Aug 23 2010 5:32 pm
The Pere Marquette River winds its way like a snake possessed, charmed like so many cobras in the thick woods and with about as much regard for your face. I’m not supposed to name anything on the river because everything already has names but I don’t care. I float down that river like Saul fucking Kripke, ostensioning the hell out of every bend and riffle. Shit, I even name the log jams. And anyway the damage is already done: there’s Loretta’s Bayou and the Skunk Cabbage of Life hole, two names I’m rather proud of and I’m sure have spread far and wide amongst the Pere Marquette fishing community. And I’ll be honest with you, they probably didn’t have names anyway. They ain’t exactly no Waddell’s. Furthermore, it’s not like we’re working with a terribly sophisticated theory of meaning, so I do what I want. Perhaps when I utter “just below the spot that looks like I think the Deschutes looks like” I mean to refer to the Pump Hole?
Shit. I don’t even call the stuff in the river that flows H2O. I call it XYZ. Deal with it. It’s like Twin Earth around here anyway.
And so I wait. I touched a hot salmon last night for about thirty seconds on the devil’s tackle but then he spit all six hooks. Then this morning there was nothing. They just aren’t in yet. But Gregg is coming this weekend and we will fish hard and I will have a beautiful fresh salmon for Sara. My obsession with female semi-pop singer-songwriters is persistent if nothing else. I hate to break it to you babe, but I’m not drowning. I’m drunk on the High Life.