Cutbank

A Good Bar in the Driftless Region and other Meals

Disheveled camp table: mostly spent, overly warm and grit-encrusted, with just a hint of recklessness.
“After three days of fruitlessly chasing tiger musky in eastern Washington state, our camp table presented a perfect summation: disheveled, mostly spent, overly warm and grit-encrusted, with just a hint of recklessness.” Photo: Alex Collier
Words: Wilson Greene IV

6:05 a.m. Bahía de Mujeres, Mexico

Last night’s ferry was crowded. A lone guitarist sang Eagles covers on the top deck for glassy-eyed tourists while locals sat with their groceries, ready to be home. The early crossing is nearly empty now, down to a few commuting construction guys and me in the corner, half asleep. I try to think about tarpon, the leaders I tied, and EP flies, but the sounds coming from my stomach are troubling. I skipped breakfast. I used tap water in the hotel Keurig. I’m dancing with the devil.

Beyond the rows of plastic seats, near the ferry’s stern, is an empty, unmanned bar with a carousel of chips. I debate whether salted corn will improve my situation. Weighing hunger against an inevitable need for relief, I abstain and hope for the best. Twenty minutes to the Cancún terminal and another 30 to the panga is a long time to wait for food and a restroom. But I’m a praying man.

Early morning fishing tends to wreak havoc on routine. Exhaustion and adrenaline become strange bedfellows, affecting both body and mind. The pre-dawn drive, hike or skiff run are always a blur—I’m completely delighted and I feel like complete shit. It’s no better (or worse) in a foreign country.

The ferry arrives on time and Bernardo scoops me at the terminal. We peel off, eventually turning down a dirt road toward Isla Blanca and its sábalitos. He hands me a banana and a pastry; he assures me there is a bathroom along the way. Bernardo is Savior, Guide of all Guides, High Priest of Hospitality. I am overjoyed. Today will be a good day.

Back to Issue 17.3