It’s the second week of August, and there is nary a single trout fishing story gracing these pages to show for it. Some will inevitably consider such circumstances a sad state of affairs, which it is. And while I could use a choice excuse such as “the water’s too high” or “I’m too busy” or “the dog ate my homework”, that would be juvenile (and even more so, boring).
No, I have no explanation for my actions. I’ve woken by six nearly every weekend day this summer, only to watch the day fly by without wetting a line in the coldwater. A pathetic situation if I do say so myself, which I will. Somewhere between packing for the drive and checking the carp infested flows right out my doorstep, I’ve opted for trout only when it’s forced upon me (lack of aggressive prodding notwithstanding).
I could link back to days of old, re-spinning fishing lore in an attempt to portray a certain image. But I won’t. That’s called posing, and seeing as I’m vehemently opposed to wearing waders between May and September, a front page photo opportunity is completely out of question (although the author’s mug hedges that bet).
MG signing off (to imagine the summer isn’t nearly over, although it is)