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Primal Dance part 2:
For whatever reason, the universe continues to plop dying fish before me. They have fallen from the sky while I golfed; been handed to me by neighbor friends who’ve too many to fit in their fridge; and most recently, they have appeared in numbers at the river’s edge, spawned out and nearly lifeless like crashers at an all-night orgy.
On this day, she was showing me how to spot chanterelle mushrooms in the forest. A beautiful, capable woman who seemed more at home in the wilderness than most. I’d not found a single one yet, while her two pales were brimming. All I could do was pontificate about what a great river guide I was and how to read exactly where fish could be found in the currents.
It was then that she pointed out the flopping salmon in the shallows right in front of my feet.
I struggled still to notice, mumbling, “What, ah where are you looking, oh, yeah, well, sure, I see it, sure, look at ‘em.”
Then I actually saw it.
It was a little sad at first, seeing the poor guy, beat up and floundering. I even tried moving it out into the deeper currents in hopes that it might not suffer (in front of us) but then I thought, who said it was suffering?
Like most who’ve just had the orgasm of their life, you kinda just want to lay there in the wet spot and not be bothered with moving around much. This fish just got laid. What was there to feel bad about? Hell, on some dark level in the back of my mind I found myself envious of the little fornicator. I could picture him looking up at me and saying, “Hey Bub, if you’re just gonna stand there gawking, could you at least pass me a cigarette? (gurgle) Loser.”
I had to find some meaning in this. Are we as humans really the more evolved species? If so, why? Because we have opposable thumbs and eHarmony? What’s the point of our journey, our migration through the maze of choices and desires we all seem to have tempting us along the way? I’ve yet to find it I guess. Humans have no guarantee that we’ll ever hook up, procreate and or do a single thing worthwhile save for maybe dying in the process.
In my past attempts to migrate to a comfy spawning ground, I’ve been known to travel a thousand miles for mere coffee and conversation, hold the cream thank you.
But salmon run on instinct. They may not know who the mother of their children will be, but they know when they get where they’re going, they will go out with a bang; and their fishy essence won’t just go to waste on the carpet of some Super 8 in Winnemuca. This dude was not getting my sympathy, just my respect.