I don’t quite recall when I started hating the wind.
Maybe it was the time I got stuck for three days in a Northwest Territories outpost, watching the lake turn into a Jacuzzi while world-class northern pike, lake trout and grayling swam around out of reach.
It could have been any of several occasions when a sudden bluster blew a sensational insect hatch off the water. Or the day I watched dozens of pheasants flush like confetti in a prop wash, creating a sort of dark comedy among those of us who tried to get off a shot.
Certainly it carried over to a couple of weeks ago when a ground blizzard pounded an ice fishing attempt at Lake Granby.
Perhaps it came simply from finding my garbage can several hundred yards downhill after an hour of searching. Take your pick.
We’re not talking some minor annoyance here. This is true loathing, the sort of detestation that oozes from a deep offense from which there can be no recourse or retribution.
In case you haven’t noticed, this has been a bad year for wind and a good one for hate, which may go a long way toward explaining some of the weird things that pop up in the local news. Too much wind makes you crazy; people pinned down by extreme storms have been known to exhibit equally immoderate behavior, such as eating their companions and similarly unsocial acts.
Amid the maelstrom that has plagued us for weeks comes the reality of how much our best-laid plans depend on weather.
At some point in the near future, I’ll travel some distance to a swell fishing spot only to have wind, rain, hail, snow, sleet or maybe all five at the same time totally ruin things.
The impact of weather on almost every aspect of the outdoors remains a key element in our mental preparation, especially in a mountain environment where changes are sudden and severe. Depending on how far we’ve come and how much is invested, we either pack it in or soldier on.
Take that long-ago trip of dreams to the Canadian north, a place where the fish grow longer than your leg and, presumably, live in a perpetual state of advanced starvation. The notion was to come toward the end of the season, when pike had returned to the shallows, lake trout gathered on shoreline rubble to spawn and grayling performed their usual gymnastics in the rapids.
We had watched great herds of migrating caribou, marveled at the northern lights, caught a few lesser fish farther down the lake and now had taken a float plane to this outpost far to the north. Calling it a lodge might be stretching things – more like a big box where everyone ate and slept in the same place.
My friend and I got to enjoy one fabulous day before the molecules went into motion, no doubt the product of some invisible pressure system we could only guess at, lacking some TV type to draw circles on the wall.
To a fisherman, there is simply good pressure and bad pressure, with not much middle air. When someone finally figures out the secret to always arriving at the best fishing hole at the same time as the good stuff, he’ll make more money than a crooked CEO at bonus time.
At some point this summer, I’ll be stringing up my rod in some lovely place, surrounded by wonderful fish, when the wind will start to blow for no apparent reason. When the insects vanish and the trout all hunker down deep, I’ll remember all those lost opportunities that haunt my past. And curse the wind.
Listen to Charlie Meyers at 9 a.m. each Saturday on “The Fan Outdoors,” radio KKFN 950 AM. He can be reached at 303-820-1609 or cmeyers@denverpost.com.
