I spent a the good part of two hours last night over at Jason Klass’ Tenkara Talk, familiarizing myself with products, reviews, revelations and insights–the stuff that makes it a fantastic resource for all. I did this because I’d simply like to avoid sloshing through the exact same rhetorical reds, poetic pocket water, and syntax spawning grounds already covered by others, and at least prefer to put my own spin on these matters if I do.
I’ve already noticed that Tenkara has been attractive enough to many (and really, to seemingly all with the wherewithal to write about it publicly-me notwithstanding) to completely take them out of the “reel and line” category for good. And I’ve already expressed my doubts that I will ever fit that category–BUT–I will admit that it will be the “purists” from which I glean the most.
I must also admit that I do find the exclusive and sometimes monochromatic devotion to a single Kebari fly the most amazing. I can’t begrudge the results (even the great Davie McPhail acknowledges some 300-plus years of success while tying up this nice rendition). I just will not ever be able to keep myself from seining the river and streams in divers places, looking for aquatic insects and trying to hack out a new simulacrum now and then. That said, I’ve already tied my first two traditional flies, and have to admit I’ve had fun doing so. Something tells me these flies’ success isn’t apocryphal. Hopefully, I don’t invoke the biblical leviathan and lose my rod to some sort of Icthyan collective consciousness in the process when I actually fish them.
Be it Tenkara or reel, Tigris or Euphrates, Jew or Greek, I’m good. But even I have bald parameters of which I would just a soon be water-boarded before violating; strict doctrinal stands upon which my life at the gallows pole would have to be relinquished before they would be surrendered; A grand devotion to a worldview deserving of landmarks, touchstones, and heirlooms replete with oral tradition.
I am talking about my obligatory purchase of an ex post facto Carl’s Jr. Superstar with Cheese combo with an onion ring enhancement.
I’m not sure what it is. I could flail away an entire afternoon on the water with nothing in my stomach. Hand me a Big Mac on the way out. It’ll go right in the round file. Same goes for Soft Taco Supremes, Whoppers, and any other corporately-famous meal just as bad for me in all ways. I once found myself nearly led astray into the culinarily adulterous waters sailed by the In-N-Out Double-Double (animal Style), but I fled the temptation forthwith. And that is because my delirium tremens will only be assuaged by that sinful, weeping-wound-looking composite of fat, calories, high fructose corn syrup, aspartame, and perhaps half a gallon of coagulated Crisco oil.
Oh, and this must all be eaten in my 1992 Jeep Cherokee Laredo with multiple holes in the muffler. My radio compromised from a theft in 2005, I can hear the refrains of a local Christian radio station, mostly timed to hear a man named Ravi Zachariahs speak.
That first bite . . . I simply cannot describe the sort of synaptic catharsis that takes place. All I know is, anyone that walks up to my car at that perfect storm of delirium will have a choice to make: get the smelling salts, or yell for a defibrillator.
Two bites in, and I need to wash it down with that Coke Classic/syrup marriage from a cup as large as a Midwestern grain silo.
Yet, none of this is complete without the extra-charge onion-ring side replacement. Processed though they may be, their disparate sizes at least convince me that they are legitimately cut from an actual onion (courtesy of the Monsanto Seed Division’s Genetic Tomfoolery and Sterilization Co-op).
What isn’t processed, however, is the stygian, earth’s-core temperature the inner-onion contains when it pulls out of the crusty, deep-fried outer shell and slaps my face like a barber’s strap. The meal isn’t complete without facial scarring reminiscent of Heath Ledger’s Joker.
But this IS my Kebari. Capillaric catharses, occluded arteries, Mephistophelean temperature encounters, skin grafts, and a sense that the circular sense of meaning in regards to time on the water is complete.
Oh, and catching a few fish is kind of cool, as well.