Let me know how it goes, Falsifly! I loved the early-season fishing there when I had the chance.
Gee thanks Jason,
You have forced me into a rather precarious situation, that being a response. I feel like a Kodiak Brown backed into a corner, from which I will try to extricate myself with the ferocity of same. The delay of my responce is due to the fact that I have been pondering my reply for the last two days. At first I thought I would say that I slayed them, but I figured I would be branded the biggest BSer on this site. Next I considered saying that I did OK and caught a few, a dubious response to say the least. It was then that I started to examine my personal integrity. No, I was not about to trap myself into a tangled and deceitful web of the common trout fishers fallacious bragging, or even leave the door open to the possibility of truth shrouded in question. The fact is, I never caught a fish. Now, before you (all of you) the judge and jury pass sentence on my fishing acumen, please allow me to present mitigating circumstances in defense of my credibility. The following story I swear is the truth the whole truth and nothing but the truth so help me God.
Saturday night was met with the most sincere intension of fishing Sunday. As is habit on Saturday nights I departed home at 5:00 PM for my favorite supper club the Chippewa Inn. A night spent conversing with Tom the owner and a myriad of frequent patrons, centered around the indulging ingestion of the once prohibited kind. As I walked in and took my seat, yes I do have my own seat, I was met with a most pleasant surprise. There at the bar waiting for me was, can you guess? Yes my fly tying buddy Jack. I think some of you may have heard of him. I hadn’t seen Jack in quite a while. As mentioned earlier in this discussion I had just returned from New Mexico, a trip in which Jack was not invited. I do take my fly fishing seriously. Well, the last thing I remember was pulling into the drive and the atomic synchronized clock in the Tahoe displaying 2:30. Time does fly when you are having fun. And no Jack wasn’t with me I left him wasted at the bar. I awoke Sunday morning bright and early, I think it was 10:30. I figured there was no rush, early season fishing doesn’t turn on until mid day. I took a quick look outside and found the sky overcast with the threatening look of snow or rain or a mix of both. I eyed the outside thermometer closing one eye for a more accurate read and saw the mercury descending from an already cold 35 degrees. At this point I opted for a return to the horizontal position to ponder my foggy mental dilemma. The recent trip to the San Juan started as a pin prick in my memory and expanded to orgasmic proportion. The beautiful cloudless days. The temperatures in the 60s. The preponderance of prolific and predictable Diptera hatches of the diminutive size. The huge artistically painted Rainbows stretching the limits of the backing and leaping to create a prismatic aerial display synonymous with its name. The number 26 black midge imitation firmly secured in the corner of that cavernous mouth, the fly almost invisible to the naked eye, the same fly I tied the previous night. The fish that zoomed past me at lightning speed within inches of my leg as I lifted the rod and spun around to maintain control only to wrap the fly line around my neck.
As I succumbed to consciousness drifting slowly from my watery dream a nascent thought took hold. Why ruin a perfect day? No Jason, not only did I not
catch a fish, I didn’t even go
fishing. So you be the judge, affix to may name anything that you deem appropriate. I will take solace in the last thing That Jack said to me. There is always tomorrow.