| Page 1 of 2 | 1 | 2 |
|
|
|
TR: The music sets the course.
I pick the music to determine the mood for the trip, though sometimes
it picks itself. Today, I had errands to run in the morning, at a frenetic pace. There were many stops, lists of stuff at different stores, some stuff that wasn't listed and only remembered at the last minute. Traffic was bad, the grocery store clogged with codgers and coupon-arguers. At home, I made a mad rush to unload the car and reload with important stuff: the fishing gear. I backed out of the driveway for the second time, and I set out to deliberately slow the pace. After all, leaving to fish at noon on a Saturday is still a time for ponderous movements. I set the wondrous iPod to the blues, and old Sonny Boy Williamson eased me onto the primary road, John Mayall routed me onto the turnpike and George Thorogood brought me up to cruising speed on the Northeast Extension. I kept the blues going through the backwater of Bethlehem, and when I stopped the Jeep at the Saucon Park, I let John Lee Hooker finish up Boogie Chillen before I shut down. I took a walk up the stream, looking for the sign explaining the Trophy Trout rules and seasons, disturbing the geese and watching the occasional rise. The water was low, like almost all the water in Pennsylvania this year. The Saucon was still cold, though, and just casual observation showed fish everywhere they should be. I sat on a park bench (you know it is a fishing place - the park bench had a rod rack on the back) and thought about things. I thought about my child, the one I'll meet in eight months (a secret still, between my wife and I). Will we sit here, sans Dunhill, talking quietly of trout? Will we sing Stevie Ray Vaughn with the top down? Will we talk about Hotspur and Miranda? Will this child bring something new to the table, something I hadn't considered? Rod in hand, I made my way and began to cast. I had no idea that this was to begin some of the most frustrating fishing I've had the misfortune to try. When going to new water, I expect to fail. I try to succeed, but the expectation is for zero fish. It is an exploration as much as a fishing trip, and any caught fish are pure profit. On familiar water, I know where they are, and in this case, I could see them, watch them rise and cast to them. The madness began. First, I went to a tiny long leader. I can say this: I discarded that spool of tippet and I will never buy it again. I lost more flies that afternoon than I lost in the previous two months. Partly because I was at a loss to entice the fish and partly due to the faulty tippet, I tried every fly in my vest with the exception of the number six deer-hair poppers that have taken up permanent residence in my streamer box. I won't enumerate the list, but wets, dries, beads, eggs, modern and traditional tried and failed. I put very few fish down, and they would still rise after repeated drifts at close range. I would find a good fish, and go through my arsenal, without so much as a sniff. I'd move to the next with similar results. The final straw was a big brown, on the order of sixteen or more inches, leaping clear of the water after a smallish grey mayfly I'd drifted over him in the form of a number twenty Adams. At that point, I unstrung my rod. The blues had worn off. Back at the Jeep, I stowed my gear, set the iPod to Rage and roared off in a cloud of Guerrilla Radio. After a fast dodge through Bethlehem, a faster one through Easton, I hit the River Road in a high-speed low-altitude strafing run. Though it is a Jeep, with the top down and the heavy six roaring, one hand on the stick and another on the wheel, it FEELS dangerous. The Battle of Los Angeles and I passed the tourists, around curves and over hills, bucking behind the platoons of elderly and trucks. **** you, I shouted, we won't do what you tell us. And then I though of the kid again, as I downshift hard to make the turn to my street feeling the scream and shudder of the two-and-a-half ton truck lurch down to the speed limit. I sheepishly put on my turn signal, turned my hat rightside-around and stopped the music. What if this drives the child? Rebellion for its own sake? Anger artificially created and blossoming from a heavy bass line and Che's lyrics? What if it drives the big angry six through the guard rail and into the river, not so placid from six feet under the surface? I shifted gears and songs. I drove not like a man on the brink of armed insurrection, but singing out loud with Robert Plant about what is and what should never be. I enjoyed the rolling farms of my adopted state, the place my child will (proudly, I hope) call home. Those hills rolled out from under me and back up again, and I sang about being an earth-bound misfit. Still, as I turned into the driveway, the pulse of the Pistol Grip Pump pushed my pedals down, roaring up to a screeching stop. There's room for it all, kid; you and I will make room for it all. |
"Steve" wrote in message nicely written TR, Steve.........inspires me to head out, light tippet in hand, to my local Trickle, or heavier gear in hand to the Tully, should the rains hit. I have work to do around house, and down in Del for my folks, but fish I will during the next few, blissful days off. Thanks, Steve, for the stylish report! Tom |
"Steve" wrote in message ups.com... I pick the music to determine the mood for the trip, though sometimes it picks itself. Today, I had errands to run in the morning, at a frenetic pace. There were many stops, lists of stuff at different stores, some stuff that wasn't listed and only remembered at the last minute. Traffic was bad, the grocery store clogged with codgers and coupon-arguers. At home, I made a mad rush to unload the car and reload with important stuff: the fishing gear. I backed out of the driveway for the second time, and I set out to deliberately slow the pace. After all, leaving to fish at noon on a Saturday is still a time for ponderous movements. I set the wondrous iPod to the blues, and old Sonny Boy Williamson eased me onto the primary road, John Mayall routed me onto the turnpike and George Thorogood brought me up to cruising speed on the Northeast Extension. I kept the blues going through the backwater of Bethlehem, and when I stopped the Jeep at the Saucon Park, I let John Lee Hooker finish up Boogie Chillen before I shut down. I took a walk up the stream, looking for the sign explaining the Trophy Trout rules and seasons, disturbing the geese and watching the occasional rise. The water was low, like almost all the water in Pennsylvania this year. The Saucon was still cold, though, and just casual observation showed fish everywhere they should be. I sat on a park bench (you know it is a fishing place - the park bench had a rod rack on the back) and thought about things. I thought about my child, the one I'll meet in eight months (a secret still, between my wife and I). Will we sit here, sans Dunhill, talking quietly of trout? Will we sing Stevie Ray Vaughn with the top down? Will we talk about Hotspur and Miranda? Will this child bring something new to the table, something I hadn't considered? Rod in hand, I made my way and began to cast. I had no idea that this was to begin some of the most frustrating fishing I've had the misfortune to try. When going to new water, I expect to fail. I try to succeed, but the expectation is for zero fish. It is an exploration as much as a fishing trip, and any caught fish are pure profit. On familiar water, I know where they are, and in this case, I could see them, watch them rise and cast to them. The madness began. First, I went to a tiny long leader. I can say this: I discarded that spool of tippet and I will never buy it again. I lost more flies that afternoon than I lost in the previous two months. Partly because I was at a loss to entice the fish and partly due to the faulty tippet, I tried every fly in my vest with the exception of the number six deer-hair poppers that have taken up permanent residence in my streamer box. I won't enumerate the list, but wets, dries, beads, eggs, modern and traditional tried and failed. I put very few fish down, and they would still rise after repeated drifts at close range. I would find a good fish, and go through my arsenal, without so much as a sniff. I'd move to the next with similar results. The final straw was a big brown, on the order of sixteen or more inches, leaping clear of the water after a smallish grey mayfly I'd drifted over him in the form of a number twenty Adams. At that point, I unstrung my rod. The blues had worn off. Back at the Jeep, I stowed my gear, set the iPod to Rage and roared off in a cloud of Guerrilla Radio. After a fast dodge through Bethlehem, a faster one through Easton, I hit the River Road in a high-speed low-altitude strafing run. Though it is a Jeep, with the top down and the heavy six roaring, one hand on the stick and another on the wheel, it FEELS dangerous. The Battle of Los Angeles and I passed the tourists, around curves and over hills, bucking behind the platoons of elderly and trucks. **** you, I shouted, we won't do what you tell us. And then I though of the kid again, as I downshift hard to make the turn to my street feeling the scream and shudder of the two-and-a-half ton truck lurch down to the speed limit. I sheepishly put on my turn signal, turned my hat rightside-around and stopped the music. What if this drives the child? Rebellion for its own sake? Anger artificially created and blossoming from a heavy bass line and Che's lyrics? What if it drives the big angry six through the guard rail and into the river, not so placid from six feet under the surface? I shifted gears and songs. I drove not like a man on the brink of armed insurrection, but singing out loud with Robert Plant about what is and what should never be. I enjoyed the rolling farms of my adopted state, the place my child will (proudly, I hope) call home. Those hills rolled out from under me and back up again, and I sang about being an earth-bound misfit. Still, as I turned into the driveway, the pulse of the Pistol Grip Pump pushed my pedals down, roaring up to a screeching stop. There's room for it all, kid; you and I will make room for it all. Great report...I think I may just go out again tonight to my cell phone dead-spot and see how the browns are gettin on. Anthony |
"Steve" wrote I pick the music to determine the mood for the trip, though sometimes it picks itself. (snip) it is for prose such as this that i wade through interminable threads of political bull****, week after week. thank you and congratulations. yfitons wayno |
Steve typed:
I pick the music to determine the mood for the trip, though sometimes it picks itself. Nice, Steve. Very nice indeed. snip I thought about my child, the one I'll meet in eight months (a secret still, between my wife and I). Define "secret". ;-) Congrats! -- TL, Tim ------------------------ http://css.sbcma.com/timj/ |
I pick the music to determine the mood for the trip, though sometimes
it picks itself. Nice, Steve. Very nice indeed. snip I thought about my child, the one I'll meet in eight months (a secret still, between my wife and I). Define "secret". ;-) Congrats! Hmm, my incredible analysis skills tell me you'll be a papa this time next year. I think the little one will have a great dad to teach her the rhythms of life. Outstanding TR. -- Frank Reid Reverse email to reply |
"Steve" schrieb im Newsbeitrag ups.com... I pick the music to determine the mood for the trip, though sometimes it picks itself. Very good, I enjoyed that. ( Especially as you were not in an F4)! :) TL MC |
What Wayno said. And what Wayno said.
bruce h |
|
On 5 Oct 2005 18:05:24 -0700, "Steve" wrote:
I pick the music to determine the mood for the trip, though sometimes it picks itself. *snipped* Still, as I turned into the driveway, the pulse of the Pistol Grip Pump pushed my pedals down, roaring up to a screeching stop. There's room for it all, kid; you and I will make room for it all. Wow. Excellent. g.c. |
| All times are GMT +1. The time now is 09:21 PM. |
|
Powered by vBulletin® Version 3.6.4
Copyright ©2000 - 2025, Jelsoft Enterprises Ltd.
Copyright ©2004 - 2006 FishingBanter