Fishing for Medicinal Purposes

Woke up today in foul mood. No real reason for it I can think of, other than that being my default mode as of late. I had an academic project planned for today, but I couldn't face the thought of sitting at my desk. Didn't have the energy to untangle someone else's bright ideas and spin a few of my own from them. Or to do much of anything else, except maybe crawl into someplace dark, cool, and quiet for the day, or for the rest of the year maybe.

The only plausible alternative, I thought, was to go fishing in some nonserious, aimless sort of way; going to a river and letting it wash away the poison I had in my system. The Huron river, which I hadn't been to yet this year, was the only prospect (If I'd had to drive all the way to Cloud Creek, I might have driven into the first overpass I saw). I didn't know if it fished well in the morning or not, but fish in the net really wasn't the object.

I got to the river at Island Park about 9:30. Shadows were still long over the water, but sunlight was making the midstream riffles glimmer like beds of tiny flames. Lots of small mayflies (tricos?) were hovering over the water, and I saw a few larger, brown drake size mayflies emerge. Tan caddis were skittering on the surface, and occasionally disappearing in the eruption of a rising fish. I fished my way down to the riffle just above Fuller road, lobbing streamers into spots that looked good, just enjoying the press of the river on my waders and the quiet of the morning. No one who saw me would have said I was casting with surgical precision or working every lie throroughly, but I was doing exactly what I wanted to do. My mind was empty and unburdened. Working on autopilot might be the best way to describe it, getting back so something so basic that it could function satisfactorily regardless of recent perturbations. Gradually some of that satisfaction worked its way into my conscious mind. There were even flashes of excitement. As it happens, I did catch some fish, the usual assortment of smallmouth and rock bass. Some of the smallies pushed 12", fairly respectable for Huron fish. Though at least for this morning, size did not matter. I'll likely forget those fish sooner than I will the clusters of catalpa blossoms lining the river, creamy white and full, with cigarlike seed pods drooping beneath them. The sight of those alone did a lot to drain off the bitterness.

Depression usually isn't considered a waterborne illness, but why take chances? If you live in Ypsilanti, Flat Rock, or anywhere downstream of Ann Arbor, don't go near the water, lest whatever passed out of me on the stream contaminate you. If you can't avoid going to the river, be sure to take your fishing rod for immunity.