We’ve all had “one of those days”
Have you ever had one of “those” days? You know what I’m talking about. Everyone that I know has them regularly. I can remember as a kid coming home from school and complaining to my parents about some not-so-good daily events, and they sheepishly replied, “Looks like you had one of those days.”
Almost becoming a mature, senior, under-fish-crazed adult, I have learned to replace the question of, “Why did it happen to me,” with “It’s just one of those days.” But what sort of events describe the definition of one of those days?
I have developed a Thesaurus of fishing excuses and flip through each of the 253 pages looking for answers after most trips. When I can’t find the exact definition that applies to a particular situation, I usually jot down the experience and refer to the very last page: “It was just one of those days.” This vague excuse makes me feel a little better, at least for the time being.
I remember one fishing trip deep in the Blue Ridge Mountains that required a 3-mile downhill hike to the river. It was not a well-known stream, but had a healthy population of wild brown trout, which made the effort to get there worth it. I never tire of chasing trout and thrive on every trip as a new adventure.
Positive thoughts
After getting the pack ready for the hike with all the essentials in case of an emergency: three beers, four PowerBars, a Nalgene of water, and a flask in case the emergency goes sideways quickly, I was finally ready to hike except for stringing my fly rod. Accidentally leaning on the truck door, I suddenly heard the creaking of closed hinges and a loud popping snap. It reminded me of muted or dud fireworks. I instantly knew it was a mixture of fiberglass and graphite exploding as my heart sank down to my ankles. I turned around and saw my four sections of a fly rod in five pieces.
The power of positive thinking helped me deal with this catastrophe.
“It’s ok, I have a backup fly rod,” I kept repeating out loud, optimistically reassuring myself.
“I sure am relieved there was actually an extra fly rod in the rod carrier,” I said enthusiastically as I began opening it.
“I didn’t drive two hours for nothing. It’s still going to be a great day.”
Finally heading down the trail, thoughts of my broken rod and how much I enjoyed fishing with it prevailed. Evidently, I had become emotionally attached to it. I tried not to think about the phrase, “It’s going to be one of those days.”
Misadventures
Overthinking and being obsessed with the calamity caused me to miss the trailhead and extend the hike at least another half mile, which put me in a different location. One where I had not planned to visit, had never seen, nor had ever fished. It seemed like an eternity before I arrived at my new destination. The plan was to follow the river downstream to where I originally was planning to start anyway and hop out.
Trying hard to maintain some clarity amid positive thoughts, I sat down beneath a large sycamore tree and focused on the river. It was beautiful, and I could easily imagine an 18-inch brown trout frantically thrashing with my fly rod bent double.
Hearing wings beating above, I looked up to see a small flock of nine overgrown turkey buzzards landing in the sycamore tree. Sitting there looking up, I noticed 18 sets of hungry eyes looking down. At first glance, it made me think they were drooling, and this made me a bit uneasy.
So, I immediately jumped up, staring at them, and waving my flyrod, almost breaking it on a low-hanging branch, and hollered, “I ain’t dead yet! Ya’ll going to have to wait!” They got the message and flew off.
“Guess it’s time to start fishing,” I said.
After about 30 minutes of fishing and successfully coercing a few dumb trout to bite my Adams Parachute, I noticed the river becoming very difficult to maneuver around. In front of me was a gorge of monstrous boulders with a steep bank.
Do I walk back out or go for it? Keep going, I decided. It appeared the only way out was to climb straight over the rocks like a mountain goat or to spend as much time walking along the river, even if it meant floating through the deeper holes. Needless to say, there was less fishing and more exhaustive exploration. I kept wanting to shout it out loud about being one of those days, but I didn’t. My focus needed to be on catching fish and getting out of here.
After several more hours of strenuous activity and no fishing, it was time for a break. With every boulder that I climbed over, the first order of business was to peep across the top and pray no serpent with beady eyes and a long tongue was waiting to welcome me. Looking downriver, I noticed a great big, shady place to stop and take a break. My enthusiasm for fishing was waning.
Call it like you see it
After sliding off several boulders and tearing my waders, then stepping in a hole I didn’t think was deep, I arrived. Every muscle ached from this journey. Breathing a sigh of relief and thankful this wasn’t a mirage or figment of my imagination, I looked down, and there it was. In front of me was a steaming pile of fresh bear poop with large, wet tracks leading over a nearby rock. Evidently, he was really close, but this was my resting place now, unless he returned. I sat down quietly.
Since I burst all three cans of beer on many different falls and blunders, there was nothing left to do but top off the Nalgene water bottle with medicine from the flask and snack on the only two smushed power bars still in their wrappers. Not ready to blame it on “one of those days,” yet I sat there in a pure form of outdoor meditation hoping to catch one more fish. I decided to stay on the riverbank and walk down, no matter how thick the woods became. Also, I quietly hoped to scare the bear off.
Determined, I crashed through the thick patches of dog hobble and ferns that crowded the riverbank. The bushes were so dense I couldn’t see my wading shoes. I decided never to look down at my feet for any critters, and besides, I moved so fast I don’t think they actually touched the ground. Sweat pouring, itching, and scratched up, I battled through the thicket, and that’s when I saw it. I instantly froze. I couldn’t believe it. I stood there, speechless, staring at what lay before me.
Talk about getting let down? Standing there, battle-scarred, exhausted, with every muscle aching, I had accidentally discovered an old logging road. Evidently, it ran parallel to the river near this lower-section gorge where I had been struggling. At first, seeing it made me upset that I didn’t know it existed, and almost wished I had never found it. Being foot stomping mad wouldn’t fix anything and crying exerted more energy than I had, so there was nothing left to do but laugh.
Thinking back, I was probably too busy whining in self-pity over my broken fly rod to notice the path and probably walked right past it. Now completely exhausted, the only thing left was to follow this path and march the remaining 3 miles uphill back to the truck. Trudging up the trail, thankful for a few fish and my life, I finally came to terms with myself and screamed it out loud, “Looks like it was one of those days.”■
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