During the past year I’ve gradually morphed into a lazy sack of shit. Too many of my days have consisted of little more than waking up, watching porn, drinking beer, taking naps, hitting the hard stuff in the early afternoon, eating whatever my wife cooks for dinner, and then falling asleep in front of the television. It was easy to blame it on the pandemic, and I milked that sorry-assed excuse for all it was worth, but COVID had little to do with my lack of motivation. No writing. No music. No woodworking. No gardening. No fly tying. And not much fishing. I just let myself get lazy.
People often wonder how my wife puts up with me. I often wonder as well. She recently signed up for a five day seminar thing of watercolor painting classes and demonstrations. She was excited and enthusiastic about the curriculum, yet concerned about what she might miss while cooking me lunch and dinner and washing the dishes, so I reached out to my friend Wayne and was halfway to his cabin before the start of her first class.
Wayne’s cabin is like an old overstuffed chair. Warm, comfortable, inviting, unpretentious... It’s easy to feel at home here. To feel that you could easily abandon your past and be happy in this place, especially if you like to fish. It never takes me long to settle in.
Need a fly? Take one off the lampshade...
... or study some of the patterns scattered throughout the cabin and tie up some of your own.
Need some light reading? Or some speculative advice on how to catch fish? Covered.
Need help identifying your catch? Check.
Unfortunately you'll never catch one of these around here. They went extinct in the 70’s.
The view from the porch ain’t bad...
...and there’s a dog that will show you the path to the river across the street, hoping you’ll throw him a stick in return.
You’d never find this place unless you were looking for it, yet people come from around the globe.
Has it really been that long?
More to follow.