We wandered rather aimlessly, debating the best course to cool Middle East conflict as well as the merits of transporting Ebola patients out of quarantine zones. But before viable conclusions were fully constructed, we happened upon the water from nowhere.
“Are those all carp plumes?”
A half dozen eats later yours truly was feeling pretty good about the direction this was headed – a leg up on the adversary, and muck on the boots to show for it.
Packed it in, then took the low (additionally mucky) road over to my associate’s stake out. Less than five minutes later I watch a fat cyprinid move on a fly in an incomprehensibly obvious manner.
“That looked too easy.”
“Yea, I barely hit three-one-thousand and the fly was gone.”
Our overarching quest incomplete, we decide to hold a post-outing beer summit. I guess because that’s what world leaders do, although they don’t seem to accomplish much either.
MG signing off (because the answer is no, but it was fun nonetheless)