New Beginings

Here I am, trying to figure out my place in this modern fly fishing world ripe with the odiferous stench of moldy gore tex and cheap cigars soaked with the condensed remnants of a mid-July Pabst longneck. With the exception of the mold, replace Pabst with a cold Oberon, and the stogie the modern face of fly fishing is becoming something that I fear. Patagooch laden photoshoots of Hucho Hucho hugging long hairs now fill the stacks of our bathroom libraries. What happened to the articles on old fockers throwing furled leaders to finicky English square tails? Someone tell me how these new age slovenly trout bums have made a good god damn go of it all. Now we get to watch these lucky bastards chuck and duck grotesque cone headed, rubber legged, crystal flashing, double bunnies to Argentinean sea runs for god knows what price. What the f#$%? Someone explain all of this to a guy who thought he was at the cutting edge of catching big damn fish on a long rod. Where is my piece of the Moldy Chum, Buster, AEG, and Felt Soul pie? Because damn I can smell that sweet pie cooling in the window of their northern Mongolian yurt from here in northern Cali. This year will bring me to 30, a young lad to say the least, and I still remember the days when a Twist On was the way to go to get your flies down deep, or when your dumb ass dropped your hemos in the river when you needed them, not to release the next fish, but for libation incineration support. And yes, I am fully aware that jealousy is an ugly emotion, just needed to enjoy a good rant. In the words of my favorite automotive radio jockeys, I bid farewell from the desk jockey, fly shoppy, likes it sloppy, California poppy, fish when it’s choppy, paper lipped crappie. All Love