By Tammy Wilson
I only have one car. Technically, I’m not sure if it’s a car or a truck. It’s one of those SUV type models; only mine is small like a car. Either way, it stinks. Literally.
It’s the life of an angler. Always have a rod or two in the back of your car, available at a moment’s notice. One never knows when one might need to roll up the pants of their business suit and slip on some wading boots over their pantyhose and wade in after a school of fish on the side of US 1 on the way home. One never knows when a roadside retention pond just looks too fishy in the morning, and they need to take off their heels and throw on a pair of smelly tennis shoes to make a cast or two on the way in.
Like any angler, one also knows how rods and reels somehow multiply. About once every two weeks I have to empty the contents of my vehicle into the front yard and go through things. I’m usually trying to find the source of whatever malodorous and odiferous scent is percolating through the vehicle at that particular time, but mostly, it’s a regrouping. Seems I always start with just two or three rods and a little bit of tackle. But then I plan on a trip to the lake, and the freshwater stuff goes in. Next I’m going to the inlet and the big gear gets loaded.
Add in all of the gear for the canoe and/or kayak and there are days I feel like I should be on some cable television show about hoarding. I’m afraid to stick my hands under the seats. There are sharp things everywhere. Yesterday I noticed a fly had somehow become embedded in my purse.
Immediately after cleaning out the vehicle, I have a full load of laundry to do. Often times the smell emanates from some forgotten article of clothing that has been tossed into the back of the car after changing alongside the river. Last night as I took a load of car clothes out of the washer and went to toss them into the dryer, I realized I had also washed a container of scent (thankfully it did not bust open!), three packs of Daiichi hooks, a pack of Tommyhead jigs, a pack of split shot, four coins, a pair of pliers and a bag of soft plastic D.O.A. bodies. I hope the fish don’t mind my Gain clean scented paddletails next week.
Every now and then, a passenger needs to ride in my car. On good days, the passenger is also an angler and has a slight understanding of the mess and knows better than to put their hands anywhere a giant jig head might be waiting to embed itself into some poor unsuspecting hand. My mother just shakes her head when I have to take her somewhere. My father sits in the back seat, moves the stake out pole for the kayak out of the way, wipes the dirt and sand off the seat and says nothing. They are kind souls that way. Others open the door and suddenly decide that a life of fitness and walking better suits them. Oh well.