I don’t think that the stretch of stream was cursed, per se.

If I had to address the phenomenon that I experienced while fishing along this particular section I might use the term coincidental. But I’d say it with a wince and sideways glance. So, not a curse: just a really unfortunate set of circumstances that just so happened to have some cartographic similarities.

What happened? Nothing too dangerous. I did lock my keys in the car, lose the felt off my waders, tear a gash in the side of a book, get stalked by two mountain creatures, and endure a handful of other less-than-desirable moments. It is hardly the Bermuda Triangle. But it is suspicious.

Why did I keep going back? That is a good question. But there is a simple answer:

Trout.

Lots of them. Mostly brookies and rainbows. Every once in a while, a brown would show up. The state was just supposed to put rainbows in, so maybe their stocking trucks experienced the curse of the creek and accidentally let some browns slide out. Regardless of how the fish got there, they were there. And I wasn’t half bad at catching them.

That isn’t why you are reading, though. You are probably still curious about  my misfortune. (It is okay. I get it.)

The first time I experienced anguish on this stream was as a teenager. If I owned waders at the time I wasn’t wearing them. I had on Bean-style boots, and was content to stand in ankle-deep spots or hop from rock to rock. All day I stayed dry. Morning to evening, I remained upright as I fished. As the sun began to set, I was approaching my campsite just around one final bend. I got cocky. I got sloppy. I slipped, and in an attempt to hop on the bank I grabbed a tree but couldn’t get my second foot over the roots protruding into the water. A sharp pain went into the soft instep of my foot. I loosed my grip on the tree and slid into the cold water. Kneeling in a few feet of creek, I felt down and discovered a four-inch gash in my boot. But  to be fair, both boots were now water-logged in anticipation of tomorrow’s fishing.

There’s more foot-themed drama. On another trip, I was in my waders. Even though I was younger at the time, I remember thinking that I must be getting tired. I was slipping. A few times it was minor slides, tweaking an ankle or slamming a shin into a stone. But at the end of the day I struggled to make it up the steep hillside back to my car. Like a cartoon, I’d move my feet only to slide down the dirt and debris at a comically slow pace. I had to climb on my hands and knees, covering myself in said dirt and debris. Only upon taking off my waders did I discover that I lost my felt soles. Instead of grippy fabric, at some point in the day I was walking on hard plastic.

Okay. Now the keys. This isn’t super exciting. But after I got rigged up I closed my trunk with my keys inside. So I was all ready to fish, but all anxious about what I was going to do after I fished. Thankfully my car at the time was plastic. The Saturn panels really could flex if you got a grip on them. I was able to get enough separation with one hand that I could fish around with my line and fly. Eventually, I hooked the keys and pulled them out. It is worth mentioning that on a usually busy stream, no one drove by during the whole ordeal.

So you tell me: curse? coincidence? a normal result of enough hours and days on the same stretch of mountain river?

I don’t know. But I did live to tell the tale.

Whatever it was, I can honestly say that for a while I was expecting the other shoe (or felt sole) to drop. I’m not superstitious. But just like you can catch a lot of fish or get into a slump and not catch a lot of fish, something somehow will lead to multiple instances of minor angling mishaps.

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Waiting for the accounts of two mountain creatures? One was a  cat and one was a fox. But both gave me quite the fright in the lowlight moments in which they occurred. Feral cats can be  quite viscous, you know?