Words: Nathaniel Riverhorse Nakadate 2016-12-16 14:58:07
First the horn. Then the finger. Oh, Interstate 10, you are a conflicted concrete soul. This truck ambles grandmotherly and the busy bees just can’t stand it. No matter, in a few hours I’ll be deep into the folds of a Louisiana marsh with no one for miles—just a canoe, a Mexican thunderbird blanket, a cooler, headlamp, firewood and a French press to join with a couple of fly rods and an unbridled penchant for wanderlust. It is Thanksgiving for the rest of the world. They’ll stuff themselves to the gills and settle into boob-tube comas. By nightfall, I’ll be serving up size 2/0 crabs on a bed of oysters. I often daydream of redfish. Especially during long drives. What the hell do they do all day? I wish I knew. Lucinda Williams is coming on strong through the forlorn paper membranes of the dash speaker. She gets me there. Every time. After all, she was born in Lake Charles and certainly drove this same road. I’ve crossed the Texas border into Louisiana straight into legalized gambling terra firma. There are stacked hotels I can see from the side window, but it’s early morning yet and hangovers are being slept off. There are still a few hours to go, and this ain’t what I’m looking for. Not even close. The beautiful girl who sleeps on the pillow next to mine is not happy with me. She wanted us to catch a flight together to frozen North Dakota for the holiday. She caught the flight. I didn’t. There’ll be making up to do. It’s been a strange season and I know why I’ve taken this road to the salt and fringes to feel myself equal parts raw and wild with my own ass on the line and solely responsible for keeping my heart’s ship afloat. How often in this life do we really have to depend on ourselves to find our way without maps, hand holding or cookie-cutter, paint-by-numbers books? Where are the moments of pure and serious consequence? Of where am I? How deep am I in? The beautiful woman who sleeps on the pillow next to mine is not happy with me. She wanted us to catch a flight together to frozen North Dakota for the holiday. She caught the flight. I didn’t. There’ll be making up to do. Some hundred miles after turning off at Lafayette for the backwoods, the gas light comes on. I find my way to the wrong part of town and it’s as seedy and greasy as ever. As far as I’m concerned, this is the right part of town. Spooky swamp canals border the road and the rusted carcasses of shrimp boats moored alongside dilapidated docks do nothing but rust. They are far larger in life than you’d think. I keep the windows of the truck down so I can soak it all in. There is the mesmerizing and ever-sweet scent of magnolia trees. Their flower is the softest and most stunning petal of any on earth. I wish they made bedrolls from them. I see a funky gas station shack with a couple of lonely pumps out front and pull in. Twenty gallons and the tank is full. Here’s to Japanese pickup trucks that take us far from things and straight to the water. Inside, the woman at the register asks me in a singsong Cajun voice, “Say, what the heck you doin’ round these parts with that purty canoe up on the roof? You got room in that skinny little tummy of yours for some sweet? I made this last night. You ain’t never had nothing like it—especially not for two dollars a slice.” Two-thirds of a homegrown sweet potato pie with a ragged graham cracker crust obviously from scratch sits on the counter between us. It’s got an amber pool of brown sugar syrup seeping into the empty folds of the tin pan where a couple slices used to be, same as early high tide in the marsh I’m gunning for. “That looks lovely, you know I would, thank you so much.” “That all you want? You be back for more once you taste it, unless you was born a fool.” “No thank you, ma’am, just one please. Here’s a fiver, keep the change.” Before I even make it back to the main road, I slide my hand under the pie and raise it to my lips. My mouth is blooming and alive with cinnamon, pungently soft and tender yams, that crust and a slew of other unreal spices. I drip it all over my shirt and jeans. How can anything taste this good? I can’t drive. I only want to give my sole attention to these last few bites. This pie is just plain righteous. Gravel flies from the back tires and it takes all of 30 seconds for me to be back at the gas station. “Awooohahahahaha you done want some more, boy? What did I tell you?” Behind her in the backroom is a cluster of rabid football fans surrounding a television with rabbit ears. She yells to them to come up front and bear witness. “Dis here goof want some more sweet, he can’t even leave for long!” They all stare at me as I place a $20 on the counter and ask if I can have it all. “Say, where are you goin’ anyway, baby?” “I’m looking for redfish.” “Ooowee yes indeed my skillet is too! So that’s what you be eatin’ for dinner, unless you are one of them catch and release dodobirds!” I lean over and whisper, “That’d be me, ma’am.” “Why the heck you do that?!” she howls. “Oh, I tell them I’ll let them go if they introduce me to their big fat grandmas.” The whole place explodes in laughter and people slap each other on the back and repeat it a few times and all is well. “You keeps that $20 and remember that Thanksgiving is special times. And maybe gets a haircut someday, too!” I will, and I won’t. The pie rides shotgun. It’s close to two in the afternoon and I cross the final bridge toward the marsh after checking the compass one last time. This road is basically a sand bar along the water that goes for 53 miles until it dead-ends. My stomach is aflame with the fireflies of hope, of wonder, of being so close I can feel it. I want this—to be nowhere else but here with days of solitude ahead—so fiercely. Why is it that so much of what is surreal in fishing is often simply the joy of being on the cusp of doing it? I park alongside a sandy bank, and begin loading everything into the canoe. Why is it that so much of what is surreal in fishing is often simply the joy of being on the cusp of doing it? I’ve got one more loose end to tie up before I head into the marsh. There’s something heartbreaking I’ve been dealing with for a while, and that’s putting it mildly. I use a minuscule propane burner and titanium gasket to boil water for the French press. It steeps a few minutes and I look out over the marsh from the seat of the truck. The winds are shit, blowing upward of 20-25 knots. Things are not looking good. Once the coffee is steaming in the thermos, I fill a ceramic cup that has a cutthroat trout painted on it and add some almond milk from the cooler. I know there’ll be no cell reception for a few days, so I need to make this call. There’s a bed some thousands of miles away. There’s mom holding tight to life. My mother was wild, in every sense of the word. She could give a damn about the road ahead, just knew she was going to get where she wanted to go. For an Irish-Cherokee girl from Oklahoma, she did all right. She went to the University of Texas and worked at bars while raising me on a steady diet of food-stamp humble pie, government cheese and hand-me-downs. It was a win-win existence, for the backyard was Lake Austin, with bass, perch and gar galore waiting for me, day in and day out. And sometimes we more than got by, like the night mom won 50 bucks by grabbing it off the back of a greased pig in a strange citified rodeo contest. We had barbecue—finally—for days. She ended up back in the northeast corner of Oklahoma, the last stop on the Trail of Tears. Although for a long while I was living on an island in the Atlantic Ocean, chasing waves and playing in a rowdy band, I’d often make my way over to see her small cabin and take walks in the woods of Sparrow Hawk. We’d share warm meals and catch up. On one of those trips, we drove to Arkansas so she could dig for crystals she’d heard talk of. She found them. One of them was as big as a summertime bluegill. She gave it to me, said it was lucky. The big-ass crystal fit perfectly into the cup holder inside the truck. And here it has ridden for years, from Baja to Oregon to North Carolina to Texas and then some. Good days and bad, some harrowing and some beautiful, it has seen them all. What is it about our talismans in life? Is it any different from gambling, to believe that something is special? Maybe. But you have to gamble every day you wake up, on many things, some far more consequential than others. I hold it in my hand as I talk to her and the sun strikes it. With age and life, some souls unravel, some bloom and some do both. Hers sure did. Now here’s this crystal, still enjoying the sweet mess with me. It somehow holds the memories of her riding high in the saddle—of her traffic-stopping beauty, shimmered out in reflective sparks as the Louisiana sunlight shines through the windshield. I wrap the crystal in a weathered blue bandana and place it the front of the canoe. You ride with me, mom. I drive the toe of a wading boot into the mud of the bank and kick the canoe off. It’s so damn good to be adrift, no matter the gale of a tailwind hammering the aft gunnels. The caffeine is strong, I can feel it making its way through my ribs. We are hauling ass full steam ahead. There are only a few hours until dark and there’s hardly any water clarity. Shit. Let’s optimistically call it a two on a scale of 10, or a bust if you want to just lay the cards on the table. Reds won’t tail tonight unless the winds have blown them airborne. I could care less. It’s time to fish. I get down to it and paddle hard a couple of hours into the outer edges of the marsh and finally make my way into a lee-side cove surrounded by spartina grasses. The rest of the country is starting to dig out from their first snowstorms and I’ve got my sleeves rolled up, for it is 77 degrees here. The terminator crab has always been my go-to pattern in the salt. They are a serious fly, resplendent in profile, rude and not for the faint of heart. I consider them ruthless and effective. The guy who invented them is from Louisiana, but thanks to all of this water and few highways, he still lives hours away. The winds are handing my ass to me and today is just not happening. Eventually, I’m able to blind cast a couple speckled sea trout out of the cuts and guts with tides channeling through them. From what I have read, what they call specks here are really from the croaker family, but what isn’t mislabeled in life? This may be fishing, but it just ain’t fishing. As the gloaming kicks in and the darkness of night comes on, I see what must be the biggest redfish in the history of the world. Tailing. Sweet Jesus! A hundred pounder? Is it five feet long? I peel out the entire fly line and get ready to take my shot but then see it’s a lone coastal dolphin chasing mullet. There are only a few hours until dark and there’s hardly any water clarity. Shit. Let’s optimistically call it a two on a scale of 10, or a bust if you want to just lay the cards on the table. Reds won’t tail tonight unless the winds have blown them airborne. I could care less. It’s time to fish. At times like these it is easy to question ourselves, even to wallow in negativity, but that’s just not my way. It’s quite possible the conditions will be shit this entire run. No matter, for despite the fruitlessness, all of this is beyond amusing. I don’t mind paying my dues and am well aware there’s never sugar without the salt, for life will humble you along the way—plenty. After such a drive to get here, with inane expectations of fish after fish, I still need to simply settle in, breathe, let it all hang out and find that groove. It’s going dark. I batten down the gear, turn on the headlamp and start paddling toward a wide sand bar to make camp. I am instantaneously surrounded by all types of winged creatures what feels like an infinite number of moths and insects. The next few minutes are surreal and heady. We are a 20-foot halo floating along as one bizarre being, looking for a resting place. Camp is a small, struggling fire on the sand bar with the canoe pulled close. Shards of moonlight stream through the gulf cloud banks and I don’t feel like cooking, although I am hungry as can be and worn down. What I wouldn’t give for another slice of that pie. Oh, damn that pie. The fucking pie! It’s still riding shotgun with the crystal under the front gunnels, and it is as good as the first time, perhaps even better, coming apart like a Roman candle on my tongue. Satisfied and with a wan, shit-eating grin and gems of brown sugar around my lips, I crawl into the canoe and use the thunderbird blanket for a pillow. I pull out a leather-bound collection of Tennyson I found for 10 bucks in an antique shop and let it buckle me at the knees. A couple bell-ringers are, “The shell must break before the bird can fly,” and, “I will drink life to the lees.” I second that, Lord Alfred. And as I start to fall asleep, I remember someone saying that big-ass gators roam everywhere out here. That’s fine, come on and love me. Morning and the French press is on the flame, kicking and simmering. Coffee smells so damn perfect. I’m changing on a sand bar naked as a jaybird. I should fish like this all day. Then I remember my back cast in yesterday’s winds. I pour the coffee to the brim of the thermos, load the gear and kick off again in semi-darkness. The winds are still howling. I spend the next few hours exploring random tidal flats and saltwater creek tangents and don’t even bother to cast. There’s still no clarity and I squander more time watching coastal herons and gulls than I do wondering about the fish. I don’t feel like I’ve put the rest of the world behind me yet. By late afternoon, the tide starts to fall out hard. I find myself in a small oxbow with only a few inches of water and finally see a couple reds at the far back bend. They are weaving back and forth along the edges of the spartina. I send a 30-foot shot in front of the lead. The take is lazy, but the fish hightails it as soon as I strip set, with his friend right behind. It’s about time. By nightfall the tide has rolled back in and I still haven’t found shit other than one decent red. I find another sand bar and pull the canoe in to shut it down for the day. Supper is vacuum-packed coho and a couple bottles of Shiner beer. One could overthink all of this and head for home in the morning, but there will be no cutting bait. I came to fish, and everything that comes with it, no matter the unraveling yarn mitten of a trip. Going it alone is good for the soul. When you read the fancy magazines and look closely at the pictures, sometimes you’ll see the sport who can’t cast their way out of a paper sack, while the badass guide is in the shadows lighting a fire and chopping wood with an axe, taped-up hands covering blisters from the oars, and there’s probably nothing but bills in their P.O. box back in town, all with a grin on their face. There is a reason guides get what little pay they do. But in life, our job is to guide ourselves—that’s the only way we ever figure shit out. When you aren’t a kid anymore, there is a grace that mellows you out to let some things go, and also a more stringent bullshit detector that occasionally wants you to drop the hammer. Yin and yang. Lying on my back in the canoe looking up at the first few stars of the night, I crank back into the Tennyson and dip into my favorite road-trip secret weapon. You can find cheap-ass vanilla cookies called “Grandma’s” in any gas station, and damn if they don’t make a righteous dessert anywhere in the world. The small, plastic-wrapped roll of them lasts three poems before I am out like a light. I find myself in a small oxbow with only a few inches of water and finally see a couple reds at the far back bend. They are weaving back and forth along the edges of the spartina. I send a 30-foot shot in front of the lead. The take is lazy, but the fish hightails it as soon as I strip set, with his friend right behind. It’s about time. The morning is different. The entire marsh has glassed off and I can see bottom everywhere I look. I paddle a few more twisting cove bends and creeks and within minutes I am into a dozen pounds of sweetheart red. He gives what he can until I let him roll off my fingers back to his world. From there, it is game on and I find myself sticking fish after memorable fish for hours on end until I get dizzy from the glut of hedonism. I even see a tailing sheepshead and drop a crab near him. I love how they show their emotions so openly when they get turned on to a fly and make a beeline to it—the fervent zig and zag tracking it, the flared gills. When you’ve got their interest, you briefly let it rest in the silt, twitch just a bit and there it is. I have always tried to find out what the highest quality of anything is—that which sets the bar—be it something tangible or a feeling you know in your gut. I once ate at a fancy steakhouse with waiters who stood there ready to fold your napkin and continually wiping crumbs off the table. I asked for ketchup just to see their smirks. That steak was the bar. And Louisiana, this marsh, with her hurricanes and corrupt politicians, the continual scythe of Big Oil raping and pillaging, her wetlands and marshes dying and in retreat like no tomorrow, they’ve got her on her heels, but she still clings tenaciously to life, is still here, still so damn beautiful and world class. This is the bar. I’ve gotten what I came for. These unconscious moments where one is not even really aware of existing, so enthralled by all things outside of us, ahead of us and far from within. I could head for home, but nothing is for certain anymore. That empty house. What I wouldn’t give to see the slender nape of her neck leading to those perfect bare shoulders across the pillow from me. These matters of the heart, they cut to the bone. I have burned some bridges in my time. I want to tell her I’ve missed her and yet still be able to explain how much I need this rawness of water, of how it forever sets me straight. The morning is different. The entire marsh has glassed off and I can see bottom everywhere I look. I paddle a few more twisting cove bends and creeks and within minutes I am into a dozen pounds of sweetheart red. He gives what he can until I let him roll off my fingers back to his world.
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A Southern Wish
https://digital.theflyfishjournal.com/articles/a-southern-wish