Take it Easy
~ Henry David Thoreau
Joe arrived at work like any other day, only on this day he had the late model Ford minivan with his fishing gear loaded inside, and the kayak loaded on top. Joe always felt a bit anxious about bringing the kayak to work. Did it seem unprofessional? Was it uncouth? Did it make the van look better or worse? Or was it just fine? After a thorough marginal analysis, he always settled on bringing it. Excitement beat down the anxiety because in the end it meant a few hours on the water that would have otherwise been lost to the cosmos and the setting sun. Joe wouldn't let that happen. He felt an urgency. Somehow, often at the behest of his family and friends, Joe made sure he used his time according to his values and beliefs. Joe was sure in his belief that life was short and he didn't want to waste it inside on the couch or outside praying that his neighbors wouldn't call the cops on him for practicing archery in his postage stamp of a backyard. Joe had a fire about the natural world and headed the call when he felt it burning in his soul. He made time to indulge the strong pull and Joe got out often. But he questioned often, the truth of heaven, and what might happen when the lights go out. Especially heavy on his mind was the thought that if heaven did await, that if Jesus was a decent fisherman, as he had heard, and if he was surely the best teacher of all, as it is written, that he would have everyone in heaven chasing fish and all of them casting like gods. Joe worried about it sometimes while he fished and while he worked, or during those scary moments between dreams on dark and cold nights. They came and went suddenly, the thoughts that all those fisherman would have all the heavenly streams choked with anglers like Tippy Dam in October. Even if they were all catching big heavenly silver salmon willing to bite bare hooks, it might not match the thrill of the hunt in the wilds of purgatory where mother nature was in charge. Where failure and success are only inches or seconds apart, and occur in random harmony. The wonder of the wild world that awaited, gave him hope for the day. Joe felt a tinge of extra energy, an optimism, because he knew he had an evening of paddling and fishing ahead where he could be immersed in supreme contemplation and focus, where he might make some progress in figuring out the answers to his deepest questions. At 10am he was interrupted by the phone ringing to realize he had missed 3 calls from his wife. What could she want calling three times. When he answered he quickly realized it was his fault. The keys to the other car were in the glove box of the Ford, which was 45 minutes south of her present location. Joe knew he had to go home to deliver the keys. The furniture his wife was gonna sell at 11 was at stake, and his son wasn't gonna make it to school, and Joe knew that a week in the doghouse was riding on making this right. His manager gave him the green light to take the afternoon off, and within an hour the problem was solved, kid delivered to school, and keys in hand. Furniture sale made. There would be plenty of time now to get an early start to the evening fish. With high hopes and a bright sky, Joe drove to the river, but not before stopping for some refreshments to keep him comfortable from the next few hours.
While he drove, Joe pondered all the times he fished this area over the years. Below the dam he had caught many fine smallmouth bass, lost more than a few expensive lures to pike or what some say were musky, and hooked the biggest walleye he had ever seen or caught. It wasn't pretty water but it was close to home. The river always seemed muddy and the banks increasingly choked with litter, chicken bones, and massive tangles of fishing line and thorn bushes. Sometimes Joe wondered if the bait fisherman used ranch dressing on their worms, as the discarded ranch containers seemed to be almost equally as numerous as the empty blue cans of Canadian crawlers. It saddened Joe to ponder what kind of thoughts filled the minds of men who were responsible for such a mess. He usually looked carefully over his shoulder when descending the hill below the bridge where bums and addicts made shelter. And he usually left the place with as much of the fairly clean garbage, if there is such a thing, as he could carry in his arms. Sometimes Joe caught funny looks for this odd behavior that was rarely seen by the local dam dwellers. Joe’s wife started to wonder if he really was fishing at all because of the increasing number Popov bottles that were showing up in the recycle bin at home. The dam certainly wasn't heaven, but there were fish.
There was no one there on the cold rainy Sunday morning as the sun fought hard to pierce the thick clouds behind the train tracks crossing the river. It was running high and Joe knew the bass would be sitting below the rock hump in the middle of the river where he had caught them before. Learning about the rock ledge took many lures getting snagged on it, and finally seeing it one fall day when the water was very clear. But on this June day Joe couldn't see the bottom, it was murky and fast, and the rattletrap seemed like the right lure for the conditions if he could keep it up off the snaggy bottom. Joe made the first cast upstream and past the beginning of the rock ledge that was actually the remains of the old footbridge that ran straight across the river under a newer but yet closed off foot bridge. The lure started to sink upon hitting the water, and with just a couple turns of the reel it began its wobble and rattling action. The walleye took it just a foot under the surface and Joe was surprised, but gained line quickly by cranking hard on the handle of his reel. The walleye pulled like a log into the rocks but Joe managed to keep from snagging as the big fish came across the shallow ledge and into the hole behind it. By the time it approached the corrugated steel wall that lined the 100 yards of shore below the dam, Joe realized that without a net he would have to walk the beast all the way down river to the end of the seawall where a ladder down made its way down the bank into the water. He had no other option, as the fish was pushing over 30 inches and very fat in the belly. He wasn't prepared for this and knew his 10 pound line would break if he tried to hoist it up and over the guardrail. He started the walk downriver watching the huge walleye flop and splash along the wall. After walking and passing the rod around 3 steel guardrail bars that went 8 feet higher than the seawall, Joe was forced to watch as the lure unhooked from the jaws of the fish and clanked on the metal wall, releasing the fish into the muddy water. There would be no picture or no one to witness this spectacle, or debacle, however you look at it, but it got Joe excited to learn the ways of the river, and it kept him coming back for more when he needed a quick fishing fix.
The time 10 years ago in June, Joe attempted to launch the kayak from the metropark downstream from the dam, and paddle up, but the current made it impossible, so he fished it from shore unsuccessfully because of the steep overgrown banks. Joe wrote that park off for years, because, in his naivete, he figured it was always this muddy and probably always this fast. He wasn’t naive forever and eventually ventured back in the fall when it ran low, and slow, and clear. Joe had learned the ways of the river by then, some of them anyways, and he eventually found his own little honey hole. At the same time he eventually found it, Joe seemed amazed and ashamed at himself for not realizing it earlier. This muddy fast springtime river that was less than 15 minutes from home, was just waiting for him to explore and find the area Joe now calls his home waters. Just a year ago, Joe found it again one late summer night after work when he all of sudden got the urge to go fishing. Joe loaded the 9.5 foot kayak into the car with urgency and arrived with just 90 minutes of daylight. He was surprised at the gentle flow and clear water. He paddled furiously for an hour up river and soon realized he had made it to the dam he had fished so many times before and thought it couldn't be accessed by boat. He also realized that the railroad and dam property that separated the metropark and the dam were fenced off and closed to trespassing, which virtually eliminated any foot traffic on this stretch of water, so unless you were willing to paddle against the current for an hour or more, no one else was fishing it. This was impossible for most kayaks outside of July through November. Joe assumed arrogantly, that most other fishermen weren’t as adventurous or energetic as he, so he must have this whole stretch of river to himself. He assumed that these fish had probably never seen any lures or flies, except those that he casted in the last year. He thought for a moment that he may have found his own little fishing heaven, or some wild river purgatory, stuck somewhere just downstream of hell, which was the dam. Joe turned around and backed the stern of his kayak up onto shore and enjoyed the solitude and pleasure of having found his own honey hole. He fell into a trance while gazing down the banks of the river seeing each nook and cranny and the fish that lived in each one. He was suddenly interrupted by the raging train passing on the bridge overhead. The flash of each train car passing blurred his vision while an epiphany came to his mind. In his 25+ years of fishing in Michigan rivers, Joe realized the last year on this stretch was the best smallmouth bass fishing he had ever experienced.
As he continued driving and thinking about the past, Joe pondered whether he should go somewhere else, maybe somewhere entirely new, now that he had 3 extra hours at his disposal. He considered for a minute the idea of driving north to fish for brown trout instead. He could be there by 3 and have 5 hours to fish before dark. He also considered that an early arrival at his honey hole would also feel pretty good. He was reminded that the usual program always felt rushed to beat the sun as it sank in the sky. It would be great to take it easy, and really enjoy the afternoon. Joe knew the cold beer would taste great in the sun after catching that first fish. It was an easy decision.
The canoe launch area was empty, which was even better for Joe. More often than not he preferred being alone. Especially when it involved the woods or the water, being alone was the best. He certainly didn't mind having company, but it made for an entirely different kind of experience when pursuing game or fish. Joe might try to explain it to others when they questioned his solitary urges to go out alone, or he might just shrug his shoulders depending on who was asking. To some he would say it eliminated variables that might alter the observations of his scientific mind, which could end up leading him to unsupported conclusions about his quarry or its habitat, which could inevitably be the difference in success or failure, depending on how one defines those words. Today, he assured himself, was already a success for he was going fishing when he would normally be working. To others he might attempt a philosophical approach and discuss the qualities of zen and the harmony of nature that could be observed alone surrounded by unceasing water and a cacophony of a thousand winged insects.
Joe felt his mind and soul open to the possibilities that awaited. He began the usually rushed process of unloading and getting rigged up. Doing it quickly and efficiently was always a point of pride for Joe. But now that sense of urgency was absent and Joe breathed in slow and deep, gazing slow and wide across the green grass, before he opened the hatch to begin. He enjoyed the feeling of ease that the extra time afforded him. He pondered the importance and necessity of each piece of gear as he considered what to bring. The three rods seemed like too much, especially the spinning rod. It looked out of place next to the fly rods, and it occurred to him then that he didn’t really enjoy dragging the plastic worm, even though he knew it to be the most effective way to target them when the sun was high, or any time for that matter. He pondered again the meaning of success. What were the goals of the day? Was he after fish or an experience? This was always the question he wrestled with before every trip. This was why he brought so many rods, and so many different boxes of lures, to make sure he could have it both ways. More often than not it caused him stress, sometimes nearly ruining the experience. Too often he would be fishing one lure, even his favorite lure, only to be questioning whether he should be fishing another lure instead. It was logical too, Joe did often have 4 or even 5 rods rigged and ready to throw. It gave Joe too many options and made him less focused on the one fly he had in the water and fishing it correctly. It kept him from setting up properly for the next cast or the next fish because he was considering the other options. It became a distraction, and made him less effective. On this day too, he had a mind to take it easy and keep it simple, and he knew it didn’t matter how many or how big they were. Joe knew the potential of the place, and without any more hesitation, grabbed the 2 fly rods and pulled one box from his bag. He also knew in that instant he wouldn't need anything else. In one half of the box were his favorite streamers, and his favorite poppers in the other half. He grabbed his snips and one spool of 10 pound line, which both went into the lunchbox on top of the 4 Two Hearted ales. The thought of going out with a minimal setup made him smile and feel even more hopeful for the experience. If nothing else, his load would be lighter, and the paddling easier.
Pushing off from shore brought Joe under the bright sun and he was surprised at the clarity of the water and the contours of the river bottom. He noted the yellow sand and gray gravel that mixed together to create a rough bottom that was broken by clusters of rocks and randomly scattered timber of various ages. He began counting fish as they darted below him to escape the shadow of the kayak. It was odd how so many different shades of smallmouth bass, from dark black, to bright green, to creamy tan, can exist in the same stretch of river eating the same food. Joe wondered what accounted for such differences. He thought it would be fun to compare the colors in his lap, so he grabbed a rod. Joe looked to the shadowed bank and then paying out line from the reel on each backcast until he had enough to land the popper softly next to the log running parallel to the bank. Joe loved the feeling of energy in the cast, the lightness of the rod, and excitement of working surface bugs for river bass. He knew he could probably do better on a streamer to get down deep to where the fish were lying. He didn’t care because he liked it this way, this was how he would rebel against the outside world, by doing it his own way with his own flies, while no one was looking. The moment felt pure and he was focused on what lie below his gurgling mess of fur and steel. He considered the mind of the fish he was after and it confirmed what he already knew, that he was fishing to the prey and not the predators. He knew they weren’t sitting in the shallow water. No, he had counted them in the main channel down deep. He threw his popper in the water and let if float down into the deep eddy below. The bouyant fly hung in the current sending wake out from each side as it wobbled back and forth. Joe cracked his beer and took a long cool drink. He noted to himself that he felt like a very lucky man basking in the sun surrounded by his favorite things. He felt patient and glorious. Joe kept on watching the popper until it approached a log jam, when he reeled it all back in, put down the rod, and picked up the paddle. He knew it wasn’t time yet, and he knew there was no need to rush anything. The beer and the sun and breeze were all perfect. When the beer was gone, he paddled for over an hour to the base of the dam, and he felt even more victorious, sweat running down into his eyes. The next beer would taste even better now, thirsty and hot from the paddling. Soon Joe would fall into the focused place that pulled him so far up river away from everyone else, but not before nodding at one of the bank fisherman sitting behind the metal rail. Joe could imagine the piles of trash around his feet. He loathed that image, turned his kayak and ascended downriver back toward his little heaven of logjams and saintly smallmouth bass.
By now the sun had sunk sufficiently to bring more shadow to the river and the bass would start moving from their deeper holds. Joe tied on a new recipe he created the night before, a 3 inch streamer fly made from fire-tiger dyed rabbit strip and heavy dumbbell eyes. It yielded Joe three nice fish before he felt it was the right time to start chugging the poppers he had just learned to make from the deer hair that was piling up in his basement. Joe was satisfied with the streamer and put the rod behind him, so there was nothing in front of him to snag on the fly line that would pile up between his legs while fishing the popper. Joe began to get more and more focused with each cast and more excited with each fish he caught. At some point he lost count of how many he had caught. He laughed at the thought just as a big bass pulled his fly under in a slurry of spray and foam. Joe fought the fish and released it without any fanfare or pictures. He was sweating, wet from the paddle dripping on him, but totally focused and in tune with the current, the kayak, and the fly line. Joe had found what he was looking for. He was totally lost in each strip of line that imparted just the right amount of gurgle and chug to the popper to make the bass strike. Before long, the sun gave Joe the clues that made him realize the day was almost over and that he was approaching the take out where he had started. He considered casting for one more fish, but he felt satisfied and renewed. He leaned back in his seat, put his feet on the rails of the kayak and admired the glimmer of the burning sun through the trees along the bank. As he took it easy for the last few minutes of the float, Joe caught himself feeling thankful and lucky, smiling at the size and number of fish he had caught, and how easily they seemed to come. He thought again of Jesus fishing, and thanked him too. He noted that he had caught bigger fish before and if he prayed it might just work. After all, he hadn't been arrested for shooting arrows yet. He couldn't help thinking that next time out he would bring the spinning rods, and with a little help from the the fish gods or Jesus, he might get a really big one, maybe even a personal best, or state record.
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