Tulpehocken Mud

This year I have been blessed with, first one, then a second friend that knows where the elusive succulent trout (that my wife relishes) are hidden. Last night I received a fishing invitation from the second friend who lives in Lebanon County, PA. Just after dawn this morning, pole in hand, I was on the road to meet him.
I attended classes several years ago with this friend and he has subsequently started a small study group of diverse folks with the name of “The Fishin’ Whole.” Sounds like my kind of group and its growth has shown that others are drawn to it as well!
The morning was beautiful with a heavy misty overcast enveloping the picturesque green banks of the Tulpehocken Creek (“crick” to some of us). This is the same creek where legend has it that George Washington himself preferred to fly fish. (I thought he fought wars!) Nature was primed to envelop me in its seductive grasp. A bullfrog croaked and young goslings scrambled to the haven of their mother’s protective stance. There was even an advance guard of summer mosquitoes that dive-bombed out of the mist. The creek itself was a light tea color from evening rains except in the glassy swirling rapids. The banks were lush with a myriad of vegetation blossoming from a dark brown expanse of mud—rich dark mud.
My first cast produced that elusive gentle tug that fisherman dream of. Unfortunately, daydreaming dulled my reactions with no results for my creel. My friend planted me in the “best fishing spot” but his skill still yielded three beautiful brown trout before I finally landed my first—a beautiful shimmering fat brown trout. Soon, other than a few bumps on my offerings of worms, minnows, and even power bait, all action came to a halt. I could see the silvery flashes of the darting trout’s sprint to capture emerging nymphs and insects. I grew increasingly frustrated.
Finally, we moved to another spot and split up to explore more stretches of the magnificent waters. It was hard not to daydream. In fact, I reflected on a time as a young lad when I had inadvertently gotten my palm hooked by the barb of someone’s back cast. I’ll never forget the doctor saying the only way to remove it was to push it on through and cut the barb off. What a thing to think of on an otherwise wonderful outing!
I was quickly brought back to the present when a fat brook trout unknowingly decided to offer itself as a sacrifice for my wife’s taste buds. I had previously lost a nice trout in the same spot so I stepped back into the mud to better insure landing this one. Much to my chagrin, the thick dank mud enveloped my hip boots with a ferocious unyielding grip. I was over my ankles in mud and couldn’t move. Every movement let more water into the mud surrounding my size fourteen boots and creating more suction as I squirmed and wiggled. A half hour struggle made things worse with no success. Finally, I had to give up and with extreme embarrassment call my friend on his cell phone. His efforts to help failed too until he, up to his elbows in mud, dug me out using his hand as scoops.
As I sat on the bank momentarily exhausted, I realized how much my experiences had paralleled life. Sometime I get caught by things with unyielding barbs that despite anyone’s best efforts need to “be pushed on through” before I can be helped. And then there are the safe looking areas just off the beaten path that prove to be a treacherous quagmire of quicksand. Often my best efforts to free myself make things worse. Thank heaven for being dug out of the miry clay.