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Michael Gracie

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

Cap-Lures - The Future of Fly-Fishing

The Future of Fly-Fishing (click)

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.

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Why I didn’t die from blogging this last Sunday

I was shooting for a leg amputation instead

The New York Times called for the death of blogging, or maybe that’s death from it. No need to link to it – the echo chamber takes care of all your referencing needs.

While folks throughout the world were keeling over on their keyboards, I was out on a river Sunday. We had sun for about ten seconds, and snow flurries for the other seven hours. The water’s edge was icy, and the water itself was roughly one degree warmer. I made the mistake of standing in said flow.

I’d picked up a North Face Denali jacket for a cool hundred bucks during the one and only stop on the way up, and with capilene from head to toe you would have thought a die hard could take it. Could have.

Roughly fifteen minutes after arrival, my right foot started feeling damp. A half hour later the whole leg was soaked up to the knee. What gives?

This…

the-cut

…as in giving me a quart of water shloshing around inside my waders.

I put up with it for the rest of the day, but by the time we prepared for the hike out I felt like I was walking on a stub. The moment I complained the jokes started flying:

  • “Let’s get rid of the toes right here on the trail. It’ll make the hike easier.”
  • “Do you have a liquor flask? Not for the pain – we need to sterilize first.”
  • “Are you sure you didn’t just pee in your waders again?”

Ha ha ha. I wound up getting comped a meal and a microbrew (out of pitty, I guess). But my sides still hurt from the comedy.

I do not wish to demean anyone’s death. It is certainly tragic, and I am sure those whose hearts failed from the stress are dearly missed. I send both my condolences, and a message…

There are a lot more important things in life than grabbing internet headlines – one of mine just happens to be catching fish (and getting heavily ribbed by my friends).