This gallery contains 22 photos.
Clearing off the memory card for the upcoming ROP stand, your author found these photos from the Lost Float of 2012 with Slint and Beastmaster: collateral damage on the afternoon of September the 16th.
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.
Boom, counted. Continue reading
Or, the transience of serendipity.
Winter, perilous with reflection, & c. … you remember. I woke up well before dawn today, a Saturday, the last day of 2011. I woke up because I was haunted by warmwater. Let the dog out, made a huge mug of black tea (Ceylon Vithakananda Estate in a Big Gulp), and sat down to continue remembering a dream that revisited one of the linchpin moments in my flyfishing life. Bear with me while I get all philosophickal and maudlin.
I won’t say where Smallmouth Alley is, not because I don’t want it spoiled by punters – except for on one storybook dreamtime day in August 2002, there’s fuckall there to be spoiled. The GPS coordinates are irrelevant because Smallmouth Alley isn’t a where, it’s a when.
But I digress. We must return to a time when transport was Slint’s (bless him and keep him, you remember) Troutmobile, a time of non-breathable bootfoot waders and Terminator X Fitovers and a borrowed club of a 5 weight.