The City Skunk

Where I am is probably the most important part of fly fishing for me. There is something about being in the middle of a river in the middle of nowhere surrounded by mountains. My mother called me on Easter and asked if I was going to church. I responded, "Yeah, I'm going fishing." She knows that the rivers are my church and the flow of the streams are my sermons, and in a bit of reverse fortune the river makes its offerings to me in the forms of beautiful trout, although the offering plate often reveals nothing in its bowl. Flyfishing is spiritual, it's pure. I don't have to meet my neighbor unless I want to and I can wear whatever I want.The hymns I choose to sing are generally by Bob (Marley, Dylan or Seger) with a little Creedence thrown in the mix. Instead of going to Macaroni Grill or Luby's, I can sit on a rock and eat a sandwich in silence.

Certain days when you don't have the time to drive three hours to get your spiritual fix, you find the closest thing possible. For me, if it's not a small bluegill pond it is the river that runs right through the city. The shad are running right now and all the rednecks are out trolling and chucking bait from the banks. I decide I really need to go, and I've never caught a shad before so I might as well give it a try.

When I get to the river, I see almost 50 boats and twice as many anglers on the shore with lines in the water. I figured this would be the case so I was not disappointed. The wind was whipping and the air felt arctic. The bank was at a steep decline going down to the river meaning a steep incline looking back. I had to cast at about a 45 degree angle vertically to avoid the rocks behind me, not to mention dodging my shad dart as it whipped by my head being coerced by the wind to take me out.

As I look out at the boats I notice one guy with a flyrod. All the idiots around him are sitting in their boats watching as the lone wand waver hooks up with one silver, shining shad after another. He probably pulled in around eight or nine fish in the 30 minutes I watched him in jealousy and admiration. I needed a boat, no question about it.

I knew my efforts were for not, but was still happy to give it a shot. After a couple hours of fishing and then searching the river for better spots and fishing some more, my friend and I call it a day and realize we can still catch the tail-end of the 4-7 happy hour at a local bar where PBR pints are $1. Into my third tasty Pabst I am assured I made the right decision, and my day was fulfilled. The skunk and the river, the beer and the bar, telling stories with a friend. It was a good day.