April 7, 2001 "...I am already living in the next year, wondering where I need to go that I didn't get to often enough that year. Maps of the underwater structure of dozens of holes are still fresh in my mind, burned there when the sun was shining and my neck was red. I know where underwater structure is, like I know the furniture in my own living room. I know the rock that will always nab a lure unless you pull up at just the right instant. I know where the rocks are that will always have slack water behind them and how to get an eighth-ounce setup to drift the current so perfectly that it slides into the pocket like it has a mind and a purpose. Everything about my favorite holes is recorded on an endless loop of memory that plays over and over as the snow falls and ice builds up on my wheelchair ramp. Still, though, I have to visit these spots through the winter, as if I am afraid that maybe they won't be there when I need them in the spring. They stay there, of course, but little things change as banks get scoured or piled up with silt and logs. I feel as if I need to know these evolutions as badly as I need to know the latest test results that the doctor-in-the-city has ordered."
I read the above piece from a journal, a personal journal written by a man named Scott who suffers from a disease unknown by most of us. Unknown by most doctors even. I was in awe at the words I read; the beauty in the flow of the words. My emotions and curiosity stirred. I wanted to know more about the man who had written it. No doubt there was a story to tell. I returned to his journal.
April 8, 2001 "...The first trip of the year is a monumental reassurance for the winter weary
psyche. Yes, spring has come and with it the end to dreary winter days and the promise of big, fat fish. A quick look through the rods and I decide on the little ultralight, spun up with 4 lb extra limp monofilament with its characteristic translucent blue tint. It's too early yet to catch the big fish, so the little pole will serve in its role admirably. A quick check through the small double-sided Plano tackle box and fanny pack full of gear to make sure everything is in order while trying to decide where to fish. I know I'll have luck this year because I went to the Conservation Department regional headquarters and bought my license direct from the source. A scrap of paper with the power to attract fish from all the crooks and crannies of the river. I check to make sure it's in its small waterproof bag that once held size 8 hooks. All is well in the world."
"All is well in the world." Is it really? This guy Scott thinks so. Maybe he looks at the world differently than I do. Maybe he is seeing something I am 
not. Did I miss something? Scott's website is titled, "A Disabled Fisherman". I have found it while doing research for another story. His journal is what caught my attention and I couldn't quit reading it.
April 8, 2001 "The truck is waiting. It has waited all winter, suffering the missed fishing with me. It knows it was picked out of the lot of trucks because it had the right stuff for fishing forays. Nothing fancy, just what's necessary to get there and back. Power windows don't catch fish. Floor mats depicting a bass leaping at a lure are what catch fish and the truck is proud to have them lying on its floor. Johnny Cash tapes catch fish and the truck has several along with a Kid Rock tape it likes to play at high volume. There's nothing to do to ready the truck; it has been ready for months, anxious to get dusty or muddy in the pursuit of the elusive 4 lb. smallmouth. It's just been waiting for the right warm front to come through and it has known for days
now that I will have to fish or slowly go crazy."
I smile as I read Scott's journal. I understand the statement about going crazy. I have those days when I feel it is absolutely necessary to fish. It's not a desire. It's a must; a "have to" feeling. One that has to be fed and nourished or you find yourself irritable and distraught, like craving chocolate. You yearn for the feel of the water swirling around your legs, the sound of the water on the falls, and the tug of the fish on your line. Scott has enjoyed fishing as an "able-bodied" fisherman and a "disabled" fisherman". No doubt, it's one of the few enjoyments he has refused to give up. Not yet.
April 8, 2001, cont. "...Today, the water is flowing fast and strong, up at least a foot from its normal summer level. On 
the upstream side is a huge piece of tree that has lodged itself between the concrete bridge and the shore. The water is rushing into the downstream pool, probably carving it a little deeper and wider, which will be fine for the summer. Now, though, there is too much water, going too fast for easy fishing, so I try the upstream side in the lee of the big log. I count and it is my fifth cast when I catch the first stick of the season. I switch to the downstream side and catch my first fish, ten casts later. Fish is a generous term. Usually I would refer to it as bait, but it fights hard, abetted by the swift current. Still, it is a fish, so the trip has been successful."
I've caught my share of those "stick fish". I've even caught a few rocks and swore each time I had a keeper only to be disappointed and laughed at by my children for being so silly. I just call it being determined! Sometimes "going fishing" doesn't mean having to catch a fish, though it sure helps your self-esteem. Sometimes just the sheer pleasure of casting you line and watching the children struggling with their bait is enough, spending some quality time with the family and special friends. I already consider Scott my friend. Scott is in his thirties, lives in Missouri and was diagnosed with a disabling neurological condition at the age of fourteen. The first time I spoke with Scott was by email. I had written him after stumbling across his journal on the internet. It was the first of many emails between us.
"Now, it's obvious that I'm disabled... They describe it as idiopathic small fiber sensory polyneuropathy with a gait disorder. What that means is that my small nerves, the ones that branch off the large nerves and make up most of the nerve system, are dying and they don't know why. It's not super uncommon - a few million folks in the US have it to some degree, though most, thankfully, do not have it as severe as I do or have their entire body involved. There are others who are worse than I am. To give you an idea of how it affects me, I walk using a cane all the time, a walker frequently, and use a wheelchair quite often. I get intense pain, but have greatly diminished feeling from external sources. If I'm around a BBQ or fireworks, people have to tell me if my shirt catches fire cause I can't feel it. Right now I can't even sit up straight due to the spasms ...Women who have this say the pain can be equivalent to having a child..."
I wanted to get to know this man better. I wanted to meet him, understand him, know better what it was like to be "him". But more than anything, I wanted to know what drove this man to NOT give up his favorite pastime despite the pain and discomfort he apparently suffered daily.
"... tonight I went fishing. I went out for about 2 hours, never more than 150 feet from my truck or 50 feet from a road, cell phone in my pocket. My whole body is having spasms, my hands are so cramped that typing this is extremely, extremely difficult. If I hold up my right hand, it looks like I am still holding my rod. I can't sit or stand up straight, it's hard to breathe, and I doubt I will be able to sleep tonight. I just barely got my boots off when I got home and it took me 30 minutes to take a shower while sitting in my shower chair. I couldn't feel the water hitting me... I won't be able to eat tonight because the spasms affect my digestive tract too. The last dosage of meds I took is roughly 4 times what you would get if you were in a serious car wreck or if you had a bone sticking out of your leg. This is normal for when I go fishing and I still do it, so no reason to feel sorry for me. I'll do it again and again and again..."
In a disabled article I wrote several years ago, I stated that too often people in wheelchairs find it easier to stay home and talk about hunting and the outdoors, rather than venturing out in a wheelchair. This can't be said of Scott. He's a fighter, a survivor, a hero of sorts. He's a true fisherman. Scott tells me that he would like to trout fish. It's fall. Summer is gone and Scott will soon no longer be able to get out and fish. I have sent him an invite to go trout fishing with me on the Spring River in Arkansas. He has accepted.
May 31, 2001 "This year, I've been pushing myself extra hard, wondering if I will have another year..."
