An interesting observation for a flatlander. In the East, the sun hits the windows not long after the official sunrise. In the West, it gets light, but you don’t see the sun for some time. Without an alarm clock, I generally rely on the sun to tell me to get up. This could have accounted for sleeping late. One could also blame the brown water.
The water we planned to trip on, was high, starting to clear, but not quite ready. So Lando gathered us all up, we headed to town for breakfast (more like brunch), and stopped for provisions.
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Jose and Lando caught up with an old friend.
Timber was running the shuttle for our flotilla down the Stoned River, and I opted to ride with him. A shuttle company could go broke. Big country for sure. I was glad that Heero towed The Young Lass’ rig on this trip – would have been an easy hundy for fuel and some sketchy roads. Thanks, pal.
Waiting, afforded a very good opportunity to enjoy some tequila, a cigar, and hunt some rocks. The scenery just never got old to me.
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Eventually, the boys made their way to us with empty trailers.
No time was wasted. I was disappointed that we missed the hand cannon display. My .45 ACP was woefully inadequate when compared to the revolver Heero had.
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Fess: I imbibed some of Cali’s finest, and it was hot so the beers went down easy, each on top of the tequila we killed prior to launch. So the day gets a little fuzzy. Saks took pics of the feeshes we caught. Somewhere along the line, I earned the moniker Whitefish Mikey. Captain Lass kept us in feeshes and laughs. “It’s in the DEKE!”
This was a big flat river, so I took a turn on the sticks. Another Fess: various indulgences took their toll, and I did an incredibly lousy job. Too busy drinking in the canyon scenery I guess, wasn’t really paying attention, new type of boat, blah, blah, blah. “Could you slow us down a bit?” “Can we be more to the left?” Yeah, I do apologize about that. Wha'the'fuk'eva: like none of you have been too shitwacked to row.
Whitefish were cool, and so were the rainbows. The Cutts eluded us on this trip.
The fishing officially ended at the Bar. The barmaid was planning to close, but Lando talked her into staying open. I’m glad, because I rather enjoyed looking at her long legs and great ass in those tight jeans, plus she filled out that green t shirt quite well. Heero: they must mean you. I dared not bring in my pea shooter for fear of ridicule.
Hagen: “What’s your name?”
Cute Eastern Euro Barmaid: “My name’s Leena. L-E-E-N-A….”
Hagen: “Nice to meet you. My name’s Dave. D-A-V….”
I hope someone took a picture of her. Appetizers were a bag of tortilla chips and Frito Lay Jalapeno Cheese Dip from a can. Never tasted so good.
Back at the ranch, a campfire was started, whiskey flowed like wine, and we stretched a single package of boneless chicken thighs into tacos for 11. BigTimber – next time I’ll be more prepared. This was a serious offence on the dago heritage side, but we made due. Regola numero 1: avere sempre piu di quanto pensi di bisogno youll
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Good thing AJ had his famous guac and pico. And a handful of those fresh market chips weren't ground to dust during the trip from Cali.
The Young Lass made a terrific rhubarb pie, and AJ made the rounds with the Spork.
"if you don't understand the perfect logic of this, then you may as well fuck right off Teh Suk" - Fatman
"I took a Japanese whaling approach to panfishing as a kid." - Boomin