The
cravings have begun. The hunger strikes in a slow draining throb. An emptiness that beacons in the lack of
sustenance, growling pains resonate from the inside. My stomach turns and
sloshes around searching for any crumbs that might have been lingering in the corners;
its urge to consume feels like a fat greedy mouth trying to eats its own tong,
slowly devouring itself. My arms grow tired in the constant plow of the wake,
my hands shake like an alcoholic separated from his drink, but I’m a man separated
from his appetite. Hunger, a beautiful thing, a time when the body manipulates
the mind, eat, drink, consume, fill me, make me swell, give me sustenance. The
urge becomes too heavy and discipline is loosely enforced, I reach into my deck
bag and eat six small chocolate bars and empty a zip lock bag of trail mix down
my throat like it was water. All my snacks and mid-morning energy boosts for
the next week gone in a matter of seconds but I don’t care. I picture myself with
wild ravenous eyes desperate to eat, to kill, to consume. My breath is unsteady
as I think about what I can eat next, I’m so hungry I could eat cow shit if I there
was a certainty that the cattle had rummaged the corn paddock. But this feeling is familiar, this hunger, it’s
just a trick the stomach plays in its role to ensure longevity of life. I need
to break the mold of the modern day overdose of salt, sugar, and carbohydrates. 
The
longer I’m out here, the more my hunger grows, the more my ribs begin to
surface, the more my instincts thrive to provide. Only the strong and smart survive
in the wild, weak and carelessness leads only to premature celebrations and wasteful
energy use. It’s been twenty four days now, not a single bite on the ever so penitently
waiting hook and line, however as my need to provide grows more desperate, my
efforts become refined from a fishing hobby to a necessity to fill the void.
Hooks are staggered further apart, alternative sources of bait are tried, think
like a fish, I wouldn’t eat a sparkly piece of rubber but perhaps the saturating
fragrance of mozzarella cheese offers just enough curiosity for a nibble. BAM! A
snap of the reel cracks the trickling sound of the river, hands grasped tightly
around the grip of the rod as my eyes eagerly study the bend trying to predict
the size of the first fish to sacrifice itself to my dinner plate. Il admit my enthusiasm
wasn’t exactly subdued as for three weeks of patients deserve a slight amount
of celebration.
Once as
a young boy in a park, I threw a french fry to an eager bird pacing at a safe
distance. To my amusement the bird didn’t eat the fry but dropped it in the
water where he sat poached on a rock. Predictably a fish, not so cunning, fell
for the trap and delivered a plentiful meal for the bird with enough left over to
feed his relatives. Clever bird I always thought. A small sacrifice always
offers a greater reward. As part of daily refining techniques, I’ve acquired as
the Australians call it “an opera house” which is a mesh and steel trap for
bottom dwelling creatures. A small sacrifice of salami brings in a plentiful
pot full of shrimp, a tempting feed, but the sacrifice continues again using
the shrimp to catch the trophy fish, I gut the big fish caught by the shrimp
and put it all into the opera house to bring in the delicacy of the river… the
fresh water crayfish. 
To be strong and clever, its what’s required to survive in
the wild.
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