the dharma blog

*Please don’t read this if you don’t like cussing.*

   "Excuse me, was somebody shooting up here?"

   "You’re goddamn motherfucking right I was shooting at those goddamn grackles they eat all my fucking minnows."

We had traveled five hours from Minnesota for a friend’s wedding. I had a morning to myself in an area reputed for some fine trout streams so I had packed my fly rod and vest along with my shirts and ties and I did some exploring.

   "Okay," I said as calmly as I could.

The baitshop owner’s first round of cursing had been directed toward the birds that ate his minnows. Only now did he seem to notice that I was outfitted for fly-fishing. I think a guy might do better to kill a tankful of his minnows than show up at his door at 7:30 a.m. dressed for fly-fishing, asking him about his firearm activities.

He stood up and marched across the room toward me. I was standing outside the door and down a step so he seemed even larger than he was.

   "I’m outside the goddamn motherfucking village limits I can shoot any goddamn time I want to."

As he strode toward me he continued with a string of cussing that would have made George Carlin blush. To get an idea, just take a noun and put "fucking" or "fucker" after it.

I had left the hotel at 6:00 a.m. Even though we’d been up late at the rehearsal dinner the night before, I had enjoyed the drive. I always drive east for trout from St. Paul, and it was nice having the rising sun at my back as I headed for the hills.

I stood my shaky ground.

   "I know, I wasn’t saying that. I just didn’t know if you knew I was down in the river. You can shoot any time you want to."

He stepped past me and pointed towards the big tanks where he raised minnows.

   "Goddamn fucking grackles eat the fucking heads off the things. Been in this business for 25 years."

   "Okay."

   "You can be in the fucking river. This is my property and I can shoot any goddamn time I want to."

   "Okay." I turned and headed for the nearest point of the river.

   "You don’t have to get in the river, I’m just saying this is my goddamn property and I don’t just let anyone come walking through."

On the way, I had stopped for gas, an apple fritter and a cup of coffee at a convenience store. When I got to the river I had scoped it out and then driven up into the little village and bought a disposable camera at another convenience store.

   "Hey, I understand it’s your land and I wouldn’t ever–"

   "And somebody else unplugged one of my fucking pumps for the goddamn trout and I got fish this long dead." He spread his hands a foot-and-a-half apart. For a moment I visited the la la land every trout fisherman visits when somebody mentions foot-and-a-half long trout.

   "Why would they do that?" (Why would I ask that?)

   "I don’t fucking know! Goddamn motherfucking…"

   "That sucks." There was a pause as we both stared at the black minnow bodies on the styrofoam over the tanks.

As I was standing on the bridge looking down into the water I had heard a shot. I hadn’t thought much of it. When I had gotten 30 yards upstream I decided to lace up my rod and start fishing. Just as I stepped into some shallower water to do that, I heard another shot, from very close, and then another. It sounded like a small rifle, probably a .22. Whoever was shooting had no way of knowing I was down there so I decided I had best go announce myself.

   "You can be in the river," he said.

   "I think I’ll probably just take off."

Somehow, I turned my back to the guy and walked away. So much for the “peaceful, meditative sport.”