
It wouldn’t be a bad shirt, once it went through the wash. I found it on an island in the middle of the river. The college featured on the front wasn’t far from the western Massachusetts river I was fishing. I wouldn’t dumpster dive or pick up clothes off the side of the road. But there was something seemingly pure about a shirt that had been in the tailwater’s gentle cycle for at least a weekend.
Plus, it wasn’t like I drank the unopened bottle of hard cider that I kicked up along with it.
I’ve discovered quite a few interesting items while fly fishing. Only a couple have managed to make it home with me. The aforementioned shirt did, although I never wore it. Once, off the cost of Boston, I was casting for striper when a thermos bobbed up towards me. I maintain that the saltwater and the dishwasher got is as clean as could be. Then there was the pocketknife that shone in the sun from the bottom of a Pennsylvania mountain stream. It was rusty, but it had promise. Like the shirt, the discovery felt too good to waste. But it ended up getting trashed instead of refurbished.
I’ve never found a fly rod. But I have snagged at least three spinning rods. That doesn’t include the Snoopy rod, caked in mud, that I extracted from the mud of a spring creek like a WalMart Excalibur. There have been coolers filled with rotten food. Why I opened them? Curiosity, I suppose. There was once a backpack that I passed by but then returned to after the notion of a wad of bills wouldn’t leave my mind. Another time, a crumpled tent piqued that small part of me that wanted to be a forensic evaluator in high school. I didn’t want to find anything grizzly. Yet if there was something grizzly, someone probably should find it.
The fly fishing discoveries have been large and small, from totally worthless to kinda-sorta worth keeping. And then there was the time I found a car.
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