The DA wanted a new clean setting in the basement in which to tone the abs and clean the soul. Hence, in the stead of writing in this silly damn blog and ice fishing, I have been making dreams come true. Complete with new drywall, paint, wiring, plumbing, lights, tiling, trim and carpet, this will be an ab-toning soul-cleaning mecca.
I'm still working on moving the fly-tying table down but the DA doesn't think that feathers and fish are like yoga. I think feathers and fish totally blow yoga away because Gjod made them before yoga. Yin and yang, man. The fish is always biting at it's tail.
While getting into some trimwork at the basement stairwell, doing picky crap to make it look good and measuring down to a strong sixteenth, I got hit.
I knew I was fucked there from the word.
Now my life is nothing but:
drift rods and fly rods and what reel to put mono on and don't forget that you didn't score in the Kadunce falls hole with a nymph.
And that I never score there with a nymph.
And then you put eggs on and...oh jeses mortification.
And the hard hammer t-mos had on the freebase hare's ear in the deep water below the shale hole on the tism that late spring
The Cross River.
The Humpy Hole and the sticky, sweet deep drift. JEEEZ.
Just remembering all the King Salmon there were in that period sized spot.
How hard can I hump the DT this year?
I need to backpack up and camp on it for ten days. Nothing but a camera.
Should I shake up the Grude and have him show me the Split Rock secrets this year?
Mom has a house at Crow Creek. I'm going to check that out.
Finagle down to the mouth of the Manitou.
Sly down to the mouth of the Caribou.
Get my ass up to Canada, where I'll stop short and spent five days at the Brule.
More bait and wait with flies at the Poplar?
No more clay banks or Kimball for me.
Focus on BASS flies this year!
A horrible, mighty struggle.