And, where the hell were you going with this?

At the end of the day, the threat of severe storms for the next couple of days was looming on the horizon. A new pair of waders were sitting in the car begging to be put to use. Seemed like one of those now or never moments and the waders definitely needed to be baptized in flowing water. I saw no point in waiting.

Earlier in the day I had already driven over a couple of the creeks I wanted to fish. Their conditions proved how localized the weekend storms had been. The smaller watershed was up a bit and very stained. The bigger one looked like it got no new water, normal levels with decent clarity.

A stained creek is actually a good thing. This one usually runs crystal clear. Under the bright blue skies of this day, that would normally shut the fishing down altogether. I decided to take the half mile hike up stream and work my way back.

The woods are getting to the point of being too dense to bushwhack. I know where all the deer paths are, so it was easy to find the path and follow it along.

This is the time of year where the deer have a definite advantage. The canopy is lowering with the weight of all the leaves. When a deer lowers its head, it’s barely 4 feet tall. When I lower my head, I’m still a good 5 feet tall. No matter how good of shape I think I am, I can only go so far hunched over like some kind of troll.

While practically crawling through one section, I came across an old bucket. This area is littered with remnants of old farm things. Before it was turned into forest preserve property, the land had been in the same family for well over 100 years. There are bits and pieces of farm equipment scattered through out the woods that are slowly losing the battle to corrosion. This bucket had been given a different fate, it was riddled with bullet holes from target practice. Based on the look, target practice that probably occurred long before I was born.

The woods kept getting denser and the walking more difficult. The forest floor was getting as thick and dense as the overhead canopy. Most of the wild flowers were now gone, they no longer got the light they needed to thrive because of the thickening canopy. The edges of the woods that are still lit by the sun have flowers still blooming.

But they no longer go very far back into the woods.

Rather than get into the creek and wade up, I decided to keep heading through the woods further than I usually go. It was like running into a green wall. The deer apparently had even given up going any further.

The trail I was now following was probably made by coons and possum, I would have to crawl on my stomach to keep following this trail. I decided to keep plowing through the woods. Not a smart move. I kept running into walls of thick trees with still more massive trees that had fallen over blocking where I wanted to be. Going the next 150 yards took as long to accomplish as walking the initial half mile to get to this point.

I gave up, I could hear the creek off to my left, but couldn’t see it. I felt like a pinball as I bounced around in the woods heading for the sound of the creek. Now I know why I had never walked past that one point on land.

I was rewarded for my efforts though when on the third cast into the creek I picked up a hand sized smallmouth bass. I could see how this day was going to go.

The sun was out, it was a bit warm and that all changed quickly. Of course, I was under dressed and started getting a bit cold. I headed under the arches of the Church of the Holy Fish and tried to take my time in spite of the dropping temperature.

Shiners and smallmouth bass, even a small largemouth bass. A first on this creek. I can’t think of any ponds that feed into the creek, so this was a definite oddity.

A couple of creek chubs that refused to pose for a picture and of course, the big fish that got away, four of them this time. I wish they would stop letting me see them. With one I never stood a chance. I had 4 feet of line out and was lifting the lure vertically through the water column, letting the current swim it around. The biggest fish of the day came off the bottom of the stained creek and slammed the lure when it was near the surface. Since I was standing under a low over hanging tree, a hook set was virtually impossible.

By then the cold was getting to me. I high tailed it through the woods. There was another creek I wanted to fish, so cutting this one short didn’t bother me too much. Even then I had to stop to check out the largest growth of those plate sized fungi I’ve ever come across.

By the time I got back to the car and in a sweatshirt, I had the shakes from the cold. Ninety minutes earlier I was breaking a sweat walking through the woods.

At the second creek I was running out of day light and concentrated on just fishing. Even with the sweatshirt on I could feel the cold. I was out of layers to put on. Every 100 feet produced a fish or a hit. Nothing big, but I’ll take consistency over size anyday.

The last fish of the day out of this creek was an even smaller largemouth bass. At least on this creek there was a better reason. I could think of a few ponds that feed in and out of the creek where they could come from.

By now the sky was still bright, but the sun was behind a tall bluff that lined the creek. It got colder. I had enough.

_____________

I finished off this write up a couple of days after I had gone fishing. Turned out pretty lame. The majority of what I wanted to write down, the things I observed (like the deer observing me), were gone out of my head. I’ve been joking for years that I should carry a voice recorder with me while out fishing. Seems odd to be wandering around talking to yourself, but it might be the way to at least retain some of the original thoughts running around my head while I’m out. If I don’t go home immediately and start putting things into words, the words go away each passing hour.

If I get side tracked and can’t get back to what I started within 24 hours, half of what was in my head is gone. 48 hours later and I may as well not even bother.

Funny how a brain will do that to you.

I have a few folders full of pictures, I always have pictures, sitting on the desk top of my computer. Images that were gathered in preparation for a write up. I never sat down and wrote anything. Now and then I’ll open up the images and look through them. Memories of the day come back to me like a dream. Did I really see that? Was I really there? I sit and wonder if I should sit and write something. That moment passes and no words are put down.

I’ve set a bunch of odd little goals for myself this year. I think I’ll add one more. I need to be able to sit down with a folder full of images from long past outings and write something about them. Dredge up the memory cells that I know are still there and recall the different moments of the day based on the images. There’s no reason in the world why I shouldn’t be able to do this.

Consider it prep work, exercise for what comes. I know within the next 10 years these outings will become fewer or stop altogether. It’s inevitable, my legs and my back can only take so much. Then, hopefully, my brain will still be functioning even if my legs and back are failing. Then, I can sit and look through the thousands of images collecting on my computer and still write something coherent, funny, touching, bitchy, annoying, insulting and maybe even a little inspiring.

If I’m really lucky, this will all take place while sitting in a comfortable chair out on a screened in porch that’s 50 feet from a small, clear creek. That might help the memory recall efforts.

One can only dream for a day like this when all that’s left are dreams.