I Spend My Sunday Mornings on the Mud Flats...

It ain't no church, these mudflats. I don't shave and press my pants, and hope to hear the word of god or anybody else. And there ain't no fish or lords gettin' petitioned with prayer...or cussin' either, for that matter. These big common carp are wild and wiley and are at least a hundred and one generations of don't give a damn. If you come to the flats unprepared, or with anything but your A-Game...you will not be forgiven. Walk too fast or wade too loudly...or cast to short. Or too close. Or too hard. Or too far. Or too late. Or too soon....and it is over. No crackers, no wine, no choir...just the fat lady barfing and groaning in the cattails. Nope, not even she will sing for ya. You suck. You failed. Nothin' left for you to do but reel in and hunt for another.

But, there is a certain bonding and camaraderie amongst those of us who elect to pass on the weekly attempts at soul saving…and submerse ourselves in the filth of the mud flats. Like chain smokers gathering out the back office exit – puffing, hacking and breathing in horrid dumpster death smells. We all rise early and there is no tolerance for those who arrive late. We all have minimal gear, but it is gear that will do the job. There is no tolerance for boots that are able to be sucked off in the mud. Nor are there excuses given for forgetting polarized glasses or extra water. You gotta have the stuff or you don’t play. We may try to lend a helping hand to our fellows, but it is all really just a shallow gesture…there is no one to rely on out on the mud flats but yourself. Your comrades may have some spare 2x or a new fly, but that is about it. No one is going to find and hook a carp for you. You are on your own and you have to do it on your own.

I like to spend my Sunday mornings like that.