The consensus is that the water at our feet is perfect for floating. High enough to float, just dirty enough to throw streamers. Stories of big browns caught on Rapalas give us new hope that the weekend won't be a wash.
You Get What You Need.
A slight rain comes, not even enough to soak us.
I may have broken the Four Roses Single Barrel out due to boredom. Again did I mention Vaku was not there, we didn't have cocktails. We were not civilised. We drank pulls straight from the bottle and it was good. Still no fish.
The fly changes increase as do the safety meetings. We stratergize more. We are convinced Waderfunk has duped us to keep us away from his precious brookie water. We realize if we push through we will have time to go fish the spec water. We take a pull and discuss for another hour.
What was that sound! A big brown slashing baitfish?
It quickly becomes obvious that is the sound of a three hundred pound senior citizen, rolling out of a sit on top kayak, flailing in an ankle deep riffle, sounding like he is drowning. A little farther down stream there is a breeze that feels fabulous blowing through my hair. It takes me a second to realize I should not be feeling the breeze in my hair because I started the day wearing my favorite hat. I don't know when I lost my hat, I suspect it may have snuck away because I was neither living clean or good. We arrive at the take out safely. I am not allowed to drive shuttle.
We pounded the banks for an hour or so and saw nothing but tubers and kayakers. And this guy.
We kept pounding with multiple fly changes and no change in results.
The good news is the rain is holding off, the bad news I'm getting hot, not pallet fire hot but sweating a little.
I had to learn banjo. TX
Don't let your sheepfucking ruin the best imaginary relationships you're ever gonna have.-Befuddled
Red has enough good karma in storage that he could start an online business selling it to the world's assholes. Rancho Pancho
if the trip kills you, you won't live to regret it. JT