The first time we fished this creek, it was magical. The fish weren’t especially large, but they were plentiful. They attacked flies with vigor. They fought with ferocity. Above that, finding and accessing the creek was an adventure. That made the fishing better. Generally speaking, our experience was delightfully repetitive. Lots of fish. Fish willing to play ball. Above average fly fishing. Having a nearby option like this was great.

It became the go-to. It became familiar. It became our creek. But it almost didn’t.

***

For years I fished with neoprene waders. This was a vast improvement over my first attempts to keep my feet dry. That involved trash bags stuck inside of winter boots. Needless to say, neoprene chest waders felt luxurious. After a few seasons the luxury lost its luster. The rubbery overalls  became offensive on warmer days. I didn’t like them much, either. A month of saving from my part time job yielded what I needed for some entry-level breathable waders. We headed to the fly shop.

I did a lot of catalog shopping. But as a teenager I didn’t possess the kind of capital to finance a series of shipping/return transactions. Getting the right fit for these waders mattered. I had to  go to a fly shop. That didn’t bother me. There just weren’t any fly shops in the immediate area. My friend and I drove east. It was a little over hour into the city, so I could try on and buy waders.

Upon finalizing the transaction, there was only one reasonable thing to do. The only question was where we were going to go fly fishing. Although it was far away, and although it was unremarkable, the aforementioned newfound creek was an obvious choice. I had been. Once. It had been with another friend. I needed to take this friend. So we drove an hour and a half west.

This was the second time I was fishing the creek. Logically, I’d have the same experience as the first time. Or better. Gearing up I regaled my friend with accounts of surface-crashing and rod-bending bass. I put on my crisp, clean, lightweight waders. We descended to the creek and it was different. It had rained. The water level had obviously come down, because the banks were muddy. The creek itself was the color of weak break room coffee.

After the first dozen casts didn’t yield fish I became nervous. I was the one who suggested this creek. There are other creeks that we’ve fished before. This wasn’t even a trout stream.  I didn’t really need my waders. I felt a little foolish. Immediately I began ceding spots. You take this pool. No, you cast to that hole. It is the default move of the fishing partner who chose the  crappy creek. Still, nothing. Fish don’t respond to desperate altruism.

That is when it happened. I could still see the bridge we parked next to. My streamer wasn’t wet enough to sink yet. I stepped on that somewhat steep muddy bank and horizontal. Gravity usually functions with some consistency. At this moment in real space and time, I dropped to the earth faster and harder than science might ever explain. The rock that cushioned my ribs’ fall was the first bullet point on the list of things I would get to review. Laying on the moist dirt, I remembered that my new breathable waders are probably not as durable as my old unbreathable waders. Financial ruin has amazing rejuvenating properties. Throwing cleanliness to the wind, I began sliding my hands up and down my side, posterior, and leg to feel for a giant gash in the space-age fabric.

There was so much mud. Half of my body looked like a warthog trying to thermoregulate in the hot African sun. A warthog made out of GoreTex, mind you. I couldn’t discern any holes. I waded into the center of the creek to attempt a cleaning. I created a muddier slick in an already muddy creek.

We didn’t catch anything. We went home. It was about 45 minutes. The creek didn’t impress my friend. It perplexed me. But I went back later. I ended up catching just as many fish as I did that first time. Maybe it was the water being off-color. Maybe it was the barometer. Maybe the fish knew I was trying to show off my new waders.

***

Maybe I would have learned my lesson. 20 years later and I still assume that this time will be just like last time. I’ll tie on the same fly. I’ll cast to the same spot. I’ll attempt to impose the wrong pattern on an incredibly complex set of variables. It might work. It might not. If it doesn’t, I should know better than to look sideways at the river. If it doesn’t, I should just start fresh. Regardless, I should walk carefully and remember that catching fish is always difficult when laying on one’s side in the mud.