Going Home

"I frankly don't make much of a living, but I make a hell of a life"  
-Jack Gartside


The first few holes as you wade down from the low water bridge are chub water. You always fish them but in all the years you’ve been here bass never seem to come until a mile or so into the walk. As you wade downstream and scatter suckers the motions are automatic and your mind is elsewhere. The walk is not without entertainment however as the foundation of a building from a time long past always draws the eye. Ancient seeming buildings dot this creek and you always take a few minutes to stand and wonder who looked out over the water so long ago. You’ve toyed with the idea of actually doing some research on the area in the past but have been secretly afraid that the answer won’t be nearly as fun as the mystery.

Once the creek narrows to a few feet across and the pops from the gun range are disappearing into the distance you start prepping yourself for the first good hole. No wider than 10 feet across, the steep rocky bank is the first clue of what treasures this creek holds. You slink through the brush, scanning the water and waiting for the first sign of a bass in the sea of Green Sunfish and shiners. Finally a slim shadow glides across the pool flanked by scattering baitfish. Checking over your shoulder, you start your back cast and are instantly hung up on a bush that wasn’t there seconds before. Once your streamer is unhooked you adjust and place the fly a few feet in front of the cruising fish. Within moments the 8 inch smallmouth is in your hand. After a quick unhook and the surprisingly powerful stroke of his tail the fish is back to his patrol.

You’ve told a scant few other people about this creek and the chosen you have were thoroughly and vigorously vetted before hand. Whenever you find a new guidebook for Missouri you nervously scan its contents to make sure your secret is safe. Some days you are convinced this is purely paranoia and in the grand scheme of water it is wholly unimpressive. It has remained unknown so far perhaps because the numbers and size can’t compare to the more storied rivers down south in the Ozarks proper. It may be that you are so protective of the creek because of the memories it holds moreso than the water itself. The summer days spent following your father down the creek throwing beetle spins until the blaring August sun drove you into the pools to cool off. The day 2 longnose gar swam so close to you that you could have reached out to touch them and sparked an utter fascination with the armor plated dinosaurs that has persisted to this day. Subconsciously you have been comparing every place you’ve ever fished to this one. The more you come here and remember the times before, the more you realize that this creek, as any good creek does, has had a hand in shaping not just how you fish but who you are.

The tail of the pool tucks into a deep riffle with a pocket just slightly deeper in the midst of the rushing water. Changing over to a popper you stand back on the bank and quarter a cast upstream of the calmer water . The instant the fly crosses the threshold of the deeper water it disappears in a flash of bronze and a spray of foam. When the steel digs into its jaw the fish makes a mad dash downstream and using the current against you manages to make it into the next pool with you trailing behind. The slower water plays to your advantage and after a few jumps your prize comes to hand. The red eye of a twelve inch smallmouth stares back at you, and maybe you’re imagining it but there is accusation in her eye. She’s questioning your worth, whether deserve to be here disturbing her domain. On any other creek she would be a good start to the day. A sign of better fish to come. Here she is the Queen. A verifiable trophy to be relished.

When it finally came time to leave your hometown your first worry wasn’t about jobs or any of the things a reasonable adult would care about. No, you were concerned that the distance to your main creek was going from 15 minutes to just under two hours. The move brought you much closer to more productive water, that held larger fish and probably are more objectively beautiful. Looking back on the year you still managed to somehow make the trek north to fish your creek more than any other. You realize that this is not at all reasonable. You also know love very rarely is.

There are three more good runs on this stretch of public land until the remains of an archaic railroad bridge marks the edge of the park. You fish them diligently and are rewarded with a few more bass. The pool that surrounds the pillars of the bridge is eerily deep compared the rest of the creek and has always seemed a fitting end to the journey. In the twenty something years you’ve fished here you’ve never crossed the invisible barrier that marks the fabled private land full of larger fish and easy wading. One day you’ll knock on doors and get permission and eventually this entire creek will be yours for the fishing. For today you’ll start the walk back up to the low water crossing content in the knowledge that as long as this place exists, you can go home again.