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.
I nymph 90% of the time so big stones, hares ears, baetis, and micro mayflies have been doing the heavy lifting. Looking below, it isn't hard to see why. March brown and baetis adults were fluttering past me today, occasionally landing on my sling pack to rest. I suppose that's safer than the water's surface most days.
Here's to some more meaningful records getting smashed.