10 Days of Famine; the world in the eyes of a fishing addict
It had been 10 days since my last drift. After living out these 10 days, I have concluded that this is how long it takes for a fishing addict to reach the point where he begins to risk his health and welfare if not given the opportunity to wet a line quick.
Trout frolic and play in his dreams, leaping and rising to even the clumsiest of presentations. He awakens each day and his wife asks who the "beautiful female" is that he "caught and released". Driving over streams on the way to work becomes an increasingly dangerous task, as he hits the brakes at highway speeds and does a 180 degree rotation of the head to prolong his short glimpse of paradise. The work on his desk begins to accumulate as he takes every unsupervised opportunity to read, correspond, and view anything fishy. His Pavlovian response to any finned stimuli becomes increasingly excessive to the point where the use of electronic equipment becomes a hazard.
After 10 days, a fisherman is at the apex of withdrawal. If you see your friend, neighbour, coworker, or pharmacist going through these tell tale signs, get him to a river, stat!
I was astute enough this Wednesday to recognize some of these symptoms and was able to make a self-diagnosis. After an early afternoon meeting, I packed the car and rushed myself to the river. Thank goodness there was still some daylight, so it wasn't too late. The river sped angrily from the recent days' precipitation, and it had closed its curtains on the sun's rays as it held silt and debris in suspension. Yet the moment my line touched its surface, I had felt resuscitation; blood began to flow, and my lungs let in the fresh, unrecycled air. Paradise and I met again. With each cast upstream, and each drift downstream, my silly grin grew. A big male Steelhead noticed my homecoming, and greeted me on the end of my line, twisting, running, tails-slapping in celebration. I followed him downstream where he finally came to lay before me. He was the largest and most beautiful fish I had seen this fall. I reveled in his beauty, thanked him for the warm welcome, and shook his caudal wrist before his return into the mysterious.
By then I had fully recovered, and my silly grin had grown ear to ear. With no camera or phone to share the moment, I will have to keep this one burned on my brain for only I to enjoy.
This time, all I have to share of this experience are my words, and I hope this time, my words paint the vivid picture still in the forefront of my mind.
Trout frolic and play in his dreams, leaping and rising to even the clumsiest of presentations. He awakens each day and his wife asks who the "beautiful female" is that he "caught and released". Driving over streams on the way to work becomes an increasingly dangerous task, as he hits the brakes at highway speeds and does a 180 degree rotation of the head to prolong his short glimpse of paradise. The work on his desk begins to accumulate as he takes every unsupervised opportunity to read, correspond, and view anything fishy. His Pavlovian response to any finned stimuli becomes increasingly excessive to the point where the use of electronic equipment becomes a hazard.
After 10 days, a fisherman is at the apex of withdrawal. If you see your friend, neighbour, coworker, or pharmacist going through these tell tale signs, get him to a river, stat!
I was astute enough this Wednesday to recognize some of these symptoms and was able to make a self-diagnosis. After an early afternoon meeting, I packed the car and rushed myself to the river. Thank goodness there was still some daylight, so it wasn't too late. The river sped angrily from the recent days' precipitation, and it had closed its curtains on the sun's rays as it held silt and debris in suspension. Yet the moment my line touched its surface, I had felt resuscitation; blood began to flow, and my lungs let in the fresh, unrecycled air. Paradise and I met again. With each cast upstream, and each drift downstream, my silly grin grew. A big male Steelhead noticed my homecoming, and greeted me on the end of my line, twisting, running, tails-slapping in celebration. I followed him downstream where he finally came to lay before me. He was the largest and most beautiful fish I had seen this fall. I reveled in his beauty, thanked him for the warm welcome, and shook his caudal wrist before his return into the mysterious.
By then I had fully recovered, and my silly grin had grown ear to ear. With no camera or phone to share the moment, I will have to keep this one burned on my brain for only I to enjoy.
This time, all I have to share of this experience are my words, and I hope this time, my words paint the vivid picture still in the forefront of my mind.
posted by BCM at 11:53 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home