There are mornings that belong to you before they belong to anyone else. This was one of them. The roads were almost empty on the way down to Deer Creek and the sky was full of big grey clouds with gaps for sunshine. I had until afternoon.
Deer Creek is always sort of a mixed bag for me. It's close to the city which is handy for days like Mother's Day when I need to get back. It's also close to the other people in the city which is usually less great. Too much traffic. Too many human signs. Too much junk. I checked a few spots and wound up somewhere too wide but wide open for casting. I spent my first 10 minutes cleaning up old bait containers and plastic Dollar General bags, wondering a frustrated why. The creek was up and slower than last time.
The wind had some bite and smelled like wet farmland and I knew the weight and warmth of my hoodie again.
I rigged up my rod with the 11 foot furled line I used last time and changed the fly out to a dry fly ant pattern. It's ugly but I was hopeful. For 30 minutes of moving, casting, moving, casting, cursing, praying, moving, and casting again, I got one interested swimmer that just sailed on by. Rejection is painful. I decided to swap flies again and put on a caddisfly and try again.
One cast – nothing.
Second cast – nothing.
Third cast draw it up and move it forward and.... hey, there goes my line sailing out into the air.
Well, Shit...
And with that expletive my fishing for the day had concluded. I tucked my now orphaned line spool in my pocket, broke down my rod, and launched the whole mess into the back seat.
The clouds cleared for the ride home and after a while I cranked up Real Love, Baby by Father John Misty. (..I belong to the stars and sky. I'm the flower. You're the bee...) For a while the road with its funny patchwork pattern of sealed cracks and the truck, rocking around while we headed home was a gentle and constant nudge. It didn't help though. Stupid fishing... I can hardly wait to go back.
