Told my wife I was taking Sadie the black Lab to the river, went upstairs to pack, heard the front door shut, came downstairs with my stuff, set it down noticing the dog missing, and went outside to pursue them, finally catching up around the condo unit corner.
"I don't understand! I want to take Sadie to the river."
"I'll walk her around the block."
So I went back, put on my wading boots, walked outside wondering where they are, looked around the other corner for them. No. So I loaded the car, figuring maybe I could catch them at the pass, over there by Mike Maxwell The Trout Assassin's unit, but really feeling, "Nah, she's done something other than walk around the block." I looked for them, driving out the long way. Nothing.
Oh, well, I figured, so Trish decided she wants to walk Sadie long. Let her be.
So this time, no loyal companion, my "dog" (what is this being, really?), who mostly sits in the water directly beside and behind me as I fish, gazing longingly into my eyes when I look.
I got back in the undergrowth and slough to get some camera shots I haven't yet attempted, here at this "spot" I have frequented for 17 years. And then I fly cast, once seeing what looked like a six-inch smallmouth bass gobble my Muddler Minnow, strike missed, my two-weight rod light as ever. That was all the action I had in almost a half hour's respite.
Hot. Well, earlier, hot. This evening, sultry for sure. The water felt just a little too warm. I've wet-waded after September nights in the 40's, and enjoyed the brisk feel. I've wet-waded in October, too. Water so cold my feet and legs fell completely numb, and yet I kept at catching bass. Crazy? No waders, crazy? Nah. Everybody says crazy all the time. So the likes of what I do must be normal.
Even the TV. Remember how circumspect the spiel used to be? The TV says crazy, constantly. So does the radio. Allen Ginsberg must have been ahead of his time in the 1950's, when he shouted that we live in an armed madhouse.
Not the North Branch Raritan, no. This place long predates any human presence here. What if there's no crazy; what if crazy is just crazy for crazy sake, since nothing falls out to land that way?
I felt the water cooler than warm too. I still feel coolness of wet shorts on my thighs as I write now. Carl Jung was the greatest psychiatrist who has ever lived. He claimed truth arises from the soil. Some might say, from water, but there's soil underneath water. You can see some in the slough I photographed with the bridge at an angle overhead. But truth? What is truth? Life certainly arises from soil.
I got home. My wife frowned on me. Did I not look for them? Sure did. Didn't I feel disappointed? Yes. Did I refuse to be pissed at her? Yes.
