Yesterday I fished with Slavetotheflyrod, a former Drakerer. Many things happened.
Right off the bat, after making our way out to the water, we got pounded by a thunderstorm for like an hour. We huddled against some willow bushes, tried to smoke a bowl, got fucking soaked and started to get cold. Too wet to drink a beer, even. Between squalls we walked around to try and keep warm. We were having a bad time, but we were too far from the car to make a break for it. Better to stick it out and see what happens.
"I bet the fish will be up when this is over."
"So will the mosquitos."
Both of those things happened.
The rain stopped. We poked our heads out and so did the fish.
We fished only dry flies because it's fucking August and that's what we do.
Shit was on fire for the next few hours.
Things happened.
"Should we stop? I mean, what else do we need to do?"
"This is fucking nuts."
"What is happening?"
"Look, there's like 5 more."
"They're everywhere."
"My hands are still shaking."
We pulled ourselves away to cool our brains off from sensory overload. We spied a shack and explored.
Felt right at home. Nice and cozy with the wood stove, and there was a sleeping bunk up top.
Still scratching our heads, we walked out.
It was an evening to remember, but something tells me we're going to do better someday.
