Just the other day I was talking to a strange girl, one who's answers are occasionally non-sequiturs. We were talking about California, about the desert, and about the cold. Then we were speaking of cities in the south. I could see you in Austin, she said. I've been there. And so we talked for a while about the bars there, the warmth of the streets at night, people pouring out into the blockaded streets and dancing to music from a roof top, and then she said I should go ice fishing.
I went ice fishing once, a decade or so ago. We awoke early, put on boots, gloves, hats, scarves. The key to ice fishing is layering. Though I've also been told that the key to ice fishing is drinking, and I've also been told the key is finding a good space heater.
You cut a hole in the ice using something called an ice augur, which really just resembles a very large hand crank that corkscrews around and around, cutting a solid hole in the thick ice. Once you have a hole in the ice you drop a fishing line in and wait. And while you wait you talk of your wives, of the cold, of the disappointment of the latest football season.
We didn't have much use for ice augurs in California. The first time I witnessed snow I was ten or so, and I walked outside into the dusted bits of grass, my pants still wet from last night's urine.
That whole morning, whenever my line went taut, I pulled up in a hurry, banging the fish's head against the block of ice, so that they'd drop off the line and then back off into the depths of the canal to do whatever it is that fish do all winter, perhaps read Proust. After a while, I gave up on pulling up fish, on doing anything but banging their heads against bits of ice.
One more failure amongst many, but you should have heard the fish speak French. God, what a morning.
I went ice fishing once, a decade or so ago. We awoke early, put on boots, gloves, hats, scarves. The key to ice fishing is layering. Though I've also been told that the key to ice fishing is drinking, and I've also been told the key is finding a good space heater.
You cut a hole in the ice using something called an ice augur, which really just resembles a very large hand crank that corkscrews around and around, cutting a solid hole in the thick ice. Once you have a hole in the ice you drop a fishing line in and wait. And while you wait you talk of your wives, of the cold, of the disappointment of the latest football season.
We didn't have much use for ice augurs in California. The first time I witnessed snow I was ten or so, and I walked outside into the dusted bits of grass, my pants still wet from last night's urine.
That whole morning, whenever my line went taut, I pulled up in a hurry, banging the fish's head against the block of ice, so that they'd drop off the line and then back off into the depths of the canal to do whatever it is that fish do all winter, perhaps read Proust. After a while, I gave up on pulling up fish, on doing anything but banging their heads against bits of ice.
One more failure amongst many, but you should have heard the fish speak French. God, what a morning.
No comments:
Post a Comment