It’s been a long week, and I’m not sure where to start. Hell, I’m not even sure if I can properly convey an adequate sense of order to an insane week of fishing…
Maybe, if we were sitting in a dive bar somewhere and throwing back 24oz PBR’s, I could try to set a narrative about an awesome river system with ‘bows as big as your leg. With the broader range of emotive capability inherent in the spoken word, I might possibly get you to feel the fluttery, hyperventilating sensations that develop when a group of these large fish start busting smolt right in front of you on a sunny day. With the proper facial expressions and gesticulations, I might also be able to place you waist-deep in the flow, watching the birds working upstream, knowing that if you time it right, you just might have a shot at one of these fish.
After the second or third beer, I might find the particular word or phrase that would do justice to the strange, tunnel-vision feeling of swinging into grease so fishy that it practically glows. With any luck, I could probably describe the time-erasing sensation that you feel when you are going through a piece of big-fish water, knowing that each and every moment, all hell could break loose.
About beer number four, I could probably get something across about the wind, about my newfound love for the bug-removing wind, and my new respect for the cack-handed snap. I could probably set the stage for the two am stumble to the cabin door, fully clothed against the bugs, not quite ready for the sprint to the outhouse. By beer number four, I think I could have a pretty good shot at describing the zoned-out, goofy-ass mood that set in around day three, and the punch-drunk, rummy shamble through the holes on day five.
With beers five and six, I might take a stab at the spare beauty of the place. This might not go over well, but I would probably, with the appropriate hand motions, show the bizarre path taken by the sun on its daily joyride around the horizon. I could probably get you to appreciate the zen simplicity that is tundra, bonsai for giants. We would probably rehash a bit about the wind, the bugs, and the huge fish, but that’s OK, they are an intrinsic part of the desolate, simple, and remote charm of the place.
After beer seven, it’s anybody’s guess. The conversation would start to deteriorate a bit, and in an odd sort of fashion, we might find ourselves at an impasse of sorts, an inability on the part of the speaker to properly manipulate the language in such a fashion as to convey cogent thought. Then we would be on the level we are now, the level of trying to thread an experience together that does not lend itself well to linear translation on the written page. Much like the old joke about dancing to architecture, the idea of typing about a trip like this is rather humorous because in the end, it comes down to a simple fact, a common phrase.
You just had to be there.
