Brutal and stupid

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 Thing

There’s freedom in the obliteration of 21st century wifi ego by a system of water: the utter loss of self duing a blizzard hatch or while working down your favorite run as the film goes quicksilver at the magic hour. The endless thudding heartbeats it takes to bring a good fish to hand. The gravityless grace-state of drift. But eventually the bugs stop, the pod is put down or the pool goes flat, daylight fails. You spool up and go home, back to regular life, back to Babylon (with maybe a vanilla malt in the intermezzo if you earned it). It’s temporary at best, and it’s also the point of entry for all the painful “fly fishing is an addiction, man” rhetoric because we keep seeking those moments in the resonant void.

As both Siddartha Gautama and Kris Kristofferson teach us, true freedom is only arrived at through non-attachment. But where does that ultimately leave a down-and-across dude?

There is no non-attachment for these punters. There is slack and there is mending and there is sink, but always a physical connection to the unseen, a stick to poke into the guessed-at and unknowable. Galileo’s telescope or a turn of the webby ahead of some silk to find what we desire and confirm what we suspect. Ahab’s harpoon or the sleechy sculpin muppet meat pushing water at the end of some chop-shop CCT, from hell’s heart I cast at thee.

I suggest we deal with it, friends. We’re on the wheel, Nirvana is from Seattle, and maybe we will be reincarnated as an osprey or a Burkheimer.

Re-org 2012

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