This gallery contains 22 photos.
Clearing off the memory card for the upcoming ROP stand, your author found these photos from the Lost Float of 2012 with Slint and Beastmaster: collateral damage on the afternoon of September the 16th.
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. Continue reading
In which your author continues his drifty-rowing apprenticeship, beers are mortgaged before the sun is over the trees and the Dark One proceeds to party, Storm Shadow appears and does St. Croix bujitsu on topper eaters for ten entire consecutive minutes of hot popwater action, and a rigorously halfassed beef jerky taste test proves conclusively that Jack Link’s Carne Seca is still the one to beat.
Good Friday to you, citizens.
There is much to love here: chartreuse stuff, a soundtrack not unlike what plays in my head whilst tying and fishing #24 tricos in gin clear water, sweet Squier bass, fugly folded over foam strip aesthetic, hot warmwater action (warm hotwater action?), a nice plain dark gray t-shirt, tying table in practice space, split screen program. Let’s all enjoy.
This iridescent pencil popper is what propels me. Break your back and crack your oars. Somewhere there’s a >20″ Microptera specimen that your author tussled with for a long time before the hook came loose at the boat and it took the googly doll eye with it, and from hell’s heart I stab at thee. On a brighter note: T-Can ringadings her first bronze power and Slint trick nets an otherwise LDR’d bass, eliciting fist pumps from the bow. Just nice be out, Moby Dickmunch.
All photos except “Squatto-12” courtesy of Slint. Arigato, Slint.
My rod hand hurts. Every aperture of integument clogged with greasy sweat and 70 degree dewpoints giving it nowhere to evaporate. This eutrophic urban fishery the color, clarity, and temperature of a nice bowl of miso soup.
Masquinonge? Qua? Ain’t seen one.
I busted off my lucky popper. I drank beer from the bottle and hurled long loops and stripped line like it was a job and rowed Squatto in circles under the landing pattern of Delta jets in purple Minneapolis dusk, the far shore blurry with haze. It was a sticky, humid, high summer evening. Bass were slurping, carp were jumping, the lake sang the body electric for a few minutes at dusk but nobody was playing eat the fly.
There’s a tribe for this, I know, but some of us are still in the desert. If you can’t beat them, eat the locusts.
Boom, counted. Continue reading