Not a drop of whiskey was spilled during the production of this fishing report

Winds in excess of 35 mph battered the motel room window – we woke having consumed barely an hour’s sleep each as a result. The weatherman declared the speed of the moving air would subside instantly after 9am. The optimistic one reminded the crew that the suffering would soon end. Swung weighted flies across from a slate wall barrier until 10:15, and while marching to open ground thereafter the breeze hit a solid fifty and stayed that way. Worse, it was now coming from all directions, simultaneously. Draw a circle? Lay down a “D”? Lob a poke? It didn’t matter – by lunch countless flies had hit the back of the head. The tally was one grab.

Moving upstream didn’t help matters – the banks were crowded under the same guise – and before the sun had even shown intentions of setting we were charging towards less stressful circumstances. Still wadered up from the ride, we picked up a meager supply of fish before dark, thoughts of pizza, booze, and bedding consuming us (and soon visa versa) thereafter. A dessert is discovered, bellies are filled, and whiskey (which is purchased in quantity because of county tax differentials) is taken down in moderation pending concoction of some arbitrage play. Still, couldn’t stop thinking about the potential efficacy of swinging Cap-Lures.

There was no change in plan for the second day, except for putting the Dirtbag Complaint Prevention Team to work. One of the crew had waders so leaky they were dumping water out of each leg during lunch. Approximately four cups of water. Per leg, so we forced him to buy new ones. Bum rushed a local shop hand – acted like full-on poseurs, dropping important names and mocking others. Got The Wet One a solid discount off MSRP. We left jubilant over our successful manipulation, but Soaked refused to can the oldies, stating they had served him for time immemorial and must be kept as backups. This decision would haunt us throughout the day.

Empty handed long after lunch, we [once again] move to a new run. JZ, a relative newcomer to the endeavor, strides down the bank and flops a cast in water the rest wouldn’t consider for a nano-second. The line draws tight. Previously referred to as Wet Behind The Knees believes JZ has tail-hooked a fat trout. Ten minutes pass; I keep peering over at the hullabaloo, until the fish is lifted off the bank. I see brownish-gold glittering from fifty yards out, drop my rig, and sprint across slick rock while fumbling for the camera stowed in my pack.

Ok, so maybe Mr. Eight Cups still should have disposed of the spaghetti strainers, but at least it was a mirror. JZ was beside himself, after we deviously expounded upon the rarity of mirror carp. Especially in trout tailwaters. In mid-November, so he offered to spring for dinner. At which point the rest of us ordered the most expensive items on the menu, and repeatedly waved down the server as though directing jumbo-jet traffic from a busy tarmac. Need another drink, ma’am.

Departure morning meant a fresh venue. Full floaters were assembled. One lucky soul brought an RLC (“respectably large cuttie” in layman’s terms) to hand on cast number two. We hooked egg-thieving, baetis-gulping rainbow trout one after the other until the breakfast burritos (handmade, as they should be, by JZ’s darling wife), wrapped in foil and strategically wedged under the hood against the hot radiator, began calling our names.

NFL Sunday Ticket was streamed via iPhone during the entire trip home. If the rear seat passenger had something to hold onto during the return, he would have been white-knuckled most of the way. The driver has big money in play on fantasy football, meaning he paid less that adequate attention during frequent semi-truck passings.

Thankfully we left those leaky waders in another state.

MG signing off (reminded once again why I rarely fish alone – it’s simply much more fun)