That Old Familiar Sting

As dangerous a sport as hang gliding is, somehow it is unlawful over wilderness areas. Maybe due to the danger involved, but I wouldn’t know. It works though, as I am also hang gliding over the next two weeks, metaphorically. This post is really just a post to float me to the next week.

I woke up this morning to a certain freeze-you-to-the-core type of cold, knowing that the frontal boundary sailed over the front range. It’s insult to me unwitting, but harsh. The memory of last winter was still fresh in my head as I looked to the west and received the daily morning input of nicotine. In that moment, I inhaled the bite in the air and realized that cold was soon to come. Even this summer was not really summer here in Colorado. The summer here was reminiscint of a drawn out spring, keeping fisherman indoors, away from their fix. Keeping me away from the adrenalin rush, the puzzle solving, and the release of tension after a full day out. Keeping me away from those big fish.

Driving south on 225 on my way to work, my muscles began to itch with that familiar pull. The itch to manage tension between myself and a fish capable to accelerating to 20mph in one second, as fast a a Lamborghini. Muscles quick to release when hooking into a freight train. I pulled against the steering wheel to calm the nerves and relieve the itch to no avail. The accelerator pedal was on the floor to drive away the thoughts, nothing.

Arriving at work, my feet began to beg for uneven terrain, bored from slapping against flat ground. They needed to grip and pull dirt from an untrodden trail. My ankles wished to ascend. Even stairs did no justice, nor did running. As the work day progressed, the itch began to work it’s way to my knees that prayed for the resistance of flowing water against them, for the rush of cold waders pressing against them. My shoulders wanted to cast, and no amount of lifting subdued them. Oh, and that smell of fish on the hands… Need I say more?

Finally toward the end of the day, the itch was in my core. Pleading with me to balance all of these things, to wear out the itch in all places. Almost like making a deal with the devil, I replied with one word. “Sunday”

9 responses to “That Old Familiar Sting

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