fishbeer

Oct 11 2009 7:34 pm

the calories in my stick of butter

There’s the bridge.  Looks like I’m going to get skunked on smallmouth two trips in a row.  Not feeling very good right now, not very good at all.  Kind of down in the dumps with all this skunking.  Sure, wiper can help, long casts and lunatic runs, but the flick and probe and strip and rip of creek smallmouth fishing is my daily constitutional, the wind beneath my wings, the calories in my stick of butter. 


It’s all skinny water here.  Sandy.  This log is the last hope.  In fact, this dark seam that runs along it for about three feet is the last hope.  Right below the bridge I’m sure it gets pounded all the goddamn time.  Fuck it.  I’m going to engage in some earnest hoping and even attempt to deceive myself into believing that it can happen. 


I’ll put a cast back in the branches here, la tee da, not paying attention to the seam, one more, ignoring you seam, ignoring ignoring.  Very nonchalantly now, one false cast, two false cast, plunk up against the log, pause, good cast, strip strip.  Holy shit. 


Troy swung over into my neck of the woods on his way to fish steelhead up in Michigan.  While it was a beautiful, crisp fall day and hanging out with Troy is always a good time, the smallmouth fishing sucked.

 

Until the end.   

 

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