Jeremy A
12-02-2001, 09:05 AM
Fishing allows time to reflect on life
By Kevin Woster
Argus Leader
published: 11/27/01
Nobody - not even a newspaper writer in search of a column - would argue that the stretch of Big Sioux River below the John Morrell plant is a place of aesthetic splendor.
In fact, it stinks - quite literally.
The shoreline is littered with plastic and tin, twisted cardboard sculptures and splintered clamshells, along with the occasional skeleton of a carp or sucker or bullhead.
There are smells that no wild place should offer - rank water reeking of the worst of city and country industry, and odors foul and undefinable emanating from the packing plant.
The Snake River gorge it's not.
Yet, late on a warm November afternoon, on the day before Thanksgiving, and with that predictable bully winter storming around in the forecast, even the most humble shoreline can be reason enough for gratitude.
That's especially true if an angler's time and energy aren't occupied by the arduous chores of hooking, playing and landing grand sportfish.
Well, there was that one foul-hooked carp, which surprised my rod tip, connecting me momentarily by thin monofilament to the river's raw energy as old buglemouth rushed through the murky shallows like a deranged hog.
Then it slipped the hook and wallowed off into slightly deeper water and, probably, more interesting associations.
Other than that, there was ample time for the rhythmic ritual of the cast and retrieve and to watch the sun fall, the moon rise and the homely little river turn bright in the magical light of dusk.
Such light is wonderful. It can make a 50-year-old face look 20 years younger and a punished river appear absolutely vibrant.
And it can make an otherwise unoccupied fisherman forget, for just a moment, the unearthly horrors of Sept. 11 and their continuing consequences and consider the good things of his world.
I'm still upright and generally healthy after a half-century, after all, and able to stumble over riprap and gravel bars far enough to fling leadhead jigs at the unknown possibilities of pools and riffles. That's good.
I'm divorced, which is not so good. But I like my ex-wife, and she likes me, especially now that she no longer relies on me for things like home maintenance and long-range financial planning.
My son is doing well in college, and my daughter heads off to that joyful land of intellectual exploration next year. That's very good.
I have a fiancee who loves hiking, canoeing, biking and, especially, poetry , and shows sincere interest in flyfishing. She also seems content to marry a guy with an annual income about half of any competent plumber's. That's very, very good.
There are other not-so-goods, of course. But in that dreamy gold-to-pink-to-purple river world just before dark, they seemed entirely insignificant.
So did the fact that I didn't catch any fish.
Reach reporter Kevin Woster at kwoster@argusleader.com or 331-2319.
By Kevin Woster
Argus Leader
published: 11/27/01
Nobody - not even a newspaper writer in search of a column - would argue that the stretch of Big Sioux River below the John Morrell plant is a place of aesthetic splendor.
In fact, it stinks - quite literally.
The shoreline is littered with plastic and tin, twisted cardboard sculptures and splintered clamshells, along with the occasional skeleton of a carp or sucker or bullhead.
There are smells that no wild place should offer - rank water reeking of the worst of city and country industry, and odors foul and undefinable emanating from the packing plant.
The Snake River gorge it's not.
Yet, late on a warm November afternoon, on the day before Thanksgiving, and with that predictable bully winter storming around in the forecast, even the most humble shoreline can be reason enough for gratitude.
That's especially true if an angler's time and energy aren't occupied by the arduous chores of hooking, playing and landing grand sportfish.
Well, there was that one foul-hooked carp, which surprised my rod tip, connecting me momentarily by thin monofilament to the river's raw energy as old buglemouth rushed through the murky shallows like a deranged hog.
Then it slipped the hook and wallowed off into slightly deeper water and, probably, more interesting associations.
Other than that, there was ample time for the rhythmic ritual of the cast and retrieve and to watch the sun fall, the moon rise and the homely little river turn bright in the magical light of dusk.
Such light is wonderful. It can make a 50-year-old face look 20 years younger and a punished river appear absolutely vibrant.
And it can make an otherwise unoccupied fisherman forget, for just a moment, the unearthly horrors of Sept. 11 and their continuing consequences and consider the good things of his world.
I'm still upright and generally healthy after a half-century, after all, and able to stumble over riprap and gravel bars far enough to fling leadhead jigs at the unknown possibilities of pools and riffles. That's good.
I'm divorced, which is not so good. But I like my ex-wife, and she likes me, especially now that she no longer relies on me for things like home maintenance and long-range financial planning.
My son is doing well in college, and my daughter heads off to that joyful land of intellectual exploration next year. That's very good.
I have a fiancee who loves hiking, canoeing, biking and, especially, poetry , and shows sincere interest in flyfishing. She also seems content to marry a guy with an annual income about half of any competent plumber's. That's very, very good.
There are other not-so-goods, of course. But in that dreamy gold-to-pink-to-purple river world just before dark, they seemed entirely insignificant.
So did the fact that I didn't catch any fish.
Reach reporter Kevin Woster at kwoster@argusleader.com or 331-2319.