Monday, April 23, 2012
I’m home. I’m tired. I’m roadkill.
No. Not just roadkill. I’m south Texas salt flats roadkill. Sun-baked, mud-caked, wind-blown, sand-in-every-orifice, plastered-to-the-pavement, buzzard bait roadkill. My duffle (and probably my hide) smells like the back of the truck where the flats boots have been left to ferment each night. It ain’t pretty.
And I’m good with that.
So let me grab a nap and then I’ll catch you up. I’m no storyteller so I’ll simply give you some snippets, some images, some vignettes of our redfish excursion - the essence rather than the substance. The details are unimportant. It’s the impressions that come home with me, not the timeline.
It’s the moment that sticks.
Sticks like boots in the tidal mud. Sticks like red brisket to the pit of my stomach.
Sticks like roadkill to the steaming Texas pavement.