The Amiga lady in yesterday's entry knew just what she wanted, even if it took me a while to catch on. A guy I met Sunday afternoon was having trouble making up his mind.
Walking the bank back to my car, I passed a guy fishing and exchanged the usual pleasantries. He was having the same luck I was (mediocre), and threw in the towell shortly after I moved on. While I was taking my waders off at the car, he trudged into the parking lot too. After he had packed up, he asked me if I'd like a beer.
On a summer afternoon pushing 90˚, standing on the bank of a fine trout river, there is only one possible answer to that question.
As we shared the suds, he told me that he had driven up to Rogers City from suburban Detroit that morning to look at a piece of property. It was a small undeveloped lakefront parcel he was considering mainly as an investment. But with property values stagnating in the area, he wasn't sure if he should take the plunge. "What would you do?" he asked.
I'm probably the last person in the world you should consult for investment advice. But under the influence of half a Budweiser and fairly sure he wouldn't take my word as gospel, I offered it. "If it's a place you'd enjoy going, it's not going to be a loss in any case," I said. "But if you're interested mainly in the return, I'd think twice." He nodded and observed that after holding the land for three years, the owner had reduced the asking price to barely above what she'd paid .
"Just don't know, just don't know," he said. He began kicking the sand and frowning at nothing in particular.
He seemed to be a walking mass of uncertainties, and he reviewed many of them in detail with embellishments of head shaking, cynical laughter, and impatient groans. Did the Manistee fish as well as it used to? Will Central Michigan (his alma mater) ever field a promising football team again. What job and investment choices would let him retire the soonest? Should he drive home tonight or stay up north and crash in his vehicle? And did the state allow you to sleep at accesses?
I could only answer the last. "No, but I don't think they ever check. I've done it."
In the midst of these other concerns, we returned occasionally to the matter of the Rogers City property. I guess if you're considering laying out $_ _,000 for a piece of land to bankroll your retirement, you're bound to have a few misgivings. Even after a day on the river. Near the conclusion of the book on fly fishing and literature that I finished the other day, Mark Browning (the author) argues that fly fishing and writing so often go hand in hand because both are seen as paths to self-knowledge. My beer buddy arguably contradicts this, or at least the part about fly fishing. I started to wonder about fly fishing's purported capacity to help its participants adjust their priorities and find peace of mind.
Fishing and experience in nature generally may or may not be antidotes to acquisitiveness. Thoreau, Harry Middleton, and some other writers certainly believe they are. On the other hand, the desire for more tackle and trips to new places can itself become a consuming passion (even an incentive to give money to stream conservation...). When it does, though, such passion tends to abate with time. I think I can safely say that at the very least, fishing has the virtue of focusing and limiting one's lust for posessions. I was unware if the guy from Sunday had any literary aspirations (hope not, as that would probably add to his angst), but possibly the best suggestion I could have made would have been to spend some more time fishing.
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