A Burr in the Britches

In this episode, A Burr in the Britches . . .

People often ask why I'm always up before the birds. Well, mostly because I'm awake. And if I’m awake, there’s usually a mental list of things to do already spooling out like a tangled fly line. But really, it's about the quiet. That sliver of pre-dawn peace. Coffee, a few pages of whatever's on the side table – right now, it’s a dog-eared copy of humorous essays on Fly Fishing by John Gierach – then shutting off the lights and just . . . thinking and sorting out the day's tangles before they actually tangle.

You'd think a clear, crisp morning would feel like a blessing after a couple of days of rain. And it did, mostly. But there's always something, isn't there? A little burr in the britches, a knot in the tippet. This morning, it was the neighbor's lights.

Now, I'm not one to get all worked up about such things. But there it was, this unwelcome glow seeping in through the windows. The side door and back porch canopy lights created a veritable miniature stadium lighting display. My first thought, naturally, was about the wasted electricity. But then I remembered he’d gone solar. It doesn’t seem to bother folks with solar much, the whole waste thing. It's like they’ve got a direct line to the sun’s wallet.

But it wasn’t the electricity that bothered me, not really. It was the light itself. You see, I like to experiment with my DSLR, trying to capture a glimpse of the night sky when it’s clear. And those lights? They simply ruin it. They wash everything out like a bad watercolor, making it feel like I’m trying to fish in a spring creek at high noon.

It's funny how these little things affect you. You’d think I’d be used to it by now, the relentless march of progress, the constant illumination. Yet on some mornings, you crave the darkness. You long to see the stars or at least make an attempt.

So, why do I get up so early? It’s probably just a matter of biorhythms, something I’ve done for years. And it’s a heck of a lot easier when you’re tucked in by eight p.m., like some old trout settling into a deep pool for the night. You get used to the quiet, the slow rhythm of things. You find a sort of peace in the pre-dawn stillness.

And what if the neighbor’s lights are still on? Well, there’s always coffee and a good book. If all else fails–pluck that burr–you can always prepare to go fishing.

I’m Patrick Ball. Stay curious and ask questions. See you in the next episode.

Comments

A B+ Kind of Life

Welcome back to this week's On the Fly . Retirement has taught me something unexpected: life gets a lot more enjoyable when you stop chasing perfection. Lately, I've been having an absolute blast playing executive par-3 courses like Rancho Carlsbad . A short iron, a sunny morning, and nowhere to be except the next tee—that's my kind of day. This Thursday, though, I'm raising the stakes. I'm heading to The Links at Lakehouse in San Marcos, a full-size par-71 course with enough water hazards to keep the local fish well-stocked with my golf balls. After shooting a 64 on a par-3 course, I've set myself a new goal: shoot an 89 before my birthday next August. Why 89? Because on a par-71 course, that's bogey golf—one extra stroke per hole. For non-golfers, think of it this way: par is like earning 100% on a final exam. Bogey golf is a solid B+. You got the job done, learned something, and probably had a lot more fun getting there. The older I get, the more I appre...

Resurrecting the '90s Graphite

Let’s face it, there’s a certain danger in reading John Gierach's Trout Bum . His wit, self-deprecation, and sharp, effortless satire are entirely infectious. If you aren't careful, his words will inspire you to drop everything, wade into a freezing river, and try to outsmart a creature with a brain the size of a lentil. In my case, re-reading Gierach recently didn't send me straight to the river. It sent me digging through the dusty, spider-guarded corners of my garage. In the early 1990s, seeking a natural escape from Manhattan's concrete canyons, I decided to learn to cast a fly rod. I bought an Orvis Rocky Mountain —eight-and-a-half feet, three ounces, built for a five-weight line—and had absolutely no idea how to use it. To avoid aimlessly whipping the water like scrambling eggs, I took fly-fishing lessons from Al Cucci, co-author of Hatches , on the Delaware River. With his guidance, I fished renowned waters: the AuSable in New York and Michigan, and New Jersey...

Morning Coffee

In this episode, Morning Coffee . . . Now, I’m not saying everyone needs coffee. Some folks get by just fine on, I don’t know, sunlight and positive thinking. Me? I’m pretty sure I started drinking the stuff sometime around the Reagan administration. Reading John Gierach’s "Ode to Campfire Coffee" in Trout Bum (a book that should be required reading for anyone who sees sleeping on the ground as recreation) got me thinking about how we’ve managed to complicate something as fundamentally simple as boiling water and adding grounds. Taste, you say? Look, black coffee is an acquired taste, like tequila or cilantro. I just don’t get it. Gierach, bless his heart, mostly drinks his java streamside, probably while wearing wool socks and waders and contemplating the mysteries of the universe. As for me? My outdoor coffee experience is a bit different. Picture this: the High Sierra, where campfires are banned (to avoid agitating Smoky Bear), and I’m huddled over a Whisperlite , coax...

A Tucson Typewriter Tale

One of the great joys of wandering without much of a plan is that the universe occasionally rewards your lack of organization. During my recent visit to Tucson, AZ, Robert and I were strolling through the Annex this afternoon, doing what tourists and newly minted retirees like me have elevated to an Olympic sport: meandering. The Annex is one of those places where every few steps there's another handmade candle, artisan coffee, or vintage object someone rescued from a garage sale and convinced the rest of us was always destined to become art. Then I saw something that genuinely stopped me. A young woman standing quietly behind a manual typewriter. Not a laptop designed to look like a typewriter. Not a quirky Bluetooth keyboard. An honest-to-goodness mechanical typewriter—the sort of machine that once announced every sentence to the entire office with a satisfying clack and enough force to wake nearby pigeons. With an iPhone 16 sitting in my pocket in an age when people write novels...

On The Fly

Search This Blog