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| Photo by Chad Shmukler, Hatch Magazine. |
Sweat was beading up on my forehead as I tussled with the shoulder straps of my waders. Then the zipper. Then the goddamned wading belt. I uttered every iteration of the mother of all swear words, beginning it with the usual prefixes and ending it with all sorts of creative suffixes as I hurried to de-wader on the banks of Chile's pastoral Palena River.
I groaned in agony. My gut seized. As emergencies go, this was about as urgent as it gets on the river without life and limb at stake.
"Son of a ..." I swore. The waders finally fell to my ankles and I hurriedly dropped over the log.
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