Tales of Adventure.

I'm aware its the banner, now. But it won't be 

some day, now will it?

Every so often I wonder what the point of doing this nonsense is, until I'm relating some sort of rambling story to someone and I think, "oh, that's why."

See, I'm vain enough to figure someone finds it interesting. Probably because its not happening to them.

This is one of those stories.

I fished a section of local stream recently, and I fished it at its lowest possible section, the confluence with our big boy river, I'm on this wet fly thing, and so I'd swung my shit down and across 'til there was no more down to across.

Well, shit. I mean, I'm here, I might as well fish big river, right? It'd be a nice end to the day to pick up a smallie or something.

I look through my box, and the only streamer I have is a ratty old Mickey Finn. Fuck, make it worse, a super shitty job I bought from Walmart 7+ years ago when I first got started. But, y'know, run whatcha brung, and it was either that or a cast of size 14 wets.

So, tie it on and begin a few half hearted casts, being the stupidest thing I've tried to do all day thus far and aware that it was an exercise in futility.

I didn't just get a tug, I got a massive boil, and a the rod doubled down.

 I set the hook.

But, y'know, its my story so you know already its doomed to failure, and thus I missed the shit out of that fish.

At this point,  its time to go, but I figured why not try again, I'll swing it through the same spot once or twice, then fuck it, I'm out.

Nothing. Last cast syndrome. Again. Again. One more. Last one, no way I'm doing it again... Again. And it was the last cast, for real, I was even going to wind the line up on the reel.

And would you fucking believe there was a massive boil, the rod bent double and sure enough, it was go time.

It wasn't a bass, either, but one of the year's best browns. Fuck, I was barely even trying.

What if I tried? Holy shit. I'm gonna try....next week. I'm gonna fish the shit out of that run, I'm gonna fucking swing big ole chunky streamers, with weight and spun hair heads, and all sorts of awesome fish  catching shit, and fuck yeah, I'm gonna fucking be swimming in fucking awesome trout so I can say shit like, "buttery" and all those obnoxious words asshole blaggers fucking say about fish and shit. Fuck yeah, I'm gonna tie up the most awesomesauced fucking Mickey Finn, too, just in fucking case all the rest of this shit fails and fuck yeah!

So, the week passes by. I take the time to tie up all sorts of awesome fucking spun hair and lead fucking  weighted fucking streamers, and articulated fucking nonsense with flashy shit and marabouish shit for awesome swinging goodness and fuck yeah if I don't tie up this super sweet Mickey Finn just in case the rest of it fails and shit, shouldn't I start with that because obviously lightening does strike twice, you read that shit up there fuck yeah Seaking gonna fucking buttery trout the shit out of my fucking day, fuck yeah.

So I fucking suit up, and I saunter into the fucking zone, bypassing everything else, and I get ready to swing the fucking heartache and fucking count fish like some sort of dickbag fucking Fips Mush fucking competition fucking pro spec awesome dude, and I fucking get right up on the shelf and shit, so I can swing through the river and into the structure and its gonna be so fucking awesome flick flick shoot, swing retrieve, yeap any cast now, step shoot swing, lather rinse repeat.

Two minutes into this, and would you fucking believe this shit...my leg slipped off the shelf, right into the deep bit, and sure as my fuckng life sucks ass, I'm down, in and under the fuckign river.

Completely.

Fuck that river. Fuck the Mickey Finn. Fuck streamers. Fuck spun heads. Fuck anything articulated. Fuck me. Fuck you. Fuck all that shit. This is why I don't fucking break routine.

It was a long, cold, shit filled walk of shame back to the car.

I haven't returned.