Where I forded a freezing, raging torrent and struggled through the wilderness…
When I think about solace, I think about trout fishing. This time of year the river’s edge doesn’t see much traffic. It’s too cold for most fishermen. Wintertime is catch-and-release season, meaning fish have to be returned to the water unharmed immediately. Die-hard, true sportsmen brave the cold. They fish for the love of it. I don’t love fishing so much as I love being alone in a beautiful place dropping an almost weightless fly in a pool of water, which is why I planned a two-day trip to do just that.
I’d pictured myself fishing for hours, breathing in the crisp, clean air and soaking up the solitude. But after thirty minutes of fishing my fingers and toes were cold and I was thinking how nice it’d be to hike a trail.
I felt a little awkward anyway, a little out of place. For starters, there were a few other fishermen up and down the riverbank, but I was the only human in sight without a fishing vest. Each specially designed vest had numerous handy pockets and things hanging from it. Each one was a fishing vest. My hat wasn’t right either. It’s not a fishing hat. Other fishermen wore insulated hip waders. I wore blue jeans and sneakers.
My fishing pole and tackle were sub-par too. The pole was just a pole, the same one I’d had for fifteen years or so, bought off a discount rack somewhere. The reel was just a reel. Attached to the reel was the same line I’d wound onto it when I’d bought it years earlier. At the end of the line was a single hook with synthetic hairs tied on it that was supposed to look like some kind of flying insect.
I have a decent cast and do a reasonably good imitation of Brad Pitt in A River Runs Through It but I could see other fisherman in my periphery smirking, rolling their eyes. Granted, it was really cold and their facial muscles may actually have been freezing up, but I have my doubts.
It felt like eighth grade when Jordache jeans were all the rage and I went to school wearing hand-me-down’s with a patch on the butt portraying the Duke’s of Hazzard’s General Lee jumpin’ a crick at least five years after Bo and Luke ceased to be even remotely cool. If you think I didn’t take some ribbing for that, you’d be wrong.
So with dusk less than an hour away I stowed my fishing gear, chose a short trail I’d never hiked, and set out. It turned out to be an easy hike, not too steep. At about what I figured was the halfway point, just when I was feeling absolutely grand, happy as a squirrel in a nut house, I realized I’d worn sneakers.
I think I actually glanced around to make sure nobody could see me hiking a trail without proper attire.
But my feet, along with every other body part, felt great. My body was humming, as frequently happens when I’m on a trail somewhere. Still I felt a little odd. It was like the riverbank all over again.
The whole thing got me thinking; how many others think that to fly fish, you need a bunch of expensive stuff? How many think that to hike, you need hiking boots and all kinds of other outdoor clothing? How many think that to camp, you need everything Coleman ever manufactured.
I had boots for hiking. Good, solid, sturdy, insulated, waterproof boots, eight inches tall, designed to keep my toesies toasty warm and ankles well-protected from sudden twists, strains, and sprains. But here I was, enjoying myself immensely, hiking along without a care in the world thinking, I might as well have left my boots at home. I don’t need expensive gear.
Hiking boots… Who needs ‘em? As a kid I hiked and played in the woods wearing just what I was wearing now; blue jeans, sneakers, a long sleeved cotton shirt, and a hooded sweatshirt. I didn’t need overpriced apparel from LL Bean or Land’s End to enjoy the outdoors.
So there I was, hiking along, feeling clever, when the trail led right up to a stream. It was a shallow stream, only about ankle deep, but deep enough to soak my shoes if I tried to go on through, and too wide to jump.
If I’d worn my boots the little stream would barely have slowed my stride. But I wasn’t wearing my boots. I estimated there was still ½ mile or so to hike – not far but also not fun to hike in soaking-wet shoes and winter weather. It wasn’t that cold outside, but thirty-five can feel sub-zero when your feet are wet. I considered taking my shoes and socks off, rolling up pant legs and braving the just-barely-above-freezing water. But that was an option I’d prefer to avoid if possible.
I wandered upstream and found a place to cross, a place where the creek narrows and rocks jutted up above the water line, seemingly placed there by Nature herself to allow me safe passage. Two hops, one skip, and a less than graceful jump later, I was safe and dry on the other side.
But it seemed like too close a call. What if I hadn’t found a way across? I’d been smug…
Tomorrow I’d hike a longer trail. I slept on it an decided to wear my boots. In the Missouri Ozarks, or anywhere for that matter, even well-traveled, well-marked trails shouldn’t be taken lightly. On an unfamiliar trail you never know what you might encounter.
Day 2
Shortly after daybreak the thermometer read 17 degrees as I set out on a 2.3 mile jaunt. The first section of trail was a fairly steep grade from about 900 ft. to about 1400 ft. It didn’t take long to realize I’d worn way too many clothes. Halfway up the hill I wished I’d worn half as many. I kept climbing and was soon bare-headed, carrying three layers of clothing, and wishing I’d left the accursed boots at home and gone barefoot.
Stopping for a rest, looking out across the valley and river below, I wiped sweat from my brow and looked down at all the bundled-up fisherman, some blowing on their gloved hands, others trying to de-ice their lines. I remembered years earlier, while fishing that same stretch of river near a portly gentleman, he told me fishing’s a real man’s sport.
“Hiking’s for sissies,” he said with a chuckle as we watched some hikers descend the very hill I was ascending, and then, apparently unaware of the irony, he said, “I’d have a heart attack if I tried to climb that hill.” So, with that in mind, feeling very un-sissy-ish, I continued up the hill.
An hour later, back at the truck I deposited all the clothes I’d been carrying in the passenger seat and sat down to take those ___ boots off. Watching steam rise from my naked feet it occurred to me I’d been composing this post throughout my entire hike. That sort of thing happens frequently. I’ve been known to compose articles on a short hike, complete novels on longer ones. Invariably though, in the past I’ve failed to put pen to paper or fingertips to keys and formalize the idea. It gets lost in the – what, ether?
Not today. Today my camper’s toasty warm and I’ve got peace and solitude in abundance and nothing but time; which is why I made this trip in the first place.
