Saturday, December 22, 2012

The joys of winter


 Perhaps it is due to the stark realization that soon, very soon, we will all be dead, but I do not ice fish these days. Oh, I might be persuaded if some chum of mine picked me up at curbside with a step-side truck full of ice fishing techno-goodies... sonar, power auger, insulated bait buckets, quick-flip ice shelter, snow machine, hibachi, marinaded short ribs, and a bottle of bourbon. On the other hand, I may as well wish to hit the powerball, or for the sasquatch to invite me and my video-camera over to witness the birth of triplets. Such things do not occur.

 I do try to get a bit of tackle organization done this time of year, and that can be a blessing indeed. I try to stay organized, I really do, but I may as well try to ovulate for all the good it does me. It is for me a mighty accomplishment if I manage to keep track of my ass, let alone my shaky heads, or remember when I need to be off the water before the rangers pop me with a citation.

     I dredge through the accumulated detritus in the winter months, and if I am lucky, very lucky, I get to go out and grow ice in my beard in a valiant –but often ultimately futile– effort to ensnare some unsuspecting salmonids in my temporary embrace. No matter that the blessed creatures are nearly in a state of suspended animation... I will not be denied!

     Except I all too often am. I can tolerate the "skunk" when I am throwing big rubber trout in the hope that at least one twenty inch largemouth in the course of an outing will screw up the courage to dance. That I can take. But the idea that a pod of tailwater trout will deny me the pleasure of pricking their lip with a cunningly dressed splinter of steel, well, I can not abide that notion in any way that approximates good grace. It is an affront.

     Then again, who gives a good goddamn if I manage to pierce fish flesh with my efforts?

     Surely, I least of all...

Man, what a looker. 

Chunk. 

When trout ninja attacks.

    
∞§∞


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