You know, I've always wanted to test the strength of the "cat to tail tensile formula" by grabbing the tail of same, and swinging...ONE... TWO...THREE..... Get that ol` centrifugal force a-workin` there!!!
Scripture informs me that Noah built the Ark when he was 600 years old. Actually, he built it when he was only 500 years old, on a Friday. Saturday he was packed and ready to go in about 20 minutes. Then he satteth down on a rock and waited for his wife to get ready. A hundred years later, they pulled out of the driveway. I would like to say that I feel his pain, but I don't. He took two cats with him, which in my opinion was a serious lapse of judgement. It has caused me no end of problems.
On Saturday morning, I had Plan A and Plan B.
Plan A was to rise early, have coffee and get the hell on the road. After driving an appropriate amount of miles and espying a glistening body of sweet gin-clear water with with all the required riffles, runs and pools, I would stalk the elusive trout, while my wife sat near the stream, sipping white wine and admiring how hot I look in hip waders.
Then I would catch two fish. The first would be a spry and healthy 18-inch rainbow that I would land quickly and mercifully and release in better shape than when I caught it, because I am a noble sportsman.
The second would be a big fat fish; a rainbow, a Coho, a King, a Pink, a Sturgeon, an Orca, I don't give a shit. It would be so big the net would be useless (it usually is, waste of money at my skill level) and sling it over my shoulder and wade triumphantly to shore. There I would present it to my wine-sipping wife and say, "Tarzan catch fish! Jane cook fish! Tarzan get lucky later maybe?"
Alas, Plan A did not work out. Plan A never works; I don't know why I bother. But you have to have a plan.
Plan B worked out perfectly. It always does. Plan B was to bugger around and hit the road at the crack of a quarter to one. (Full disclosure here....I did not write Plan B. It was written in the stars.) Then take Highway 2 instead of the presumably fishier Highway 90 because Highway 2 now seemed quicker, allowing for maybe a chance to pull off at Icicle Road and accomplish the feats mentioned in Plan A.
Come to think of it, Plan B didn't work work worth a shit either.
In all my planning and perusing of fishing regulations and such-all, I neglected to study traffic conditions on Highway 2. It turns out that the rural metropolis of Sultan was was throwing a party, which slowed traffic down. A lot.
Now, God bless the friendly folks of Sultan. They live in a small town and deserve their fun. They don't have the benefits of Big-City life like I enjoy in Lynnwood. Maybe they were having their parade down Highway 2 and it was a big deal for them. But traffic slowed down. Really slow. I got bored and snapped a picture of a cow grazing in a field. Twenty minutes later, I snapped another picture of a cow. Turns out, it was the same cow. I thought, maybe if I threw a rock at the cow's nose it would make the cow back up and give me the illusion that I was moving forward. But I didn't. Because I am a sportsman. And the cow is as doomed as the groom whose wedding I am trying to get to. So why give it a hard time?
Finally we got past Sultan, speeding across various bridges spanning gin-clear waters with runs and riffles and pools and presumably millions of fat fish hungry for my Wooly Bugger or whatever. But now I got no time. I am a man on a mission. Get me to the church on time.
Three hours after leaving home, we crossed Stevens Pass and were on the downslope for Leavenworth and the wedding, wistfully observing the rolling, trundling gin-clear waters of whatever that river is. It might as well not be named anything, because I do not have time to fish in it.
We arrived at the Retreat, as it is called, and parked in the dusty lot beneath a sign with an arrow on it designating the location of a "Pond". I scurried down to check it out, visions of a basketful of blue-gills dancing in my head. Saw another sign on the gate, saying "Closed to Visitors". Well, shit. It just ain't happening today. Might as well go to the wedding.
It was a lovely thing. The bride was radiant, the Doomed Groom was optimistic, and all went well. After that, there was a reception.
Sitting on the table was a huge glass jug with a handy tap on the bottom, filled with a gin-clear liquid with lemons floating in it. Turns out, there was actually gin in it.
My wife drove us home. Periodically, she slapped me and asked, "Who the hell is Jane?" , but aside from that I don't remember much about the ride home.
I am proud to report that no fish were harmed nor cats strangled on this trip. But I am keeping my options open. Especially where the cat is concerned.
I think I would like to cast a cat with 4X tippet. The snap off would be priceless!
Spey casting could be fun with one also. Imagine a cat flying through the air with a single spey water borne anchor. Just as it touched down...maybe a look of relief...until...UH OH...loaded rod explodes and off you go!
You could sell tickets to that! Fun for the whole family.
I'm starting to think that Boot got bored and created an alias on here, aka Flyfool... so well written and frickin' hilarious it's (a) giving him a run for his money, or (b) a new ingenious way of messing with our brains.
I really think the best part of all of this is that ANYONE who has a significant other can relate to exactly what your saying. You found a way to put it into words fit for a epic viral life of a BnC'd (ball and chained) fly fisherman skit.