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.

lost tribe

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.

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.

MZA’s 115th Dream, plus Offseason Haiku #2

I dreamed I saw St. Smallmouth. All night on the bow casting deck of Squatto I hucked the magical popper, watched it disappear in a toilet bowl of Smithwick’s-colored river water, realized the jolting weight of the fighter, the elation and the work.

When I woke up it was still frozen December, so I went window shopping for muskie rods with Beastmaster. Just nice be out.

offseason haiku #2
Cabela’s will have
A Legend Ultra ten weight
In Bargain Cave, right?