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.