Worry

Falling in love for the first time is a bit like taking your first drive as a licensed operator of a motor vehicle. Sure, nobody is going to stop you. You technically have the right equipment for the job, and the right to do it. But, everyone is going to give you a little extra room when they see you out in public. The thing is, both a first drive and a first love are intoxicatingly novel. The thrill of the open road. A first kiss. Both involve elevated heart rates, lowered impulse control, and diminished self-awareness. 

Driving is one indicator that you’ve graduated into the complex world of adulthood. Now one must worry about finding enough money from odd jobs to keep the gas at least at a quarter of a tank. Christmas lists go from being composed of the newest hot outdoor items to gas money, windshield wipers, and underwear. The first time lover, too, experiences new life challenges. Previously his chief concern was to keep his starting spot as first baseman. Now he is trying to get to first base. The responsibility of a driver's license and the title of boyfriend means that he has to worry about oil changes and having a tie that matches a corsage. Thoughts about the appearance of the exterior of his car now intrude on what had previously been a psyche at peace. Trout don’t care if you’ve washed your car recently or not. He recently found out women do. (Then again, muddy wheel wells and dust-spattered side panels may be a sign that you have been going to great lengths to catch trout.) On second thought, maybe both trout and women prefer clean cars. 

Once the car is clean, he will have to worry about how we will sweep his lover off her feet. The perfect date is carefully calculated and precisely planned: Dinner and a movie. This romantic is quite tickled with his creativity. So tickled, in fact, that when he goes to pick up his date he completely forgets to fill his gas tank. He gets to her house a minute or two late. She is waiting for him on her porch. (Being on time usually isn’t something he usually has to worry about because trout don’t go by hours and minutes, but by sunlight and temperature. A human female is a marked departure from the trout with which he is familiar.) To correct his mistake, he jumps out and opens the squeaky passenger door for the object of his affection. 

About halfway to the restaurant, he soberly acknowledges that the low fuel light is not going away. An unplanned pit stop puts the young lovers far behind schedule, and they miss their reservation at the intended dining establishment. Fast food is the contingency plan agreed upon. They manage to make it to the show on time and enjoy every bit of the heart-warming animated movie about talking toys. Halfway through the movie, however, he notices his date’s hand has not moved from her knee through most of the movie. He thinks this a bit odd as it looked a bit uncomfortable. On the way out he decides to bravely hold that hand and they walk out to the car. 

“Finally!” she says. “I thought you were never going to get the hint!”

Great. Now he has to worry about hints. 

They drive back in the microwave on wheels. As they pull into the blacktop driveway, she asks if he wants to come inside and meet dad. 

Great. Now he has to worry about dad. 

Dad, he finds, (to his relief) is an avid outdoorsman. On the walls are every type of game species imaginable–even a full body mount of a mountain lion. A replica mount swordfish of about six feet in length joins the land dwellers on display. He thinks about mentioning his trout fishing adventures to connect with dad. He thinks better of it as dad will not likely be all that interested in the six-inch brown trout he caught last week behind the local moose lodge. Dad shakes his hand firmly and asks what the couple did on their date. They give all the necessary details of their evening out. Trying to put his best foot forward, he mentions all the trophies he has seen with dad’s name on them in the high school trophy case from dad’s high school days. Dad smiles. He doesn't have to worry about dad quite as much. 

He makes it back to his house at about eight forty-five. The Michigan summer sun still gives off quite a bit of light even at this hour. This thought prompts some mental calculations: Five minutes to load the car with fishing gear. Twenty minutes to drive to the river. Three minutes to suit up and get in the water. Sundown at nine fifty-five. Mayfly spinner fall probable from nine to ten. Work at six the next morning…carry the one..divide by two. He jumps out of the car and loads up. After speeding down back roads, swerving around deer, and missing a turn or two, he finds himself at the river.

The river is in perfect shape. Last light reveals breeze-prompted mayflies bouncing up and down above the water. The temperature has dipped slightly from the comfortable warmth of the daytime, but not so much as to freeze the trout’s feeding. He creeps up the river until he comes to his favorite hole, and takes a seat on the soft grassy bank in the twight. After a few minutes, he hears what seems to be sizable fish feeding. 

The feeding pattern of the fish is consistent, and he knows if we can get a fly in front of him, he will eat. But he has to worry about what fly the fish will eat, since he has noticed a couple of brown drakes in the air as well as a few lingering hendricksons. In addition, the fading light makes it difficult to slide anything bigger than 5x tippet through the eye of the hook. He adds to his list of worries the log jam to the right of where the fish is feeding. With a light line, it is doubtful he will be able to keep a fish of this size out of a snag if it wanted to go seek cover there after being hooked. With these thoughts, he carefully sneaks into casting position, about twenty feet downstream of where he heard the last sluurrpish. The tag alders that line the stream do not permit a regular cast, so he opts for a roll cast.  

His fly lands right where he had planned it to, gently riding in the glossy moonlit film. One. Two. Thre–The fish explodes through the water's surface to scarf down his imitation. He sets the hook quickly and firmly. Four inches (three ounces) of scared-shittless brown trout are flung through the air at the speed of sound. The line and glorified minnow tangle up in the tag alders behind him. He does his best to salvage what he can of his leader. He also does his best to revive the unfortunate fish in a slow moving pool until he “swims” away. At least he doesn’t have to worry about being skunked. A glance at his watch tells him that it is eleven o’clock–seven hours before he has to punch into work.  

The walk back to the car proves more or less ordinary, save for what looks like a small trout “swimming” down the river. He feels bad, but remembers that at least one local raccoon won’t have to worry about dinner. 

He arrives at the car and places his leaky waders, rod, and three varieties of bug spray in the trunk. He puts his key in the ignition and the mostly-plastic car sputters to life. The glowing interior clock on the dash reads something close to midnight. Now he only has six and a half hours until he has to report for duty at the local golf course. He groans a little and starts for home. 

About a mile into the return journey, the low fuel light kicks on. But he isn’t too worried about it. He knows he has enough gas to get home because the river is seventeen miles from his house and the gas light means there are twenty left in the tank.