I know some of the waters. I have stood in the same spot, on the same bank. Things are happening right now, maybe someplace I know and maybe not but it doesn't really matter when one is not there. Big, nasty hungry fish that know the solid water well and rebel against it and I am no part of it.
Time is against us now and all I want for Christmas is poundage on the end of my line and at this point I don't really care who's lap I have to sit on.
Is there still time? I think so. Five hours there and five hours back but the clouds are looming and the ice is starting to crickle-crackle its way into the still water between the rocks, under the boat docks and into my head. Is this really the end of the season for me? Are the White Mountains really so close and yet so far? Can my shitty truck muster the mechanical fortitude to make it to the pines? Maybe, but probably not. I fear I may have procrastinated too long, and my wallet is a little light and there is no one to blame but myself.
This is the eleventh hour, people, and if you are there make the best of it, great, but don't call me to tell me how awesome it is because if I should perish in a vain attempt to locate and cast a line while strangling you, the blood will be on your hands.
-Alex who should shut the hell up and go to bed.