It’s true! Ricky Fitz had it right. After hours of listening to the news of murder, mayhem and election BS, I have to go fishing. It’s not the fish that matter, it’s the head purification, the detox of the media absorbed brain. Nature must purge me for at least 120 minutes.
If I must see aggression, I’d rather watch the jealous sandhill crane chase off the young heron. The sky bustles with noisy white egrets and their long curved pink beaks only about 20 feet above me making their way home for the night. There is excitement when an osprey dives and comes up with a fish and off they fly, (and only one will come back.)
When I fish, I have an entourage: the gray heron, the sandhill crane, and either my cat or the neighbors. All I have to do is open my door about 5pm and there they are, they know the drill. The three of us mosey on down to the water, me carrying my camera, pole and tackle box. The crane being dominant bosses the other two around, the crane is jealous of the heron, he resents that I throw my catch to him. The crane is always chasing the heron off. The heron will come down on the opposite side of me. The cat will chase which-ever bird is not paying attention, it’s like a 3-ring circus sometimes, but better than brainshock of cable. And if the fish aren’t cooperating, nature is, the red and purple passionflowers are in full bloom, azaleas are flowering all over. The thick sweet orangeblossoms make your lungs expand often, and the almost sea like smell of the water draws you close inside with an amniotic luxury of feeling freshly birthed in it all -
Once a month the full moon parks itself right over for a double view. The fishing is sometimes great and often times not so great. Tonight the bream are biting as are the shiners. But the turtles are the spoilers, they sabbatage the bait if you don’t pay attention. Usually a tugged line means all of us on land have our eyes locked into position; the cat starts licking it’s lips, the heron’s head feathers rise and the crane glances at the noise.
Just hooking even one small shiner could suddenly turn into a jaws fiasco! A bass possibly might suddenly grab it and breech the water jumping up and locking on. The mudfish are like pitbulls, they drag you with thick force and look as primitive as they really are with those miniature sharp teeth.
The sun is always over my shoulder putting a last warm shine to my back as the sky before me dissolves into pinks and blues. The crane is always the first to leave, lately his wife is expecting and he goes to spend the night on the nest. The cats and the heron will stay till I am ready to go inside. Once I close the tackle box, the heron as if on cue, flies wherever the heron goes and the cat follows me back to the house, (regardless if it is my cat or not.) I put down my box, lean my pole against the wall and smile as I go inside. It is peace of mind in a two hour window, it’s a perfect way of balancing the yin and yang, and I too feel like Ricky Fitz in the movie, ‘American Beauty. When I’m down at the lake, my camera is as vital as the pole, it’s more than being about fishing for fish AND waiting for that wonderful photo moment, this is so much more than religion, it’s an absolute freedom from the binding shallow contingents of man and his egotistical need of constant control. This is the zen moment of the day, it’s like being loosed upon the world with no conditions, no priority, just lost time, and sometimes, ”there IS so much beauty in the world, I can’t take it”…
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and see more fishing pics
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