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 win-dows 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 hair-cut someday, too!” I will, and I won’t. The pie rides shotgun. It’s close to two in the af-f ternoon 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. LEFT “Decisions, decisions. We’ve had so much luck running out of the no-see-um plagued hamlet of Hopedale that we really should just start there. But Shell Beach sounds awful pretty. Either way, there’s bound to be a few Louisiana reds not far from either.” Photo: Tim Romano THE FLYFISH JOURNAL 075
The Flyfish Journal Volume Eight, Issue Two: Page 75
