When Fishing Was Simpler

Chattahoochee River, Atlanta

You know that feeling when cash is burning a hole in your pocket? When no matter what you do, no matter how many times you try to think rationally, when you know you’ll inevitably acquiesce to impulsive decisions, when every fiber in your being is screaming, “Hey! Numbnuts! Pump the brakes ‘cause there ain’t a shot in hell of this ending well.” You know that feeling? Well, I do, all too well. I was fresh out of college and my pockets were ablaze - the time had come for a new vehicle. 

Up to this point, every financial decision I made in college was, shall we say, superbly idiotic. I carried a never-ending tab at Boars Head (if you weren't blessed with a University of Georgia education, allow me to explain; this dive on Washington Street was my Savings & Loan, but I didn’t save, they didn’t loan, and all I got in exchange for deposits were hangovers). I’d regularly buy a bundle of cigars instead of food, and God help me if a newer, better looking, Patagonia showed up at Half Moon Outfitters in Five Points, because I was coming home with it (again, in lieu of groceries). 

Shortly after the best six or seven years of my life, I was at my parents house watching a Braves game, cold beer in hand, when I decided it was time to buy a Jeep. I wasn’t a huge fan of the TJ model (I’ve always been a CJ-7 guy), so when the salesman asked if I’d like to test drive a “Big Boy Jeep,” I said, “Sure, why not?” The hook had been set; I just didn’t know it. 

When I first laid eyes on that blue Grand Cherokee, I knew it was mine. Obvious concerns, like “What does it cost?” or “How much are monthly payments?” weren’t on my mind. I wasn’t about to get bogged down in details.  

It was fast, it was four-wheel drive, and it had a sunroof. Oh, I could also toggle between songs from the back of the steering wheel. All my boxes were checked, so I bought it, and on the way home, thoughts like, “What in the hell did I just do?” entered my mind, but buyer's remorse lasted about as long as it took to throw it into four-wheel drive.  

I may have been lacking financial discipline as a young buck, but damned if I didn’t take care of that Jeep. I washed it weekly and managed to go several months before smoking a cigar in it. Alright, several weeks. 

In the back of it were my college golf clubs - an eclectic mix of thrift store irons, beat up woods, and a Wilson putter that I still use. Somewhere in the mix was a Steal Your Face Frisbee, a red cooler covered in stickers, a few tennis rackets, my baseball glove, rock-climbing gear, and my fly fishing stuff - a mobile flophouse for weekend toys. 

Back then, weekends started at a Five Paces happy hour. The remains of a late night consuming my quota of beer, cigarettes, and whiskey was shaken off the following morning with a run and a few orange Gatorades (to be young again). Saturday afternoons were spent riding my mountain bike, watching college football, and deciding between Steamhouse or the old Fado’s before Ray Lewis killed the party.  

But Sundays... Sundays were for something else. I’ve never been into the NFL, so Sundays were for being in the great outdoors. And, in Atlanta, the outdoors means the Chattahoochee River. 

Life was simpler back then. While we didn’t have 20,000 songs at our fingertips, I was perfectly fine with my CD cases. I enjoyed collecting CDs and seeing them symmetrically organized by band. The first several sleeves were Dick’s Picks, followed by Widespread Panic, Dave Matthews, and every Pink Floyd album (including Piper at the Gates, which was hard to find in the 90s). One offs, like Allgood and Freddy Jones were in the way back.

I’d drive to the river early Sunday morning, pop a squat on my tailgate, and get my vest organized while “Walkin’ (For Your Love)” played. All I needed were a few size 12 Lighting Bugs and I’d be sure to land some farm-raised SNIT’s (standard nine-inch trout). 

I didn’t own waders for years. Actually, my parents bought me a pair when I was 14, but I ripped them. Temporary repairs worked here and there, but eventually I had to shitcan them (irks my mother to this day). So, without waders, I wore shorts and low top Chuck Taylors that I stole from my brother – that's it. And it worked, right up until the point where ice-cold water hit your balls. The shock of which made you involuntarily hold your breath until Frick and Frack got adjusted.

On those Sunday mornings when I had the river to myself, before the cicadas woke up, before a choir of songbirds sang, before sugar was sprinkled over an expanse bouquet of azaleas, when the only sound came from billions of molecules sliding over algae covered shoals, sometimes, if I listened closely, I could hear the faint whisper of my cojones asking for little down jackets and ear muffs - hand to God the truth.

When the day was over, I shook the pebbles out of my low tops and tied them to the roof of my Jeep to dry on the ride home. Everything was simpler.