Three hundred sixty five. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. And then?

This post is gratuitous  and pointless. Deal. Its my shit, I can make these whenever I feel like it.

The thing is, I can't be assed to take fish pictures. Oh, sure, I tried today. I figured I'd go out and make this momentous sort of gesture in a return to proper fishing, since I'm tired of life kicking my ass around for the last six months.

So, the plan was to do this big presentation all sorts of wonderful visuals of stream life, still life, grab a picture of my first post-cancer troot and be all awesome.

Nope. Never bothered. Honestly, I don't fucking care.

Not that I catch many giant fish, lots of pretty wild ones, sure, but not giant. Still, its not a size thing, lack of them thing, or inability thing, its well... Somehow, I feel that its proper to put them back in the water as quickly as possible after I've jammed a steel hook through their face, drug them through the water, hoisted them out to drown in air as I rip the hook out..a picture, well, it just seems gratituous, no?

So no fish pictures. Fuck, no pictures of anything except a tired one of the shit I dropped on the hood of my trucklet when I was done.

But, whatever. I had a good time. I fished a ninety-six year old Hardy 8' Fairy rod (Hemingway's preferred tool, from what I'm lead to understand) and a seventy-six year old Pflueger 1496 reel swinging leadwing coachmen across-and-down.  One hundred sixty-nine years of accumulated fishing mojo in my hand, and a one hundred ninety-six year old fly pattern still worked well enough to take enough fish to keep me amused for the first time I went proper trout fishing since Father's Day.

What's old is new again.

It was nice to be back.

Alas, my waders leak. Goddamnit.