To eleven
By Nick Simonson
These days I drink bad coffee. Not bad, per se, but only half caffeinated, which according to the old me is bad, as in my younger years I spent much of the morning riding the lightning of a black oily brew so thick I could cut with a knife. That dosage was often followed by a battery of Diet Cokes in the afternoon to keep things rolling. As I wait
for the limited amount of the stimulant to enter my system while sipping on the third glass of the morning writing this column, hoping it will trigger some sort of inspiration
in my brain and the letters and words will flow down through my shoulders, wrists and fingertips and onto the electronic paper before me, I think of how the flow of life
– and time in the outdoors – changes from day to day and year to year and note that, like the shot of energy from my morning drink, I’ve chosen to slow things down where I can,
while still enjoying a rush here and there. Because even now, I move quickly outdoors. It’s not the “turned up to 11” of my youth, but I’m still clicking around 9.5 when things are averaged out. That missing 1.5 can be attributed to more solitary activities such as sneaking out for a solo trip over still waters, drinking in the silence of being on a lake all alone to
start the day with the silent swimming geese and the first waking birds on shore calling out to the rising sun. I’m starting to realize the magic in the experience of finding fish,
as opposed to finding them, catching them and posting them to the internet as I was so obsessed with as a younger angler, even before Facebook and Instagram became society’s
preferred methods of proving one’s existence and worth on the water.
