I’m sitting in the Roscoe Diner eating a bison burger with an order of potato pancakes on the side. It is 11 degrees fahrenheit outside and snowing and my two-year-old is throwing her carrots. I’m in the heartland of Eastern trout fishing but as far away from casting a fly as you could possibly be.
Route 17 winds along the flowing river and as we drive I have thoughts about that. I have fantasies of loading up a car, throwing a canoe on top, and just going, hitting every spot of water I run across. I could do it every day until I’m 80 and still not cover enough water. I look in the rear view mirror at my daughter in her car seat. This is not going to happen.
I still think about this more than is healthy.
In the dreams I have at night I am never actually fishing. I’m always moving to water. On a winding road with the the headlights rolling back the fog that hugs the asphalt. Rust Never Sleeps is on and “Thrashers” is playing and everyone else in the car is asleep but we’ve got to keep moving to catch first light on the water.
It was then I knew I’d had enough, burned my credit card for fuel…
I want to be fishing in these dreams but I’m always chasing it.
Right now, in reality, we are driving upstate in January. Snow flickers in front of the windshield; the wife and baby are in the backseat watching a cartoon DVD. My wife is pregnant again with another daughter; history will repeat itself. My daughter falls asleep in the backseat near Deposit and when she wakes up, my time is hers. And if she wants to move to water one day I’ll make sure she gets there.