I have been working hard and have done little or no fishing
these past months. I needed to relax and unwind from incessant work stresses.
There’s nothing like a warm autumn day on a trout stream to
meet the need. And so it was last Friday that I extinguished residual obligations and drove an
hour or so to the Farmington River. I would be meeting Todd, who is the human embodiment
of a comforting autumn day. His company, beside a clear running river, would be
good for me.
I was almost there – around Collinsville, I think – when my
left leg registered the merest slip of the clutch pedal. I imagined that I’d
imagined the difference, the way we men hide from pending disaster, and
drove on to the river. Boy, was it glorious out – warm, right enough, with
caddis coming off and huge maple leaves floating by in perfectly welcome numbers.
We’re only fifteen minutes into what will be a reassuringly long time by water,
but it’s time to move up-river (Todd having already landed the first fish of
the day: a very respectable brown trout.)
 |
| A respectable brown trout (Salmo trutta) |
There is a point in any day when one should face that you are well and
truly fucked and should give up. Here was that point, manifest as a
clutch, depressed, never to rise.
Despite his protestations, I insisted (repeatedly) that Todd
get back to the water. If I couldn't fish, he surely must, and my tow would be here
before too long. Such was my imaginary hope of a quickly fixed car, all at minimal cost.
Five hours in a parked car does not equate to the healing properties
of a warm, autumnal trout stream [manuscript in preparation]. Multiple calls to
an insurance company and to all manner of rural garage owners (many of whom don't actually exist) are no more medicine
than are hours of false positives, during which time one could, had one known, have been
fishing [Atherton et al, personal observation].
It is fall, and I remain, sirs, in need of relaxation from
recent stresses.
Jonny
