It’s the middle of the day, sunny, 108 degrees, and I’m all alone at this lovely public pond. As I approach this palm-ringed water some sort of giant grey heron flaps from pre-history across my view.
This pond is fed by a canal – wide enough and deep enough for good fish – from upstream towards the nearby Arizona Historical Society. The landscape here is as natural as it was a long, long time ago.
Scrawny plants hug the ground and display what look like white flowers until I get close and see that they are merely ghost-pale leaves. I pick one, crush it, and smell it. That’s the thing about the desert southwest – all the ground plants smell like cookouts.
A bush as tall and twice as wide as I am displays crimson flowers the size of gardenias and pretty enough for a senorita’s hair. The ground crunches like grapenuts under my plastic crocks which feel as if they are ready to melt. Purple violets grow along the shore of the canal.
I fish patiently with a Senko, dropping it into the shade of overhangs and laydowns. Obvious bass areas, but no bites.
Occasionally I see a silver-dollar-size hole in the desert; I don’t know what creature inhabits those. Even the lizards are absent in today’s heat. I see only one – a gray slow-mover.
There is a huge fish tailing the shallows across the canal. It is the first of two dozen Asian carp that I see in this water.
I watch where I step. This has to be scorpion country. Or rattlesnake! I don’t know what I’m talking about, but I continue to watch my step. Delicious clouds begin to appear in the distance. This is monsoon season and perhaps later they will bunch up and drop a load. A drop of water hits my arm. Then another. Forehead perspiration. It doesn’t take long . . .
I scour the ground for gold as I walk and kick among the sand and rock. This must have been what it looked like to other-century prospectors.
I keep trying the Senko in great spots, but no bites at all. A dove occasionally dodges low among these palms that I see are loaded with acorn-size green fruit. I squeeze into one and taste it – slightly bitter. I pick pieces of a variety of crinkly-dry ground vegetation and smell them – all worthy of grilled veggie kabobs.
A large mangy dog that looks exactly like Cujo appears in the distance and gets closer and runs the opposite shore. No companion. Apparently no owner. He disappears. Then suddenly he appears on my side of the lake a hundred yards away running in my direction without seeing me. I stiffen my hold on my fishing rod-weapon and stand motionless next to a palm trunk. At 20 feet – still at full gate – the dog sees me and is startled. He pauses and barks a low growl. My heart quickens, but he moves on – cautiously, his head turning back in vigilance. He becomes smaller and my last sighting is of him running a distant hill – still in 108-degree sunshine.
After an hour I switch from the fat Senko to a skinny Robo Worm and catch a 10-inch bass on my first cast. I am of course encouraged, but nothing else bites – even on other lures I try before I leave.
This pond is in the landing approach for Phoenix’s Skyport airport, and there is a constant flow of overhead traffic – all of it beautiful. In this smog-free, clear-air city (they tell me the winds are responsible) the often beautifully-hued airplanes are angelic.
The ground air is alive with the high-pitched buzz of crickets or locusts or some sort of insects, and with the yapping and squawking of birds not familiar back east. One squeaks like a pet’s squeeze toy. I do recognize a flock of 20 starlings and a solitary scraggly grackle.
A multi-trunk bush with stringy green leaves supports seed pods that look like dozen-pearl strands of brown M&Ms. I bite into one for the taste: a yummy and smoky flavor.
The winds pick up and the clouds darken and I see rain falling five miles away towards the mountains. I depart having caught just the one small fish.
Photo: John Bryan (me) at Canal Park Pond in Phoenix
