An unparalleled optimism accompanies the evening hours on the night before fishing. Psychologically speaking, one could say that all the potentially negative thoughts become obscure behind the grand promise of a morning filled with trout. Regardless of the previous day’s events, this optimism burrows itself into the brain with an intensity that creates a sense of euphoria. The uncomfortable becomes comfortable. The inconvenient becomes novel. The prior occasions where this delusion didn’t pay off become irretrievable to the mind fixed upon fishing tomorrow.
A warm sleeping bag, a hot cup of coffee, and a morning filled with trout.
Not, mind you, being roused from sleep at two in the morning because the woods are on fire.
This is part 2: you can start from the beginning here.
Upon leaving the main offices of the RV park and campsite, we maneuvered through the snow using the all-terrain capabilities of a late 90s Toyota sedan. There were close spots, spots that were less likely to sink the car up to the fenders and necessitate a call to a towing service. But these spots didn’t sit adjacent to the creek. This small spring creek was the focus of all our aspirations. It was what compelled us to arrive at this campsite, on this day, in these unearthly conditions. Why wouldn’t we spend the night as close as possible to our raison dêtre?
Youthful exuberance efforted the campsite together in a manner of minutes. Tent, sleeping bags, more blankets, and extra layers were all arranged systematically, as if careful placement would forestall the inevitable wet and cold that find their way into any camping enterprise.
Food was next. Food was always hot dogs, potato chips, and 64 ounces of fountain drink. I am sure there was some deviation from that formula over the years of camping and fishing. However, it was so unremarkable and unnecessary that it doesn’t come to mind or bear repeating. These three items were selected with the same kind of perspicacity as the campsite. Potato chips: kettle cooked mandatory, lard as cooking medium preferred. Hot dogs simply needed to be present, as the char from the fire and the mustard were the desired flavor profile. Beverages were procured from a fountain at a gas station. There were debates over the virtue of Gatorade over soda.
Once the campsite and food were at hand, the third essential piece of the experience had to come together: fire. Often, the woods were scoured in order to scavenge kindling and burnable logs. The coarse coating of snow made this difficult. Hunger and teenage impatience made this very difficult. Another trip to the gas station and five dollars later, we had a fire.
Campfire musings ranged from trout fishing to girls to theology to classic rock. The hot dog to mustard ratio inevitably came up, as did the distrust of anyone who put catsup on the selfsame food. We sat, perched on stumps, enjoying as much of our provisions as we could comfortably consume. The hot dogs, while only a matter of dollars, had to be eaten. The foresight to pack a cooler was not something that we possessed. So it was eat or waste. Conversation moved inversely to the ingestion of hot dogs. At the point when it was quiet and the subject matter turned to gastrointestinal discomfort, turning in was the unanimous opinion.
We scattered the remnants of the still thoroughly burning fire and retreated to our tent. Cocooning ourselves individually within countless layers, we fell asleep alternatively to groans of intestinal discomfort and sounds of the creek. The latter was more winsome. Each splash or trickle easily forming itself into the movement of a trout in our optimistic, and for the moment peaceful, souls.
To be continued…
