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
ISO: Brutal and stupid, teeth a plus. Must like hot weather. You – not leader shy. Me – high on glue. Let’s get together.
Hola, amigos. How’s your pecker? Been a long time since I rapped atcha, but I come to you at the turn of the tide, sitting in shorts and bare feet, the weather warming and the season open, the color of my beer gone, since my last dispatch, from dark to yella, and Squatto back from Drifty Valhalla.
Which, turns out, is in Stearns County.
And then an observation: trout tying, with its soaked biots and #19 wide-gape barbless so and so’s … a companion to fine single malts. Warmwater tying, I am rediscovering tonight, is a prepubescent throwback to model airplane glue. Shit be all Zap-a-Gap and nail polish up in this silent sport.
The punter evening shift was hiking down as the the punter day shift – the Dark One and your author – were hiking up. Their waders were all dry and did not have goose shit on them. Their hands did not smell like fish slime and beef jerky, and were not coated with the earthly residue of mashed-up midge larvae or mayflies squished on the wing.
“Get any?” the evening shift asked.
“Nymphs or dries?”
Ninja, please. Do you see any Thingamabobbers?