Light Switch Learnin’
There’s a few bites and spots in my neck of the woods I keep close to the chest. There’s surely an element of selfishness tied to that but there’s also the evolution of blowing up a spot. Back in the day loose lips would add a person or two, a picture with the name of a spot at a tackle shop gather attention faster than talking, take that a step further when a great fishing hole was covered by a newspaper man, supercharge that even further with the advent of fishing forums, and now add rocket fuel with what social media can, has, and will do to a good fishing spot. For some reason atta boys from strangers clouds the mind of otherwise intelligent people.
I’ve come to the conclusion that no bite or spot is safe and sooner or later some misguided angler will shine the spotlight on hidden gems folks have been protecting forever. I don’t have a way of weaving in a little Billy Shakespeare here, so I’ll just say, it is what it is.
A while back a little birdy told me the stocking truck had just left a spot I frequent. I don’t chase the stocked fish, rather the pussgutted bass that feast on the little hatchery derpy dos. I fueled up on a couple tall boys of coffee and headed towards the stocker contingent motherland.
Every time I fish this spot I know for every time it’s amazing I’ve got five or six punts to fish through. Even with the damn stocker dinner bell ringing these normally have tight feeding windows and chew on their time regardless of what science says. Moon phase, barometric pressure, wind, etc… there is never a surefire pattern, at least not one you can piece together from shore. I learned years ago to quit trying to turn catching these giant Colorado bass into a damn Ted talk and quietly embrace the suck to earn the sunshine, and above all when it’s great… SHUT UP.
An hour or so in I felt the old familiar feeling of hopelessness. I’ve caught more 5lb plus fish here than I can count on my entire family’s fingers and toes. You’d think that might instill a lasting sense of hope of confidence, it doesn’t. When it sucks, it really sucks, which is probably why when it’s good, it’s goodness gracious this is too good to be Colorado good. Whenever this feeling hits me I can feel myself going through the motions but can’t stop it. I make the same casts in the same spots as when I’m confident but there’s a lack of precision and awareness when I know I’m washing swimbaits.
I’m a mile or two back when I decide I’ve had enough. I’ve worked hard enough to count this as paying dues and it was time to walk back. After a few hundred yards back towards my pickup I started to wear out. I’m 6 foot something, 300 something so when waddlin’ gets me a little tuckered out it isn’t a mystery as why. I took five or six breaks working my way back to my pickup. At some point I realized I was parched something awful and my lips were sticking to my gums Fire Marshall Bill style. By the time I got back to my truck I felt like hell, but again I’m built like a before picture and just walked a couple miles. I wasn’t wondering why I was exhausted and dehydrated like I’d been sweating to the oldies in a sauna. I’m fat. When you’re fat and you overexert yourself you feel like a turd with a migraine. I’d been here before and I’ll be here again. Reading all this you’re probably thinking damn dude that’s awful you should slim up. I agree with you, and otherwise I consider myself a pretty intelligent fella, but when I see a biscuit I can’t help myself. We all have our picadillos…
I get into my truck and pound three warm sparkling waters thinking that would be the ticket. They did hit the spot and lead to a two-minute-long booger from revenge of the nerds style burp. Things were looking up! I decided I’d run through and get myself a cup of coffee then lick my fishing wounds sticking a few easy to catch bass at the skinny lake.
I pulled up to the drive through at Starbucks to wait in a long line to order a 5 dollar cup of coffee. Everyone has a guilty pleasure, yuppie coffee is mine. Nothing fancy, I order the biggest damn Pike Place they have, the blacker the better. Normally impatient I never get too worked up in the line at Starbucks. I know the result is a bitter cup of dark goodness that ignites my soul. With James Brown playing I’m one car behind the little squawk box to order. Everything goes from tip top Magoo to all out panic in a millisecond.
I leaned up in my truck seat and felt pressure in my chest and face I’d never felt before. I couldn’t breathe and could feel my heart pounding out of my chest. I wanted to scream for help, but I couldn’t and the weird social awkwardness inside me probably wouldn’t anyway. Then as quickly it felt someone grabbed my heart and squeezed it, there was relief and whoever had their hand on me ready to take my life had let go. I wasn’t dying but for damn sure wasn’t okay.
Like a psychopath I then pull up and order my coffee and a blueberry muffin. I’m worried that the person I’m ordering from knows I’m not okay. If they know that it’ll take my already peaked panic from a ten to an eleven. I’m overly polite, leave a good digital tip, then drive away like nothing happened.
Of course, inside I’m a wreck. Did I just have a heart attack or stroke? Is it going to happen again? Dude, am I going to die after getting skunked? I was having racing thoughts while powering through a blueberry muffin. I’ve done a lot of fat shit in my life; this may have been the fattest.
After ten minutes I call Leslie making sure I don’t worry her. I beat around the bush with small talk for a few minutes anticipating the worst and realizing if I do have the big one with Leslie on the phone it’ll scar her for life. With blueberry muffin scattered throughout my rapidly whiting beard I tell my wife what had happened.
Calmly she said “Eric, I love you, go to the hospital.” I’m not sure why but I wanted to hear that from her. I knew that was what I should do, but after a lifelong bout with anxiety, I’m not always sure what’s real and what isn’t. For decades I’ve spent a good portion of each day trying to decipher what’s fact and what’s my brain working against me. It’s exhausting to constantly be running at the storm of falsehoods in my brain but that’s the only way I’ll ever be able to live a fulfilling life. If it scares me, I punch it in the face, that is unless it’s health related. Then I push it down into the deepest part of my soul to be ignored. Sealed in a vault next to hiding poop stained He-Man undies in our first house on Elmer Drive, and those God-awful faces of death photos I saw back in high school. These things are to remain untouched, ignored, and on the best days, forgotten.
I was as afraid of knowing what was wrong with me as I was of dying. I had no choice. Even though this was the health stuff I’ve tippy toed around my while life, I had to run at this storm too.
I arrive at the hospital parking lot and take my rods from the back of my truck into my front seat. Death or not I’ve got a custom swimbait rod and a few Phenix rods that if I do go out they better make sure my casket is an eight footer so I can be laid to rest with some of my favorite sticks. I check myself in and get rushed back into the ER.
My blood pressure is higher than a giraffe’s ass and I’m doing my best to make sure anyone that works on me laughs. I’m so thankful for the folks that put others back together I always want to make sure I’m bringing a little light into their day too. I’m holding it together until I see Leslie.
Leslie walks into my ER hospital room with get shit done assertiveness almost like she was a part of the hospital staff. She gets briefed by the nurse on what’s going on, for a minute I thought my wife was going to put on scrubs and ask to see a chart. I look into her eyes and melt. I’m ashamed and apologetic, after decades of Irish Bliss and all the things that come with it, I finally get sober, meet the woman of my dreams, and my love for biscuits and gravy is gonna end me. I should add that by now I’ve got do-dads taped all over my chest, monitors beeping, and wires protruding from all over my body. It was like I was a damn sonar unit that a Sanford and Son type rigged up.
After a while the emotional roller coaster started to level out as did my blood pressure. They ran me through a tube, hooked up a transducer to my brain, and concluded I hadn’t had a heart attack or stroke. They think it was a nerve that makes folks pass out that went into overdrive. Turned off the motor so to speak but my anxiety kept the lights on. My blood pressure was an issue I’d have to fix but for someone with a desk job that’s built like an offensive lineman minus the muscly bits, I was pretty healthy.
After a 48-hour hospital stay, I drove away wondering: what’s the takeaway here? What was I supposed to learn from my body attempting to shut off for ten seconds. My anxiety wants a cause to blame, but I know better than to feed it with WebMD searches that lead to impending doom. The doctors and I’m sure my wife want me to leave understanding that my days of second dinner should be behind me and water isn’t just to fill a coffee pot. A few stop lights down the road all I could think about is how I need to fish more. The thing is we all die, that ole buddy is a part of living, and knowing that I’d rather go out fishing until the curtain drops like a obsessed maniac than have a little heart thing keep me off the water. For some people saying something like “Fish Until I’m Dead” is a cool tee shirt idea but they head for the fireplace any time their tootsies get cold. Me, I hope they have to drag my dead ass off the bank with a crane leaving no shadow of doubt I took one more cast until I couldn’t cast no more.
