I'm not going to write about my most recent fishing trip. You wouldn't believe a word of what I had to say.
I'm not going to tell you about the ten ... or twenty ... or thirty steelhead we caught. The numbers don't matter, and you wouldn't believe them anyway. You would say we snagged fish ... or lined them ... or flossed them ... or whatever. Your mind couldn't get itself to wrap around so many fish, so eager to take a fly. I know. Believe me, I do. A day like yesterday is unlikely to happen in November or April, let alone January. I'll just skip it.
Likewise, I'll probably forgo telling you about the size of the fish. I realize how likely it is that several twelve pound hens and a similarly sized buck come to hand in a single day. The odds are against it happening, just as the odds are against any number of 11 pound fish following hot on the heels of their outsized cousins. There's no point in mentioning any of it. You'd cry shenanigans. You'd want to certify my scale.
I won't bother to tell you that at one point in the day, we were all so fatigued that netting a buddy's fish became a chore.
You wouldn't believe that the day marked one fella's 40th birthday, and another buddy's first steelhead. I know ... I get it ... what are the odds?
All I can say for certain is this ... if such a day had happened, it would certainly never happen again. Such days are once-in-a-lifetime events. They're not to be taken lightly, or for granted. Most importantly, such days are not to be forgotten.
If they ever happen.