Last night I went to the Frying Pan river in my sleep, a mile high and unconscious, casting hand twitching, legs jerking as I stepped off the bank into something deeper than I thought.
The Frying Pan in my dream had tannic northwoods water and balsam firs and graffiti on a railroad bridge that cast aspersions on the entire town of Spooner, WI.
Slint was there, and Beastmaster, and in diffuse cloudy light a pod of western fish working the pool in the slow wake of the trestles of the old rusty Spooner Blows bridge. Slate winged Baetis rode the film and died in trout maws. Standing hip deep in their water I put a dun and a cripple dropper on a rod that hasn’t touched Rockies water since I became a father. They took the dun.
Every one was an aerial wild rainbow, except for the ones that were pink gilled cutthroats flashing weirdly gold in the Namekagon-colored river.
Offseason Haiku #3
I know why the dormant
trout sings: it’s Maya Angelou,
It’s that time again. Crap must be reorganized. All that is old shall be made new, or at least all the old shall be made to be put in new Akro-bins from my new favorite store. On the docket: reorg the warmwater materials storage, reorg and restock the early season-slash-go-anywhere trout box, inventory tippet, clean some lines, lube some reels, wax some ferrules. And what’d be smart is to get a head start on tying for the spring stands on the ROP. And prototype some warmwater monstrosities.
Ah, what’s the point … we’re all going to die. Continue reading
I am not a prayerful man, and this is not in Polish, but as we turn our eyes thaw-ward to Spawn 2012 and the bounty promised unto us therein, please take the life choices illustrated below under advisement: Continue reading
Insomnia struck. I extracted a book from the shelf in the dark, crept downstairs, turned on a lamp. Came across this passage past midnight on couch:
“He is plucky, game, brave, and, when hooked, unyielding to the last. He has the arrowy rush and vigor of a trout, the untiring strength and bold leap of a salmon, while he has a system of fighting tactics peculiarly his own. I consider him inch for inch and pound for pound, the gamest fish that swims.”
– Dr. James A. Henshall, Book of the Black Bass, 1881
And Book of the Black Bass is my new band name, so step off.