Back in the day, about ten years ago, I used to go fly fishing in our local stream, the Carmans. It was a spring creek—no rocks to worry about, just smooth, slippery mud that made walking feel like a bad idea on a good day. Getting there early was a must. If you didn’t, you were stuck with the “leftovers” — the spots no one else wanted because they were either too shallow, too weedy, or just plain cursed by the fishing gods.
I remember the first time I showed up at dawn, feeling like the early bird who was about to catch the worm. I was all set: new rod, fresh flies, and a thermos full of coffee. I took a step into the water, and whoosh—I immediately lost my balance, sending a perfect splash all the way to the other side. I’m pretty sure I startled every fish within a mile radius. But, hey, at least the coffee stayed in the thermos. That’s something, right?
Anyway, once I got my footing, I’d stand there like a statue for hours, trying to look all serious and professional. Meanwhile, the fish were probably laughing at me from below, picking up the bugs I wasn’t casting. Every now and then, I’d feel that familiar tug on the line and think, “This is it! This is my moment!” But no—turns out, it was just some weeds. Fish, 1; me, 0.
Eventually, after what felt like a lifetime of standing still, I’d catch a fish. But it was always the smallest one, the one you couldn’t even brag about. You’d try to act proud, but it was basically just a minnow with a complex. I’d release it with a “Good luck, little buddy!” and then spend the next hour making jokes to myself about how it probably went back to tell the others, “You won’t believe the idiot I just outsmarted.”
Even on those trips where the fish weren’t biting, there was something about the place that kept me coming back. Maybe it was the peace of the creek, or maybe it was just my stubbornness to outwit a fish that was clearly way smarter than I was. Either way, I always left the Carmans with a smile—often from sheer embarrassment, but a smile nonetheless.
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