It's been a week, precisely one week since I last wet a line. Dear God. I can't imagine methamphetamine withdrawal is any worse than the jones of a flyflinger who cannot fling his or her flies. Freaking rain! Sure, we needed it. The river was getting a little on the low side, and around here it's always better to have too much water rather than too little. Too often we've too little.
I sometimes fantasize about how truly extraordinary the river would be if it were a tailwater. Some men dream of embracing a lithe, 23 year-old Heather Locklear. Some men dream of embracing a lithe, 23 year-old Richie Sambora. I dream of bottom release dams, stable flows, and top-feeding trout fattened on a diet of consistent mayfly hatches. I dream of the Taylor, the Frying Pan, and the Madison below Hebgen. Give me the Madison River and a 23 year-old Selma Hayek waiting tables at the Grizzly Bar, and then we're really in my happy place.
Of course, bottom release dams wouldn't change the current condition of the river. It's already dammed, and the water is still too high too fish with any reasonable expectation of hooking anything other than one's own derriere. No river. Not today. I'm guessing she'll need at least a week to drop and clear (notice the river is characterized as a "she" ... why? ... she's fickle, unpredictable, and almost entirely beyond my feeble, juvenile understanding).
I suppose I could wet a line in one of the river's several tributaries, or in a tributary to one of the tributaries. No, I don't see that happening either. By June the brush is just too thick on the tribs, and my fat arse doesn't feel up to fighting that particular fight. Nope. The tribs are out. Besides, fishing a trib at the height of the river's season is like eating a matzo ball when you want a steak. There's a time and a place for boiled balls of unleavened dough, but not when you're thinking T-bone.
It's times like these when I find myself wishing I better knew that downstate tailwater everybody fishes. It's supposedly home to the best trout fishing on the east coast. I don't necessarily believe that, but I sure am glad so many other folks do. Regardless, it would be nice to take the drive down and see if there are any drakes left. Do you know, I've never fished a real, honest-to-goodness green drake hatch? The problem is that I'm a teacher and the drakes typically correspond with my busiest time of year. So it goes. Poo-tee-weet. I digress.
The river is out. I refuse to wrestle with the river's tribs. Going downstate is out of the question as I have to be at work by 7:30 tomorrow morning. I'm married, and so too is Salma Hayek. What to do? What to do? It's been a week and I need my fix. Hmmm ...
Eureka! That's it. Holy freaking brainstorm Batman!
One word will say it all I think.
Carp.
Tune in tomorrow for a report.
2 comments:
Well, did you have any success with the golden bones ?
It was impossible to wet a line without calculating the risk to one's life. Every place I went was blown way the heck out. At one spot, I could actually hear what I assume must have been rocks rolling down the river.
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