|Sure looks regal, eh? Has no bearing on this post.|
Christ, almighty I hate the four fucking weeks I have to endure "closed season" each year. Because, inevitably, it will contain awesome weather, time where I'm free, and...err, restrictions to the same two fucking miles on each stream segment as the rest of a fucking population of assholes.
Including super fucking self important internet nymphing superstars who will loudly splash into the stream less than 20' away from you, and just upstream of the pool that's frankly, filled with eager and happy fish under faster water so they're particularly stupid, that you were about to get into as soon as you went under the bridge (that's approximately 20' wide, if you see where I'm going here).
All the while shouting to his buddy how its is favourite spot to fish.
I won't mention the stories about watching you manhandle a fucking 12" fish for 3 minutes while your pal ran to teh car and got the camera, either. I suspect its douchebaggery such as this that has you out of the already douchey competitive fishing scene, eh, pro-spec?
|Fish. Giant's thumb for scale...|
I then proceded to swing 100 pounds of cane and fucking reel for four more hours with only turning a few fish, but not a single solitary to hand. None. Not one. By midday, I was hungry, tired, and my ass was cold and wet from the rip I tore in the ass of the waders when I slipped (I do that alot these days). My fucking shoulders were starting to ache from that monster rod I thought seemed like a novel, fun idea at 11am and I was growing dismayed as places I haven't seen in a year turned into a silted mess (I'll miss you, 2008-2011 sulphur hatch, may you move to a new spot I can find this year).
As I was leaving said silthole (and to think, I was looking forward calling it Lyme Hole this year), some guy wandered by and said they were rising like mad somewhere.
|Fish pron: All looks the same!|
|See! Same fish? No!|
Turns out an 70 year old 6wt can lay them quite gracefully. I'm banking on that "dry fly action," err, uh action... Seriously, though, it really only bends in teh top quarter. I guess people are right, bamboo can be tip fast.
On the way out, I dry droppered my ass back to the car and again caught only natives. Err wilds. Whatever. Don't care.
As one might figure out, I've still got a handful of Coachmen. Fuck. Spent the evening patch waders and eating Flexeril. How the fuck did our grandfathers use that shit all day?
And why do I have bags of red and blue strung "deceiver hackle?" WTF was I planning on?