F RIGHT irst the horn. Then the finger. Oh, “When it comes to the weather and the fishing, early September in Louisiana can be a little dicey. After a day of jacks and big reds crashing bait nonstop, we are forced off the water by a storm rumbling in from the gulf. Safely back on dry land, the pre-storm gloaming illuminates the South’s iconic Spanish moss along a backcountry road.” Photo: Jan Bach Kristensen 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 blan-ket, 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 hold-ing 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. 072 LOUISIANA
The Flyfish Journal Volume Eight, Issue Two: Page 72
