a farewell to farms

The smell of freshly-spread hog manure on ochre September fields was heavy in the air on the banks of the Big Muddy, but the biggest farmer stood in the bow on what was probably Squatto’s 2012 smallmouth float swan song, and that farmer is blogging before you now. 

The river: bony and clear. The fish: prowling but inconstant and streaky. The takes: short and nippy. Slint (because of owning an ancient Sumerian artifact sought for by Nazi scientists?) assumes the slimy mantle of Pikemaster, the Dark One falls asleep yet still hooks and lands a nice specimen (because he’s a Sumerian artifact?), and, after missing a grab bag of topper bites and performing a couple long-distance releases on the basses, your author couldn’t even foul hook a slurping carp or take a decent picture of the full moon rising over Anoka.

Just nice be out, we tell ourselves. Ah well – it’s October and next up is steelbowtrouts, so the action can only get steadier and faster … right?

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