Driving home from his meeting, he noticed a car parked next to the river. The pull off was next to a trail, which wound through the woods and down into the river valley. Where it intersected the water, it presented the traveler with two choices: upstream to the dam or downstream to the wide, glassy water. After two weeks with highs in the twenties, downstream was certainly covered with ice. He’d have to walk upstream to find trout. But he was going 50 in a 40. The car on the side of the road had a brook trout sticker on the back window. He wasn’t going fishing. Whoever parked was most likely fishing, most likely headed upstream.
A malaise kicked in when the maybe I can was quickly dashed on the rocks of early morning meetings and other, scattered obligations stretching into the next week. Those calendar obligations were the conscious coverup of the subconscious dread for ice lined banks guarding tight lipped trout. It was cold. The fishing was slow. Both would hold true for at least two more months.
Pulling into the garage, waders were hanging feet away from his trunk. As the mechanical door lowered, a gust of wind caused one neoprene booty to extend ever so slightly towards a rear fender. He didn’t have a brook trout sticker on his car. Should he? Inside, the pile of mail and casual conversations with family were a welcome distraction. Navigating his way to the office was more precarious.
