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One of the things I love about trout fishing is how sometimes it’s better to be persistent than good. Continue reading
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.
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?
Oh, hey ladies! Don’t tell me I missed the mating flight … let me just get out of this shuck and then it is on. I’m going to rock your oviduct for the rest of your life, girl. Or 23 hours, whichever comes first. Shit! I’m stuck in this … hey! Don’t fly away! I’m just … twitching here … but I am totally gonna get all up on your cercii! Damn surface film. Well, I’m sure missing that subvaria orgy is the worst thing that will happen to me this afternoon …
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,
Flashback to the Nam:
Hackle dimples water – but,
Still in Babylon.