Posts Tagged ‘sound’

I was the only car on the four lane interstate that morning.  Not surprising considering it was 5 am on a Sunday, but it still felt novel.  The vastness of a 4 lane interstate when there are no other cars around is both freeing and a little freaky.  The wide open pavement means you can drive with abandon.  At the same time it almost feels like standing on a roof top.  There no constraints to stop you… also, there are no constraints to save you.  It is not that it isn’t what I thought it would be like, the empty road.  It is that I couldn’t pre-create the feelings that it being like that would evoke.  About a week earlier I had received permission to fish a pond that I was very excited about, and I was finally on my way to give it a shot.  I had been told that the panfish and bass fishing in this pond would be something between falling in love and losing your virginity.  I had an idea that slight exaggeration was occurring, but none-the-less, I had the excitement of a man on his way to…. well…. get some.

It was a gorgeous morning.  Not a thought of a cloud in the sky and so still that exhaled cigarette smoke would just hang in front of you like the world had gone into slow motion.  The sun was just causing the collision between earth and sky to become visible in the east.  When she was up and in full fury that day, the sun would warm my little spot on the earth into the high 80’s, but not yet.  No, it was still a pleasantly cool 60.  It was a damn shame the 99% of the population would not being experiencing this little gift of time.

On a morning like this, the valleys of rolling hills in the area can sometimes be full of a dense fog.  I am not sure if it is a product of temperature differences, or moisture differences, or if it is natures way of ensuring that the requisite number of deer experience death via Chevy in order to keep the population in check.  But that is how it is, and it is cool to see and nerve-wracking to drive through.  This morning happened to be one of those mornings.  With no wind and the sun still not up to burn off the fog, some of the low spots were so full of this mystery vapor that for maybe 200 yards of driving the outside world had been erased.

I eased off of the pavement and onto the winding gravel that would descend into the area of the small pond.  This was not one of those hardpacked, straight as a string, gravel roads that one can comfortably traverse at 60 mph.  Rather this was a seldom used meandering little stretch of crushed rock and brown/orange dirt.  The lack of traffic and large looping curves made this a 30 mph job unless you thought you were a dirt track racer and are comfortable in a fishtail.  This is the kind of road that is there to remind us that slowing down and seeing can be worth alot more than the 6 minutes you save by hauling ass.  Despite my – Junior on his way to prom – excitement I was taking her as she comes.  The road looped and lobbed and slowly flowed down toward the pond.

I was just entering the curve that would whirl me directly toward the pond when the wall of white loomed up in front of me – ready to swallow my entire jeep.  The lack of impact as I entered the dense fog was almost surprising.  I am not used to seeing something so apparently solid and yet being able to move through it as though it doesn’t exist.  This was a serious fog.  I couldn’t see more that 5 feet beyond the windshield.  The only thing keeping me on the road was the change in sound as my tire left the gravel and began to tread on grass.  At that point I would know to correct my steering to keep me on the road.  So I pinballed my way down the road at about 5 miles a hour, eyes open as wide as they would go – not that that helped because I was driving by sound. I may as well have been blindfolded.

Eventually I parked in a small turn off.  I would later discover, once the entirety of my surroundings was unveiled, that miraculously I had found the right turnoff and parked as though I was an old hand at this.  I threw on my vest, strung up without tying on a fly, and started on foot in the general direction of the water.  You can always tell which way the water is because it is downhill from wherever you are.  The putt breaks towards the water.

Walking in the fog was stranger than driving in it.  Each step revealed an incrementally changing world. A slow progression as one plant was replaced by another and one tree grew slightly larger as it slowly entered the tiny bubble of reality that I was able to comprehend.  It was like watching time lapse photography of evolution. Behind me the fog swirled and eddied and slammed shut.  I was not cutting a path through the fog any more than a scuba diver cuts a path through the ocean.  All I was doing was fleetingly bringing into my tiny sphere of sensory perception pieces of a larger and hidden outside world.  Simply to have them erased from my immediate consciousness by my next step forward.

Eventually the water edge came upon me, as though I wasn’t moving forward, rather the rotation of the earth had brought it to me like a conveyor belt.  I sat on a rock and decided to get my wits about me.

The tiny piece of water I could see was smooth, making the pond look like it was made out of a mix of corn starch and water, rather than just water.  Like if you ran fast enough you could get all the way to the other side, but if you stopped for a second you would be slowly swallowed.  The sounds were incredible.  I don’t know if it was the lack of vision, or the moisture in the air, but all sounds seemed amplified and non-directional.  The birds were everywhere and unseeable.  From the Non-Newtonian pond came the splash of jumpers, the pop of Bluegills eating surface bugs and the BLLOOOOP of Largemouth Bass opening a hole in the surface of the water for the small frog to fall into.

The reason that reality no longer existed was immediately clear; silvery white cobwebs of steam lifted from the entire surface of the pond like cotton candy pulled for a cotton candy machine.  I sat in wonder and watched as the soul of this pond left it’s body and ascended.  After 20 minutes I decided it was time to fish.  I tied on a nice little yellow popper, stripped out some line, and pulled it into a backcast – bending my rod backward – and then rocking into a false cast – bending my rod forward – rocking back into a backcast and then into a false cast.  Holding 30 feet of line in the air.  On the 3rd false cast I shot my line forward streaming it through the line guides on my rod and into the unknown soul of the pond.


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Last Sunday night I had to do one of those things that make you lose your appetite.  Something that you have to do over and over, even though once seems practically emotionally unbearable.  Right on schedule, my old companion, the lump in my throat joined me.  The one that we have been trained to have, not so much as a prelude of crying, but rather as the obstacle around which the sob cannot find a path.  It is a strawberry piece that gets stuck in the straw of your strawberry milkshake.  No matter how much better it would be to get the lump out and just let the milkshake come, there is no forcing it.  I wonder if I taught myself to have that at about the time I learned to not cry anymore when my feelings were hurt.  At any rate, that is where I was.

In the summer I would take this opportunity to try out a fishing spot.  I like to look for a new stream, somewhere that I had to be intellectually engaged in the fishing and thus distracted enough to wait out the sting.  I liked to look for new or challenging water, usually moving water.  That way the repetitiveness of cast and strip that I find attractive at times on lakes and ponds was not there.  It is those times when my mind leaves the fishing and I find it pondering relationships, or work, or other non-fishing topics.  It was this mind wandering that I looked to avoid.  So I found flowing water with fish that could see me.  More difficult, or at least engaged, fishing that demands my attention.  That is what I do in the summer.  It is early Decemeber.

I decided to get a bight to eat – at this point I am avoiding my quiet apartment at all costs – and head in the general direction of the eateries in my home town.  Somehow, I discover that I am on a hiway and have passed all the food joints.  Did I mention the loss of appetite?  I was driving out into the country without even making the decision. I had apparently decided, unbeknown to myself, to head to the river.  I wish I had a better explanation than “it just happened” but I honestly don’t remember deciding to go to the river.  It was just happening and I didn’t have the energy to stop it.

There is no good explanation for going out there.  At 7:30 at night in South Dakota in December it has been dark for over two hours.  I did have my gear in the trunk and my license in my pocket, but the bank sign of the way out of town read 19 degrees so fishing was not a realistic possibility although I think that at the times I was still convinced that I would at least try a cast or two.  It was as though there wasn’t a question.  This was what needed to happen and I wasn’t going to have a say in it.

The place I was headed could safely be called my home water.  It is a 30 minute drive from my place and I have spent by far the lion’s share of my fishing hours working this stretch of water.  I am still learning about it, but it is the water that I know best.  There is nothing inherently attractive about this place.  It is not the greatest fishing spot around, in fact some people view it as an inferior spot that inexplicably works sometimes and can be defaulted to when the better places aren’t.  Nor is it a secret, I have fished with many different types and met some real characters on this stretch of water.  It is known to produce, although not necessarily in the size or type of fish that people around here are looking for.  Nor is it the most romantic water int he world, being in a cow pasture and near a road and all.  There is no magic here.  Well,  at least the magic here is not accessible to everyone.

What this place does have is sound.  There is a very nice riffle over large basketball size rocks, leading to a narrowing of the channel.  That, obviously, speeds up the water as it slides in a deep run under a Works Projects Association era bridge immediately into a nice little fall over some Volkswagen size boulders, splashing into a picturesque pool immediately adjacent and connected to a large still pond.  The current shoots straight through the side of the pond and exits in a beautiful riffle as it spreads across a gravel bed.  The cacophony created by this varied water-scape means that a turning of the head is all that is required to change the sound completely.

Alighting from the car, I realize that no fishing will occur on this night.  First of all, I am wearing my Puma tennis shoes with soles so grippless that bar floors can become skating rinks.  Secondly, I have on my leather coat that causes me to ponder why cows don’t freeze to death every winter.  Lastly, the sandpaper sensation on my face caused from walking in the 19 degree air does what it does ever winter.  It tells me “Screw this up, be unprepared or less than vigilant on a stone and you will be lucky if your ears are all it will cost you.”  I love that realization.  I force it upon myself at times.  The thought that I am in a situation that plausibly could kill me.  I require something like that, something to contrast daily life against, to remind me just where I am and what I am.  I think people say it makes them feel alive.  I would say it reminds me that that is all I am.

So, there I am, lump, pumas and all.  I put my hands in my pockets and walk out on the bridge.  I am here for some reason, lets see what it is.  Peering over each side of the bridge I get excellent views of the water, black and oozing it appears.  I can hear all the different instruments being played by this stretch of water.  Winter cold in SoDak means that the air can’t hold any moisture so the stars are close and obvious.  There happens to be a full moon on this night and it shines so brightly that as I meander back of forth across the bridge I continually jump thinking headlights are coming down the road.  I can hear a deer crash through the 6 foot high grass.  There is no wind at all, so if I stand stock still a sort of body heat bubble forms around me and I don’t feel cold at all.

I walked around for something like 45 minutes before I decided to get back in the car and drive home.  By then the lump was gone.  In fact I felt pretty good.  No major life realizations to impart, no new wisdom gained.  Just not as bad as before.  like maybe I should go write something.

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