A young man in an old Honda flat-footed the roads that winded through the dawning Ozarks with windows rolled down to take in the cool early morning air and Led Zeppelin blasting through the lone working speaker in the passenger door. Disturbing for a few brief seconds the peace of quiet old country homes along the two-lane road. Flying down winding roads that were unlikely to have a cop in hiding. Taking blind crests and taking hairpin turns with no sense of self preservation. The last of the balding tread eroded away and the aging CV joints ached. His stomach leapt into his chest when he took the steep descent into the valley.
The countryside was beaten down by heat and drought. The grass coarse and yellowing. Thirsty trees with leaves that looked singed around the edges. Small game dashed out of the dew-covered weeds across the blacktop and hawks swooped down to make chase.
The young man quickly slowed the Honda and the brakes squealed as it crossed over the familiar concrete bridge and made a sharp right hand turn onto a dirt road that ran parallel to his favorite body of water. A fifty mile long creek that snaked its way alongside livestock farms and through woods with overarching trees.
He eased the car to a spot along the road that was out of the way of traffic and not too close to the fifteen foot drop to the water. He slipped out of his flip-flops and strapped on black velcro sandals and walked around the back of the car to the edge of the road to get a good look at the water below. It was perfect, shallow and clear with a brown gravel bottom. Gravelbars that shifted and took new form with each heavy rain looked like they were bleached white by the summer sun. At different spots along the bank were mossgreen pools that were deep enough for swimming. A large tree that toppled over somewhere upstream during a storm in the spring was caught on one of the pillars of the bridge and provided good cover for schools of bass and sunfish. This morning in late August was not as humid as the previous mornings and gave the first hint to the changing of the seasons. A thin mist hung peacefully. The sun had barely peeked over the tree covered hills and shined fiery red through the haze. The water gave off its familiar, delicious smell of aquatic life and algae. The young man, named Will, took in a deep breath through his nose and smiled. It had been too long since he last waded through this water that ran cold during the hottest of summers. It was a good day to get lost in its serenity.
From the back seat of his car he pulled out a hunter green ultra-light rod that had a cork handle and attached to it was a copper-colored open faced spinning reel. A red rooster tail spinning lure was already tied on the line from the night before. Four other rooster tail lures of different colors were in a clean plastic box that he carried in a small blue and gray bag. They were the only lures he really knew how to use. He pulled out the unnecessary equipment to make the bag as light as possible. Pulling out jars of Powerbait for trout, a Carolina rig set meant for largemouth bass, and a crappie plastic tube kit. All gifted to him on past birthdays and Christmases, and left unsealed. The bag was slung over his left shoulder across his body and rested at his right hip. He ate the last bites of a gas station burrito that had sat under a heat lamp for some time and chugged down a tall Red Bull.
He took out his phone from the pocket of his red and white Hawaiian floral print swim trunks. Two missed calls, four unread messages. He didn't tap the icons to view them. He put the phone into the center console and locked the car and started down the trail to the creek.
He gingerly stepped down a steep trail with loose gravel and large precarious rocks. Placing each foot sideways as to brace himself in case the ground gave way. One wrong placement and a boulder would roll onto his ankle and end his day before it started.
New amateur artwork was added to the bridge. A green marijuana leaf on one of the pillars. Indecipherable spray paintings enveloping another like a tattoo sleeve on an arm. “SENIORS 2012” in black lettering on the underside. “Will you marry me, Kanesha?” in sloppy red letters on the abutment. In teal, standing out from the overlapping scribbling were the words “life will get better”. The teal words caught Will’s eye and he gave a sarcastic smirk. “Oh how lovely”, he said. Reflections of light from the water’s surface danced on the underside of the bridge. Crushed cans of cheap beer were scattered across the rocks. Footprints from a night of debauchery imprinted in the earth. A pile of blackened sticks lay where a crude and brief fire was built. This place where the unworried and untroubled figures gathered and carried out their podunk revelry under the cover of darkness. Will envied them.
Small schools of top minnows and studfish darted around near the muddy bank. Crawdads scooted tail-first out from the muck as he stepped to the water’s edge. A mess of branches and debris were collected against the caught tree. Under the hazard a large bass lurked. Larger, he imagined, than any of the fish that he may encounter on this stretch of the creek. One cast and I won’t even need to get wet, Will thought.
He unslung his bag and sat it on the damp mud, figuring he would be here for a while. He gave the line some slack and the lure dropped a few inches from the tip of the rod. Ten yards downstream was the target for the lure to land so that it could reel it along the fallen tree. Surely something underneath the piled mess of wood would be driven by instinct to strike at the spinning shiny object. A two pound bass, a palm-sized bluegill, a hogsucker, maybe even a minnow, surely something was going to latch on on the first cast and give him the minute and insignificant struggle with nature he craved.
The first cast sailed directly into the fallen tree.
Will gave the line a few tugs, trying to cuss the treble hook off the tree. It was snagged hopelessly on a branch. His loud cursing reverberated off the concrete and steel girders of the bridge. He stood for a while feeling stupid. In the reflection of the water he could see his stubbled face that was flushed. Five minutes in and I’m already pissed off and yelling.
He stood a little bit longer, rod in hand with the line taut. He decided he wasn’t going to break the line and lose the lure. He stepped off into the water, as cold as he thought it would be. He held his breath and crossed the pool, water up to his chest. The fish scattered. This spot was ruined. Will snapped off the limb the lure was caught on, his jaw clenched at the thought that a camouflaged copperhead was coiled up in the tangled wood and would strike at him at face-level. He got back onto the mud and took off the gray shirt that was soaked up to his armpits, wrung it out and picked up his gear. His chance to catch the big ones early was cut short, now it was time to make the long walk downstream.
The creek became ankle-deep over a smooth slab of bedrock that was covered by a slimy back film of algae which made it as slick as ice. He shuffled his feet like a penguin making his way to the gravelbar on the far side of the creek. The current became faster. Ten more yards and he would be on reliable footing. Will placed his right foot on a section of the rock slab that sloped down without warning and it slipped out from underneath him. He flailed and skated and stumbled like a baby deer on a frozen lake, splashing down on his back. His entire upper body and head briefly submerged. He came up gasping, agitated and snatched his red Razorback hat that was starting to float happily in the current. “Well goddamnit!”, he yelled.
On the gravelbar he wrung out his shirt again. There weren’t anymore treacherous slabs of slick rocks left to negotiate downstream. Will set down his bag that he managed to hold above water while flopping around. He stood for a moment. A car passed over the bridge and created an ominous droning echo underneath. Grasshoppers in the hayfields and cicadas in the trees were making their cacophonous song. Looking downstream, Will could not make out the depth of the creek, seeing the reflection of the trees and the sky but not the bottom. Pristine and placid.
The second cast of the day landed in the middle of the channel. The lure spun up perfectly. A smallmouth inspected but darted away. Two sunfish trailed. A bluegill struck and fought but got off the hook. Promising.
On the third cast, a bite, and Will set the hook in a sidearm motion. A white belly flashed and something about eight inches long and slender thrashed from side to side. “Ah, there we go”, said Will. It was a slimy little creek chub with a sucker fish mouth, red cheeks and green and yellow carp-like fins that shimmered with a hint of purple in the sunlight. Some had spikey tubercles on their heads like horns that made them look ugly as as sin. He worked the hook out of the chub’s mouth and took a minute to admire his first catch.
“Well that’s a start. But I don’t want any more of your type. Off you go.”
If shit went sideways in this world at least today I wouldn’t starve.
Another cast, this time a bluegill attacked the lure. It inhaled the treble hook and Will had to work the hook with needle nose pliers and sent it on its way with torn up lips. A few more casts and he began to develop a rhythm. Snagging, reeling, and releasing with quiet efficiency. Bluegill, creek chubs, juvenile smallmouths, but not yet the big prize. He began to lose track of time. The sun now higher in the sky chased away the shadows and burned off the morning mist. Heat that was all too familiar began to settle in.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
He set down his pole after losing count of how many he caught, crouched and cupped water into his hand to splash onto the back of his neck, a hollow feeling developing in his chest. The sunlight glistening off the current became hypnotic. Will started to stare off into space. His mind now unoccupied and the familiar self loathing and hopelessness he had been fighting off the past few weeks parasitically slithered its way back into his brain. He brought no sunscreen. He was going to be plenty red when the day was done. He could come out this day skunked and sunburnt and it would still beat how he was spending most of his recent days. Idling on a recliner like something rendered immobile, letting summer in the prime of his youth slip away. Hoping for a miracle. Fooled by phantom vibrating sensations in his pocket, his mind tricking him into thinking he heard a chime of a text message when it was just the television. And what was it you were waiting for? What did you expect? For her to suddenly come to her senses and beg you to forgive her for ending things? And out of all of the ways she could’ve done it, it was with a text message. Some love of your life she was. She made up her mind, probably months ago at that. She’s probably getting a kick out of teasing you along.
Farther downstream the creek made a bend at a bluff. Will picked up his gear to make the long trudge. He held his breath and exhaled slowly as he plowed through the spot where he was casting in, the place that looked bottomless was really only waist deep. Something that looked like a submerged boulder began to move its legs, its ancient looking and stone colored body slowly lumbering away to where it could be unseen again. Go on your way, big fella, I’m not going to quarrel with you.
The creek became shallow again and Will made casts over to the shaded banks as he walked. A few curious nips here and there and then he was able to set the hook on something small. A few flashes of red and blue. He had landed a long ear sunfish. A specimen he used to think of as something of a trash fish as a child he lovingly pored over in the palm of his hand. Brilliant patterns of red and orange and blue made it look like something that could be swimming along a coral reef in a more tropical part of the world. It was released and darted into the turquoise murkiness that formed around the bottom of a large moss covered boulder. Strange, almost medieval looking. Will recognized it from the many times fishing here. It was somewhat of a landmark on the creek. The boulder stayed in place despite the many times there were heavy thunderstorms and the creek became a roaring river.
He stood still long enough for curious minnows to circle around and nibble at his legs. A good eating sized crawdad crept up to his foot. Will slowly bent down and snuck his hand around the back of the crawdad. With his index finger and his thumb he snatched it by its carapace. The crawdad flicked its tail and raised its open black-tipped claws. If it could vocalize a noise it would be hissing. Its four pairs of walking legs moved slowly like spider’s legs. Will pitched the crawdad back into the water.
He waded on in the middle of the channel and kept on until the bridge was out of sight. The creek narrowed for a short distance and became loud and rapid. He took to a large gravelbar dotted with dried fish skeletons and picked over crawdad shells, the rocks harshly bright in the sunlight. Impressions of ancient life etched into stone.
The creek widened out and became flat and motionless. To the south, farmland on a rolling hill and a wide open field of tall grass that made waves in the wind. To the north, a bluff that hung over a deep pool with large slabs of rock at the bottom. Will crossed the creek and set down his bag. Smallmouth that looked to be at least a foot long waded idly in the slow current. This was the honey hole.
On the first cast into the honey hole nothing chased. On the second a smallmouth followed for a half-second and dashed away after which the lure was swallowed by a large chub that fought half-hazardly and then allowed itself to be reeled in like a lifeless tree branch. Will had to work the lure up through the chub’s throat, the treble hook snagging and tearing up the internals of the fish until it started to bleed and the struggle left its body. He bent down to wash off the blood and slime and eased the chub back into the water, holding it still for a moment to let water pass through the gills, but the fish rolled to its side and bobbed on the water’s surface. The current took the fish on its slow procession downstream. His eyes stayed fixed on the dead chub until it was out of sight. A short life come to this. Snuffed out by a colossus that was in pursuit of a different species entirely. Sorry, friend. I didn’t mean to.
He cast back in. Something large darted out of the dark and struck the lure in one heavy, swift motion. Will set the hook so aggressively that he nearly fumbled the rod out of his hands. The pole bent sharply and the reel whined as the fish pulled out drag. If not for the violent thrashing, he would have thought he snagged a snapping turtle. A broad head struggled downward and a long body that was camouflaged brilliantly against the creek bed twisted unsettlingly as the fish warped its body and fought in a way he never felt a fish in this creek fight before.
“Oh you’re a big bastard”, Will worked the rod desperately. The fish was strangely large. An anomaly. Something that shouldn’t be here. It breached the surface and landed with a thumping splash and nosed down sharply and fought against the line with an angry ferocity. Will was able to get a good look at the fish when it jumped but did not recognize it. He cranked the reel a couple of rounds and sidestepped to get a better angle. His heart pounded and he began to sweat.
He spoke out loud. As if to talk the line into not snapping and convince the fish to tire out. He felt in over his head and wished he knew a technique for reeling in something this big. Maybe if you spent more time on shit you actually enjoyed instead of catering to a broad that didn’t know what she wanted, you would have some useful knowledge right now. But no. Two years wasted pining for something that wasn’t real. And look at you now. The biggest prize this body of water has ever offered you and you’ve got no idea what the hell you’re doing. The thrashing body blended back in with the darkness of the deep water and Will lost track of the fish. Tension was still on the line but the struggle of the fish was no longer there.
“Oh no, no no no no..” he took broad sloshing steps into the water until he was waist deep and saw the lure snagged on to a rock, the fish detached and once again an enigma. Another entry in a long sad tradition of stories of trophy fish that got away. He smacked the top of the water as if to punish it. The fine spray sparkling innocently in the sunlight.
“Fuck!”
He rubbed his temples with his wet hand and held his palm to his forehead and looked at the lure for a while. The wind sang through the trees and created ripples on the glassy surface of the water. A lone crow called. He waded to the rock slab and held the pole up with one hand and reached to unsnag the lure with the other, the water up to his neck and touching the side of his face. He walked onto the gravel shore and looked for a place to sit.
He set the pole down next to his bag and wrung out his shirt a third time and sat on a log that was stripped of its bark and baking white under the summer sun. The breeze felt good. He closed his eyes and slowly exhaled and thought of a beach on the Gulf Coast. Orange Beach, maybe Destin. Lounging on a beach chair under an umbrella next to a woman lying on her stomach on a towel with her top undone and her naked back gleaming in the sunlight, resting her head in her folded arms with a look of contentment. An imaginary flame that had no name or face. A blurry vision that had a shape but no detail.
Will opened his eyes. He thought about the comedy of errors he had under the bridge and on the slick bedrock and smiled. He then thought of who could tell about his trip to the creek, what he did, what he caught and what he almost caught. But there was no one. His smile faded.
Tomorrow was Saturday. A day of dying on the inside. Another summer weekend of watching satisfied men gas up trucks that were hauling boats to the lake with a fine young thing in the passenger seat. Going out for a day of bliss and ending the night in a drunken entanglement in bed.
Life as a directionless youth wasn’t adventurous or whimsical. It was living on a blank canvas with no inspired artist. All while watching other artists begin their masterpiece. Days that could not be told apart from one another. A malaise settling in like a permanent winter. Starkness and a muted palette. Blooming potential meeting its desolation.
Two semesters worth of your parent’s money wasted on you thinking success and all the pleasures of adult life would present itself to you. Expecting reward without putting any real effort in, not even the bare minimum. Have fun stacking pennies and working until you drop dead. It’s more than what you’ve worked for. Just keep on waiting for life to come to you. In the end that’s why she left you. She just gave a lame excuse to placate you.
He sat long enough that his body dried and the sun felt piercing on his back. He went for the shirt to put it back on, held it out in front of himself, but stopped.
“Fuck it.”
Will draped the shirt back over the log and walked to the water. He undid the velcro on his sandals on the gravel and left them there. He stepped off into the deep pool and let himself fall into the water. He ran his fingers through his greasy scalp to wash away the day’s grime, surfaced, and shook water from his face and paddled and kicked like he had done in this creek when he was a child. The large mystery fish had been startled and headed downstream. Will watched it with airiness. Beautiful ambiguity.
He floated on his back, his ears dipping below the surface, and listened to the creek speak. Old creek with an elder’s voice. Her water would meet the ocean in due time. Will let the current take him until he felt cool shadows and he opened his eyes. He was under an overarching oak tree and towering sycamores. He stood up and looked back upstream from where he floated. His gear and his draped shirt far off in the distance. He breathed slowly and smiled at the scene of nature’s creation around him and decided it would soon be time to head east, back to the car. The era of stagnation and the parasites that inhabited it would soon end. It had to. Some things in this life can not be reconciled. And dwelling over such things would only bring agony.
He laid flat to dip his head below the water a final time to feel the flow of Big Sugar rushing over his face. A cleansing of his soul.