It was many things, slippery mud, icy water, and blustering breeze, with the occasional dog walker giving me a wide berth. They were as uncomfortable as I was, me out of shape and unkempt – wearing too much olive drab to suit them – and me hoping they wouldn’t ask what luck I’d had, as luck wasn’t in the cards.
I had cork in my hand, the creek was a river – and hip boots weren’t enough to get me to the other bank.
Unsettled flood gravel gives no purchase when fording, and the water’s pressure merely drives you and the pile of gravel downriver without regard to how the cleats bite or the frantic tap-tap-tap of a wading staff.
I was content. A winter worth of couch pupation had birthed the awkward predator – the young lion, clumsy and unsure of footing and every disturbance an excuse for the stalk and pounce, yielding only dry leaves and dandelions, adventure of a sort as the den and safety only a few feet distant.
The river hosts a single green frog.
The insects are largely absent, many perished during the drought and those remaining were hunkered down for Spring. Cracks in the clay banks yielded small scuds and water fleas and little else.
The beaver dams are gone, but they served their purpose. Alder shoots driven flat by flood are starting to emerge from the matted grasses and sticks cast onto the bank by receding water – prime forage for beaver and the multitude of muddy tracks and gnawed ends suggested a few survivors.
I added a single green wing teal to my collection – the outdoor’s equivalent of dumpster diving, as everything manmade eventually becomes entangled in a root ball. This year was mighty slim as the scour was thorough and even the ever-present water bottles were gone.
I was content to throw experimentals at imaginary steelhead lies – or dangling them in the current to see their posture. Scouting via long line – as the far bank was inaccessible to foot traffic.
With the first week of dry weather scheduled, I expect flows will begin to dwindle and allow me a little elevation and ability to see whether any fish remain. Until then my fishing is reduced to out of practice, out of shape, and out of luck – old friends in our annual Spring purgatory.
Tags: Little Stinking, spring flood, green wing teal, spring purgatory, fishless fishing
Visions of me and Rachel Ray, the soft tinkle of fine crystal and a dusty carafe of aged spirits – small-talking our way through the commercial break …
As a really tasty “pain and suffering” verdict could be in excess of twenty million, now’s the time to look hard at your legal staff.
codicil of parchment from a Mexican land grant.
Peering into scientific research is a mixed bag – every so often your knees come together involuntarily and you find yourself siding with PETA or their insect equivalent.
