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.  Continue reading

Hella Bronze 2: the Rebronzening

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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.

Hella bronze

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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 first video

It is what it is … home movies, mea punter culpa. Shot on a Flip, edited in YouTube, and I’ve learned some things: bluegrass abounds in fly fishing videos because it’s about the best and most simpatico option offered in the YT video editor; the clips of rising fish look better when watched on a large player; midges can be bidges; and the Dark One looks so good walking away in Simms it’s almost a shame he’s ever coming back.

MZA’s 116th Dream, plus Offseason Haiku #3

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,
dumbasses. Amen.