During the gap after the shotguns are put away and the water is still frozen over I get restless. Thoughts go to summer days with fish rising to dries or wading in ankle deep water in saltwater locals. As the water opens I jump at the opportunity.
“Pet Fish” Photo by Steven Brutger
Rainbow Photo by Steven Brutger
Forecast 61 and Sunny, Reality 40 and Cloudy Photo by Steven Brutger
I’d never seen a strike like it.
The turbid water was sluggish all afternoon, and the action slower still. Glide after riffle, run after pocket, pool after hole, each held its silence in turn. Top water? Zip. Dropper rig? Uh-uh. Deep drift? Nada. Strip a bugger? Swing a bugger? Bugger and a worm? Whiff, whiff and (shame on me) whiff. But then, just as I’d decided to take my skunk and go, from the skinny water, it exploded.
“NOOOO it’s NOT go home time!”
Tantrum on!
I’d not yet deciphered the half seen patterns – down-turned lip, sun glinting from snot stache – but my primal self already knew what my conscious mind couldn’t yet articulate… “Oh man, Big One!” There’d be no horsing this one into the net. I give him the silent treatment, let him work against the drag. He settles quickly into a defiant squat, refusing to spend himself on a futile run. Smart. He must get that from his father. I try some change of direction.
“Hey bud, haven’t we had a nice…”
“NO! Bad Dada!”
Ok, so plenty of fight left than. Play it cool. Hands high, now bring it around nice and easy.
“Juice Box?”
“You being mean!”
The fish have defied me already. I won’t swallow being broken-off by a three year old. Not today. In a bold, dare I say brilliant, maneuver I break form and lower my rod tip.
“Spill it. What do you want?”
“I wanna catch a fish!”
Jackpot.
Mei Ratz Photo
A blood red sun is about to dip below the horizon. Dogs are in their kennels, collars off. We head down the dirt road, about to put a great trip in the rearview mirror. It takes a couple of minutes but I notice my old man, riding shotgun, still has his vest on and his 16 gauge next to him. I asked why. We were a bird shy of our limit he noted and the last few minutes of shooting could be ripe for one more rooster.
The old man has hunted hard all day and the previous four as well, we all have. But early on in the day his back started acting up. Later in the day he needed a Valium. He looked pretty stove up but for some reason he wouldn’t quit.
“That might hold a bird” my buddy jokes from the back seat, pointing to a small patch of cattails just off the road. “Really” my dad responds, with a level of enthusiasm that outweighed the quality of the cover. I wish I could say the old man leapt out of the pickup but I’d be lying. He teetered out. Looking a bit lost and clumsy he headed toward the cover.
Take a dog at least I offer, letting my old lab out of her kennel. The old man calls her over and the old lady looks back at me with a look of dismay I won’t soon forget. She is satiated, with the fresh wounds of a successful hunt to prove it. She doesn’t deem this to be worth her effort.
My buddy and I crack a beer and are laughing at the spectacle from the tailgate when we notice the old lady perk up and disappear into the cattails. Seconds later a rooster cackles and erupts into the last rays of the days light. Instinct kicks in and the old man deftly raises his shotgun in a manner that defies the Valium, knocking the bird to the ground.
Forty yards away we look like a couple of college football fans whose team just scored a last second touchdown for the go ahead win. We’re going nuts. Raising our beers, cheering, high-fiving in the middle of the dirt road with nothing but grasslands as far as the eye can see.
Ruining our celebration, the rooster, wheels intact, squirts out of the cattails, through the barrow ditch and across the road. The old lady is focused now, tearing up ground and hot on his heels. A hundred yards down the road the old lady snags the rooster as he heads into the thick stuff. The celebration ensues with even more exuberance; the old lady brings the bird back to the old man, in what was now the perfect end of a great trip.
Finding the seam between currents, and threading your fly just there, is the difference between playing with Pisces and enjoying the view. As hard hunting and fishing fathers, we’re stalking a similar sweet-spot – the balance between passionate pursuits and happy home-lives. Sometimes we nail it, sometimes we miss. Weeks go by when we’re not even sure it exists. But we’re getting after it all the same. There’re fish in the rivers, birds in the brush and elk in the hills… and hell if we’re going to stand and watch the scenery go by.