streams out of old ice. Then, at last, the day comes when all the wind has blown and the rain is poured out--one that dawns bright and clear with air carrying a warm, growing scent and a faint buzzing of a bug from somewhere just ahead. A race to load, go, and arrive before a weather change can occur creates an expectancy reaching a feverish pitch during a solitary drive, with a short walk to the fishing hole leaving a nagging doubt that something was forgotten. Soon it was apparent that the lucky fishing hat was the missing ingredient as the water is frothed into suds trying every piece of tackle with all manners of retrieve. It was one of those days. It did not matter what tackle was used or how, it just was not a day for catching, hooking, or getting a bite. It was vanity trying to upstart a Lady with presumptuous thoughts about a hat being able to usurp her reign over Luck. I had plenty of luck from her that day, all bad. There are other days when I actually remember to talk to her. As if she could be swayed by begging or pleading. Blasphemy is not a route to be lightly taken, but in the most desperate of times or ones where the Lady's mood is none too pleasant already, the use of profanity may feel good, perhaps even justified, but seldom helps the cause. Rather, the use of such deservedly foul language usually increases the luck factor to the point where fishing is forgotten and survival becomes an issue. Spectators to acts of Lady Luck should take care not to enjoy the benefits due to a hardship on another's part lest offense be taken and a worse mishap befall. Then there are days when the warm sun heats a small pond I first located on a map. An easy drive after a hearty lunch with a quick easy walk down a deserted path delivers me to a trout pond straight from a dream last February. Wispy white clouds reflect off a dotted blue and silver mirror, and a buzzing haze of insects keep fat trout busy as I circle to an opening just off the path. Long green grass plushly carpets a small mound, breaking the treeline along the shore with a perfect casting lane behind. Big fat Mayflies, the same type I tied a couple of dozen of last night, land on my vest as I string up a new rod and tie on an exact duplicate. First cast, every cast. Cast after cast a fat brook trout leaps out of the water to be the first to devour the morsel I supply. Five for five, then more and more with neither a miss or miss-cast. Fifteen or twenty and the count begins to blur as fish after fish is liphooked for a fast release. One hour, then two, and three, pass as trout after trout succumb to perfect casts with perfect flies on a perfect day at the perfect spot. Sitting back on the grassy mound watching the setting sun and the last few hungry trout rising, I am left with a sense of satisfaction and gratitude. A fine day's fishing. After all, who needs Lady Luck? At least 'til I try to get in the car and see her sitting on the seat next to my keys. |
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