I’ve been breaking records the last couple of weeks. Might call me a bit of a record smasher really.
How many times can I ruin a perfect opportunity with horrendous presentation?
How many fish over 20″ can I lose at my feet?
How many times can I risk injury by wading into fast, chest-deep current to salvage a $3 fly and 18″ of tippet?
How many homeless people will yell some kind of indistinguishable coaching tip at me before I nod in feigned gratitude? (The answer to this last one is three. I’m sure of it.)
Incidentally, should I be concerned that all homeless adults possess vast fly-fishing expertise? Is there a causal relationship between these two things? Am I inching my way towards the streets with each hook-set?
I’ve got into some great fish, but haven’t closed many deals. I genuinely believe that many of the urban runs I frequent are full of hard-knock, street-smart trout. I mean, I know their brains are slightly larger than a chickpea, but somewhere in that chickpea is a catalog of fishing gear, triggering horror and aversion.
A typical bow and brown from the past couple weeks. Both of these li’ guys were convinced I didn’t look like the catch-and-release type, and fought above their weight class. I’m enjoying the Hydros rod for these baby bouts.
It’s become a bit of a curse that if I lose a large fish, I inevitably catch a thawed out fish-stick on the next cast. It’s an emotional yo-yo because for a brief moment I think I’m getting a second chance. Redemption is near! No, never mind. She left five minutes ago…you just missed her.
Here’s one of those booby prize fish, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t mind the ol’ memory card got this shot instead of the beast before it.