Back Issue Content: 1998

IT STARTED WITH A CAST, an offering, that didn't get hooked in the willows behind you or the pine tree overhead but instead sailed out above the water and landed near the intended zone, near enough anyway, that something took it. Whether or not a fish was hooked matters little. It was a proposal, and was accepted, drawing you across a threshold of gratification from which you would never fully return.

-- Michal Murri

It's getting dark now so I'm going for it. Through crawling along the bottom of this dark and dreary river, I'm headed for shore, across this riffle, bringing my wings and wishes with me.

I've been here for two years, ya know, "foraging," as they say, on tiny plant matter and other goodies. I wish I was tougher. Or could swim, at least. But I suck at swimming and am therefore only a strong current away from get pulled off these rocks and sent tumbling like Papa across some piscatorial buffet line. I've got a cousin though, Acroneuria californica, or some ridiculous name - I think you call him a Golden Stone - he's carnivorous. Did you know that? Ya, he's what they call predacious. Would eat his own young if given the chance. Kinda like a shark. Even gobbles small fish fry. Did you catch that last part? He's a fly. That eats fish. I'd like to see one of those Diptera Dorks pull that off. Then again, what can you expect from any fly who occupies a branch on the mosquito family tree?

Three, is the magic number
-- Blind Melon

Portrait of a Passionate Trio
On a fishing trip, or a road journey of any kind, really, three people offers the perfect mix. One to drive, one to handle tunes and navigate, and one to sit in back and pass important items up front when necessary.