So I went fishing yesterday. Shocking, I know.
It was because of the early nature of the trip that I chose to ignore the hoopla surrounding a time zone-delayed ball-dropping in favor of a few more hours of sleep. When the alarm went off at five, I had no trouble breaking free of the covers, but that doesn’t mean I was fully awake. I went through my normal routine of trying to figure out what needs to be done next, where my warm clothes are, if the coffee is ready and if it’s time to turn the bacon.
I hate being late, so when Kurt showed up at 5:30, ready to depart, I was a little disappointed that I hadn’t even finished breakfast. We ended up leaving just before six, which I guess was fine because the sun was only just then stirring over the Sierra, but it’s the idea that things were supposed to be a half hour further along that bugged me until we left the driveway. We decided that since it was opening day, there would probably be anglers on the water ,and where we wanted to go there is a very specific spot that has been very productive for both of us. Other fishermen have to think the same thing so to prevent showing up after that spot had been taken, we had rigged our rods the night before, and put our waders on before the drive. My legs got a nice sweat going before walking out into the 33-degree air. It’s a little awkward driving with wading boots but only makes me go slower so I guess that’s okay, and I only had them on just past my knees so I had full range of motion.
Once we were clear of turns and stop lights, I peeled back the tinfoil and went to town on the three strips of bacon and two fried eggs smashed between wheat toast. Two bites in I heard the unmistakeable sound of liquid on tin foil. It wasn’t just an occasional drip. It was more like what your nose does during prolonged exposure to cold. You don’t sniff because the numbness makes you oblivious until you either taste the drip, or see it shoot forward as you quickly turn your head. I wasn’t too worried about the thick egg yoke because after all, I was in my waders. (When we returned to the truck after fishing, I found a yoke spot on the steering wheel. Oops.)
When we pulled into the parking lot there were two guys there rigging up. Ha, we were already ready. I pulled up my waders, put on the jacket, Carhartt Beanie and gloves and we walked through the foggy field glazed with frost to our favorite spot. It was quiet and still. The sun was starting to stretch in orange and red streaks under the clouds. The river flowed quietly and consistently while we dipped ourselves into the water and started fishing.
A Happy New Year indeed.
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