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Back to the Sticks (Part Two) - You Asked For It
"The greatest conflicts are not between two people, but between one person and himself." - Garth Brooks
The plane circled the small airport twice, dipping its wings in greeting on the second pass, and landed. As my friends taxied to meet me, a cool morning breeze chilled one side of my face and the rising sun warmed the other. It was like old times and it felt good to be back in the game.
Greetings were exchanged while the plane was quickly emptied, and we shared the latest news about our families as the fishing gear was transferred to the Suburban. After a short trip to check into the hotel where we'd spend the night, we were off to the stretch of river I'd picked for the day. Somewhere along the way I turned on the radio and a familiar Martin guitar and deep voice rang out.
I fell in to a burning ring of fire
I went down, down, down and the flames grew higher
And it burns, burns, burns, the ring of fire
The ring of fire
The morning was clear and mist hung in the dark shadows along the far side of the river. The sun felt good on my face as I pushed the drift boat out into the water and quickly re-established the roles in an old relationship that had taken a long hiatus; it had been seven years since I'd guided my good friends. "Bill, see if you can get a fly into that pocket." I coached, nodding my head in the direction I meant. "Between the log and that big rock."
Bill hit his mark perfectly, and the tail of the deer-hair fly quivered slightly as the water around it quieted. I stopped rowing and Dave paused his casting to watch the strike that would surely follow... the anticipation was palpable. For a few seconds, there was nothing in the world but a perfectly placed fly, the sound of a river gliding past the ancient rocks that define its course, and our anticipation. As the boat drifted, Bill leaned out over the water, stretching to give the fly as much time in the pocket as possible. Just as it started to wake, he stripped the line, giving it action, and we held our breaths as the fly swam back to the boat unscathed. Nothing. We exhaled in unison. "No worries." I reasoned in my best guide-jargon. "If every perfect cast brought a fish, you'd both be ready to quit before lunch."
I couldn't have been more mistaken. We spent the picture-perfect morning on good water, and I put my friends over hundreds of spots that I knew held smallmouth bass. Still, we hadn't touched a fish or even had a follow before we stopped for a very late and quiet lunch.
It was hard for me to keep a positive attitude as we sat in the shade and ate our sandwiches. Well, you asked for it. I said to myself as I ground my teeth and wondered why I was guiding again. My friends had fished perfectly; they were casting well and getting my (usually productive) flies into all the right places. Still, the river was silent and the fish seemed non-existent. I was frustrated and confused. Was I doing something wrong... was I missing something?
Our lunch was a moody affair, seasoned with countless theories about why fish that normally crush anything that floats or disturbs the water would categorically refuse any and all of the flies we offered.
My friends, sensing the mood, assured me that they were having a great time. "The day is perfect, and the water beautiful," they comforted. I appreciated their kindness even though I know these are the kinds of things fishermen say about a slow day of fishing when they don't want to bruise their guide's feelings... the sort of things you might say about an ugly blind-date that was arranged by a friend. Perhaps, I thought, I've lost my touch.
The afternoon mirrored the morning...except that I was no longer surprised when another great fly, perfectly cast, didn't yield a fish. It's about more than just catching fish, I tried to remind myself. It's a beautiful day on a lovely river, and you're with good friends you haven't seen in a long time.
"Bullshit!" I muttered under my breath.
"What'dya say?" Dave asked from the front of the boat.
"Oh... nothing," I said a bit louder. "Get a cast in behind that rock."
It's bullshit, I thought to myself. That, "it's-more-than-just-catching-fish" crap is easy to spout when you're catching them. It was then that I realized I had way too much ego to be okay with just a pretty river and a sky full of puffy popcorn clouds. And further more, I didn't know any guides I'd care to fish with that didn't feel the same visceral need for their friends to catch fish.
Mercifully, I'd picked a short float since my friends had been up long before dawn to fly in from Colorado, and it ended early. I don't know if I can stand another day of this, I thought to myself as I hopped in the truck to back the trailer down to the water. What the hell was I thinking?
Patsy Cline's crystalline voice filled the cab as soon as I turned the key.
I fall to pieces,
Each time someone speaks your name.
I fall to pieces.
Time only adds to the flame.
The long trip back to town was punctuated with my friends' feel-good comments meant to put me at ease... but instead, they made me feel like some sort of basket case that needed to be taken care of. I turned on the radio to disappear into myself for a few minutes, only to hear a vintage Hank William's tune.
Lost On The River, Dark Is The Night
Just Like The Blind, Praying For Site
Drifting Alone, Heart Filled With Fright
I'm Lost On The River, The River Of Life
Sweet Jeezus, I thought to myself. I get it, I get it, already... this is a train-wreck, and I'm the engineer!
Once Dear I Thought I Knew The Way
That Was Before Ol Sad Yesterday
Words That You Said Cut Like A Knife
I'm Lost On The River, The River Of Life
I've had enough of this! I thought, and hit the "seek" button on the radio. It began to scroll through the available stations, like a casino slot machine, but in Northern Wisconsin the options are fairly limited. When it finally stopped, the cab was filled with the sound of drumming and wailing.
Ai, A-oh Akicita Agli Anho
Awi Can wakan Cha Cetan nagin Chaka dee Wakpa
hecheto aloe, dho!
My friends looked at me questioningly, as the DJ's stoic voice filled the cab, "This is WOJB, tribal radio for Lac Courte Oreilles, with a pow-wow singing group that hails from the Lakota Nation, singing, "The White Man Came And The River Is Dead".
We finished the ride in silence, had a quiet dinner and went to bed.
I fell into an exhausted and bottomless sleep, but not so deep that my old friend, Rusty, couldn't find me to share his thoughts. We were sitting next to the usual fire, and as the spruce rounds popped and sparks traced the dark, northern sky, he handed me a tin cup brimming with whisky. "Here, take this," he said. You need it."
"Thanks," I answered. "What the hell was I thinking? That guiding again would be like all the 'good old times'... without any of the tough days?"
"Well... what the hell?" He said, nodding towards the two beds where my friends slept, just outside the glow of the fire. "That's how they remember it. It's only fair that you have the same fantasies."
"Yeah, but I've seen both sides... I should know better."
"Just remember that things have a way of working themselves out," he said with a smile, and then offered a final toast. "Tomorrow's another day."
The dawn was cool and fresh, the quintessential north woods morning, and the drift boat slid easily into the river. It was a new day, and we began to catch fish, slowly at first, but enough to make my friends' reassurances cease; they were having too much fun to worry about my fragile ego.
The float ended on a high note with the best fish of the day caught on the last cast. And, that's exactly how we'll remember it, I thought to myself as the plane lifted off and climbed west, to carry my friends to their home. I waved one last time, though I knew they couldn't see me, and then checked the drift boat again.
It would certainly be more convenient if I lived closer to the water I fished, but I like the time in between to reflect upon the days and let them sink into my memory. Once I was well out of town, I searched my vest for the one remaining cigar I'd saved for the occasion, settled in behind the wheel and tuned in the country station to take me home.
I hear her voice, in the mornin' hours she calls to me
The radio reminds me of my home far a-way
And drivin' down the road I get a feeling'
That I should have been home yesterday, yesterday
Country roads, take me home
To the place, I be-long
West virginia, mountain momma
Take me home, country roads
Along the way I thought about my life, and wife and kids, our home, and the man I wanted to be.
PLAY LIST
Ring Of Fire - Johnny Cash
I Fall To Pieces - Patsy Cline
Lost On The River - Hank Williams Sr.
Country Roads - John Denver
He Didn't Have To Be - Brad Paisley
The Man I Want To Be - Chris Young
Small Town Southern Man - Alan Jackson
If I Die Young - The Band Perry
A Father's Love - Bucky Covington
American Honey - Lady Antebellum
Love Like Crazy - Lee Brice
Need You Now - Lady Antebellum
The House That Built Me - Miranda Lambert
Highway Twenty Ride - Zac Brown Band
I Held Her First - Heartland
Dust On The Bottle - David Lee Murphy
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