With a recent turn of events, I’ve come to believe that it’s a lucky few of us who realize how good we have it and even fewer who truly know what we want. I would humbly submit that most people don’t know what we really want until we find out what we don’t want, or find ourselves in a situation that we truly don’t like. There seems to be a design behind the curveballs that life throws at us. In an odd way, we should be thankful for the problems we have now. They are there for a reason and are sometimes may be the best teacher.
Had I known that that the Presidents’ Day weekend would only offer an extra day for things to go haywire, I would made no plans at all. It began Friday. The plan was to head to the cabin for some respite and fishing, as well as skiing for my nephew.
First, my son, who had requested time off, was scheduled to work Sunday. But we could work around that and come home Sunday. Then, my sister calls to tell me that her younger son is too sick to join us. But that’s okay because her husband and older son can still make it. Friday morning, in no rush, Christopher and I hit the road about 11:00 a.m. We stopped for lunch, a visit to the Mother Lode Fly Fishing Shop and a supply of edibles.
About five minutes after five o’clock, we sauntered up to the cabin door to find a note from the friendly water department. Though faded from exposure to the elements, I quickly discerned that due to a leak at the “water source at the house” that the water had been turned off at the meter in January. Without the proper tool, we couldn’t turn the water on to determine how bad the leak was. Phone calls were made. Frustration mounted. Of course, municipal offices are closed by this time. Being a holiday weekend, it’s unlikely that any plumber will answer the phone this late in the day. In the end, we began the drive home about 40 minutes after we arrived in Twain Harte.
Saturday I awoke determined to follow through with one plan for the weekend — fishing. I threw the gear into the car, picked up Christopher and headed towards our one real trout creek, Putah Creek. We hit the creek and tried to make sense of this unfamiliar water. I don’t mind riffles and white water that prevents one from seeing below the surface — and call me spoiled — but I like my trout water to be clear. Crystal clear. Putah Creek is not. Sure, it was a great day, weather-wise, to be out, but four hours on the creek and nary a fish. And none sighted on the lines of the other dozen anglers milling about.
The score so far this year: Trout 1 – Pat 0. Frustrating.