I’m glad that after thirty-five years on this rock I’ve learned to question whether Indian buffet should come before or after the obligatory birthday carbomb. I just haven’t found the answer. On its face it seems a simple binary, but once you start thinking about the week’s previous diet, the strength of the drink and concentration of bitter-tasting industrial soap if you you find yourself with first barglass of the day, proximity to last orgasm, ambient air temperature and barometric pressure, it’s a complicated analysis. A spray-tanned RN bought me a second shot and I obliged after two or three obligatory midwestern “I’m alright, but thank you”‘s, another confounding variable I blame for the bathroom breaks on the drive down.
Given the state of the world, I’m willing chalk up an empty access on one’s birthday as miraculous. I haven’t been down here in over a year on account of all the Huge Flyfishermen; just can’t stomach combat fishing when every flapping asshole you meet wants to be the next brand ambassador. While every data point suggests license sales are declining, I’d wager the proportion of useless dildoes has tripled.
Water’s up and I tie on a bugger because I know it’ll pull a couple decent rainbows out of deep, fast water where people don’t put in much effort.
The river’s changed a lot, deeper, faster, with developing bars and braids and logjams suggesting a system in flux, pointing towards New Normal. I miss a big brown- LDR, really, that comes crashing out of a logjam and grabs the fly before turning back into the brush. I fret for a moment about thin tippet, unconsciously giving him the slack to shake loose.
I round a corner to a cobble-strewn run and replace the bugger with a caddis dry, hope over pragmatism.
There’s enough light to finish working the run or to see my way back to the truck, so I keep casting.