First the horn. Then the finger. Oh, Interstate 10, you are a conflicted concrete soul. This truck ambles grandmotherly and the busy bees just can’t stand it. No matter, in a few hours I’ll be deep into the folds of a Louisiana marsh with no one for miles—just a canoe, a Mexican thunderbird blanket, a cooler, headlamp, firewood and a French press to join with a couple of fly rods and an unbridled penchant for wanderlust. It is Thanksgiving for the rest of the world. They’ll stuff themselves to the gills and settle into boob-tube comas. By nightfall, I’ll be serving up size 2/0 crabs on a bed of oysters.

I often daydream of redfish. Especially during long drives. What the hell do they do all day? I wish I knew. Lucinda Williams is coming on strong through the forlorn paper membranes of the dash speaker. She gets me there. Every time. After all, she was born in Lake Charles and certainly drove this same road. I’ve crossed the Texas border into Louisiana straight into legalized gambling terra firma. There are stacked hotels I can see from the side window, but it’s early morning yet and hangovers are being slept off. There are still a few hours to go, and this ain’t what I’m looking for. Not even close…

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