Excerpt from the new Fall 2007 Issue

How did I get here? I'm lying on my back in a sticky, soaking, sagging, zero-degree, goose-down mummy bag, shivering like a dog shitting a peach pit. The canvas ceiling above our heads has reached total saturation while the frame creaks and sways through 40mph winds. The canvas shell flaps and pops, billows and collapses, each gust knocking the moisture free in a shower of 42-degree water. Then drops start to form again, build in size and cling for a moment before the tent swells and slams back into place. Another shower. There's nowhere to go.

Bacchus, the Roman god of feasting and excess, would be proud – the orgy is in full swing and the sheer visual gluttony of the event makes focusing on the details of trying to get everything right even harder.

Separating the continuous splashy grabs of over-eager young‘uns from the confident, rolling takes of the big fish is like trying to pick out the salient points of breaking news on a radio station full of static...

I'm fried. Fighting butt buried deep in my belly, my left hand bends backwards on the foregrip of a 12-weight while my right hand palms the bottom of a Tibor, trying desperately to slow the spinning. The 80-pound blue shark at the end of my line is heading deep for another run (again), and I saw my backing knot disappear into the depths a long time ago.

Runoff. Somehow the word is far too mild, not gutteral enough, to express my loathing.Can we just agree to call it turd soup? The riparian version of a south of the border bout of Montezuma’s Revenge?

"Yeah, see this big hole? That's in the timing belt cover. I wouldn't drive very far until we can get your car back in to fix this." He doesn't need to tell me twice – it looks ugly. Make appointment for later in the week. The next morning, pack up the car and head to the Henry's...