A Taste of Chrome.

The sound of the windshield wipers moving back and forth was the only thing keeping me awake. The five hour energy and the two cans of Red Bull just couldn't do the trick. As I concentrated on that nice rhythmic sound, my mind kept drifting off to the current destination. I dreamt of slabs of brown, sides of crimson, and the sound of line screaming off my reel. The oncoming high beams of another car snapped me back to reality. I gazed at the clock and realized I still had four hours to go. Time for another swig of the juice. 

Finally arriving, the parking lot was nearing capacity. Combat fishing amongst dozens of other anglers can be quite the experience. Finding one of the only fishable pieces of real estate I know I am not welcomed. The sideways glances, the biting glares, and the smug smirks contemplate my every move. They eye my gear, my clothing, and my demeanor. They have no idea who I am but they are so quick to judge. This melting pot of characters represent different states, countries, and ideologies. You have spinners, liners, pinners, dead drifters, swingers, and snaggers all vying for a quick fix that only a fish could bring. The environment is one of envy, greed,  and lust surrounding a thin gauntlet of flowing water. I try to block out all the unnecessary distractions and concentrate on the task at hand. 

After a long day of fishing, I have little to show for my efforts. A few solid hookups and glimmers of hope fluttering away at the end of my line keep me going on my one hour of sleep. Finally, during the tenth hour of fishing, the set, fight, and land all come together and I get my first chrome of the season. I struggled getting my cold hands around the thick midsection of the small hen. She was round, mean, and entirely used. I admired her for a few seconds before she returned to her lair. In that moment, the long drive, sleep deprivation, empty stomach, sinus pressure, and parched lips did not matter. A smile came to my face, and I was content. 

I find myself thinking once again. Instead of dreaming of what could possibly be, my mind wonders to what could have been. That nice long rolling cast up into the current. The perfect mend and dead drift through the seam. The set and roar of a giant buck cart-wheeling out of the current in front of me. The blazing run downstream and that last head shake that shook my hook for good.

 The high beams distract me from my deep thoughts again. I look at the clock and realize I have much longer than four hours before getting another chance. For now, all I have is this singular thought to dwell upon, until the next time I get a shot, at a taste of chrome.