Mike's boots sloshed along the path with that unique, semi-erotic sound that results from the stretching and bending of wet fabric and rubber. He turned slightly and smiled in my direction. "Man," he said, "I was worried that we were going to get wet for a second there." A fat drop of water fell from the brim of his ball cap and joined its brethren below.
Clouds enveloped the foothills that bordered the creek and everything looked mystic, otherworldly, soft yet impenetrable; an inviting dreamscape of unknown intentions which cooed and soothed and beckoned these anglers toward moving water and a chance at beating the inevitability of what happens when atmospheric water vapor becomes heavy enough to fall under gravity.
In other words, Mike and I went fishing and it rained on us all fucking day.
Mike and I went fishing and didn't give a damn about no wetness.
Mike and I went fishing and punched stained water in the face.
Mike and I kicked ass.
-Alex who thanks Mike for the ride, good conversation, the quality time on cool water and the towel. I like a man who thinks ahead.
Yea, so that happened. It has been many moons since I accidentally fell into a lake, and I didn't miss the experience much. That was a steep ass rock, and before I knew it I was nipple deep, and it was a little cold.
Aaron was a pal and only laughed when I fell in, while I was trying to climb my fat-ass back out, and any time he heard the 'squish squish' of my wet-butt. I told him that a real friend would jump in the lake too, but he didn't go for it.
Shrinkage aside we kicked some stockers asses, and the Rainbow Reservator proved itself a worthy fly, bringing in all but one of my fish for the day.
It was also a good time to try out another one of Dane's furled leaders. (DF Furled Leaders) It was a 6' dry fly taper furled with 6/0 Uni-Thread, in the GP trout taper. I added 2 feet of 3x, then 18" of 6x to my dry fly, then another 18" to the nymph. The leader was a rocket, and had no problem turning over all 12 feet, and I only had to reapply floatant once during 7 hours of fishing.
The road to Rose Canyon is now open. This means that every weekend the lake will inevitably be lined with massive amounts of people. Children screaming, dogs barking, powerbait being applied to treble hooks with reckless abandon while stringers are filled with stock trout that will most likely never see a frying pan or the inside of an oven, and will spend the next 2 years growing frost in a freezer before they are thrown away. And there is no reason for that. But I was glad that I didn't have to walk my wet ass up bitch hill.
