I’m a guilt specialist. I blame Moses, Jesus and my grandmother for that.
Since the 60s did a good job in rendering lust obsolete as a deadly sin — at least where I live, all we are left with is the modern versions of the gospel: dietetics and conservation. Your average sin in 2012 is something like eating a doughnut, or letting the water flow when washing dishes.
So here I am, fishing in our pond, which in some respects is really like a dump, after years of abuse by littering morons, and the morons of a shooting club that covered the whole place with skeet debris and gazillions of plastic wads. Not exactly the scenic Montana trout stream one likes to associate with ff for trout, there’s a distinctive postmodern flavor to it.
Did I mention the highway passing by over there?
Anyway. I just tied on my French Tricolore with the uni-knot I put on everything, and trimmed that knot with my teeth. I’m ready to kill. But first I have to decide what to do with that inch of tippet I’ve got in my mouth.
- spit it out, what the heck? but then Pacha Mama will cry, and it may be bad for karma and fishing.
- put it in my pocket? I’ll probably forget it there and it’ll end in the filter of the washing machine.
Often then a trout rises reducing the whole world to a circle in the water, and I spit the stuff without even noticing it. Sometimes I sin and drop my little waste with full conscience of my sin. Guilt, o guilt. Sometimes I do the right thing and put that damned inch of line in a pocket of oblivion…
No pebble mines nor gratefulness for God’s great outdoors here, I fear. Just naughty bits of nylon.