Trip Report by Jon Carver
Navajo Dam, New Mexico.
Billboards. “No Fake Discounts!” “Drinking and Driving Don’t Mix.” “Are You Committing Idolatry? God is One, not Three in One.” “Specializing in Chipping Potatoes.”
Crusher Hole. The camp host warns of a gigantic racoon that steals shoes. Just the other day he got into a cooler. Wind. The tent lashed to the earth like Gulliver by webs of guy lines. Rabbitbrush, sagebrush, red ants. It is too cold for wet wading. Chunks, flecks, threads, ribbons and bits of white dead matter slough from the rocks. An omnidirectional swarm of swallows and gnats. A drift boat out of proportion with the river looks like the Santa Maria approaching ominously. It contains Europeans. Muskrats and a beaver.
Texas Hole. A maze of little islands where anglers dare not go. A long deep run beyond is lined by a regiment of uniformed fly fisherman. Rumors and mutterings propagate: Size 22 midges. Size 30 baetis. Big dry flies “for some reason.” At the far side a great mass of matted bleached algae like the dissolving carcass of a beached whale. Wind. Swallows and little plops of excrement. For hours the regiment stands at attention. The earthen dam looms.
Night. The center of hell is cold because it is the furthest from God. The racoon has found the corn nut.
The Sportsman. This is the last Friday for prime rib, so if you like prime rib, oh boy, this is the best prime rib you’ll ever have. And this is the last weekend. They close early, and they do run out. Boy is it good. It’s the last weekend for it, after that they won’t have it. It’s got a little horseradish on it, and there’s a little cup of drippings with it, and boy it’s the best prime rib you’ll ever have. This is the last weekend for it, so get yourself down there to the Sportsman, they close early.
Catch and release only. Scars and mangled faces, broken gill plates, chewed fins. Bemused old fish feign surprise. Look at that, you got me. See you tomorrow, don’t forget to clock out. For lack of experience small fish believe in the fundamental seriousness of life. Fish here stalk the anglers sniffing for kicked up tidbits like the camp racoon. The regiment tires. Patience frayed one attempts to net fish loitering at his feet.
It’s the last weekend for it. They close early.
Specializing in chipping potatoes.
Jon Carver lives in the Southwest.
Do you have a story to tell? A photo to share? A fly recipe that’s too good to keep secret? If you would like to contribute content to Tenkara Angler, click HERE for more details.
I absolutely love this passage…
“Bemused old fish feign surprise. Look at that, you got me. See you tomorrow, don’t forget to clock out.”
I like it. The pacing. The crispness. The frozen moments. The Stolen moments (Oliver Nelson). The observations (incomplete, yet revealing). I don’t like raccoons as is, much less those that are shoe stealing size. My kinda’ fish report.
Absolutely marvelous. Fantastic, fantastic. And I thought Hemingway was in Idaho…