Up until last week, I could have answered no to that question. But then there I was standing ankle-deep in mud on the bank of a tidal creek on Edisto Island. I was holding a 20” Speckled Trout and getting ready to throw it back. The sun was just up, filtering through the Spanish-moss draped oaks. This was the sixth big trout of the morning. It looked beautiful and I couldn’t help planting a smooch on its predatory mouth.
The trout flapped its tail as if to say, “Stick to your own species.” After tossing it into the creek, I tried a few more casts, but the morning run was over. So, I waded back through the mud, then found a relatively clear area next to the water, rinsed my sneakers then got some of the grunge off the rest of me.
My ride was waiting right where I left it. I fastened the rod to the holder, got my helmet on, and cranked her up. On my way back to the campsite, it occurred to me how finding this great fishing hole was thanks to the motorcycle. It’s a 250 cc, one- cylinder model from Suzuki that looks much like my first motorcycle, a Triumph. The night before, a guy parked next to me at a gas station, noticed the bike, and we got to talking about riding. I saw a fishing rod poking out of his car window and asked about likely spots. That’s how I found the muddy bank of that pretty creek.
The next day I headed back to reality with my camping gear on the carry rack and my laptop in the book bag on my back. My good intentions about getting some writing done on this trip had come to naught. Still, I had been given something to think about by a good ole boy in a beat-up car who was so willing to give up his secrets. Isn’t that what writers do? I thought. We let readers in on our deepest secrets.
Bill Glass November 2020