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Discussion Starter · #1 ·
So here I am, the author, the hero, the veteran flyfisher, the abused,
the fool, the beaten one, the victim, and the revengeful person. Oh, indeed I am. I will get revenge!
If I get that Wilbur, there will be black gnat to pay! I'm talking slapped faces here, where brown turns to red. When I finish with dearest Wilbur, he will look like a rainbow, not a German brown.
And now I must rent a car, but when I learn what Avis wants, I nearly collapse; Oleander and Smolt become bruised during my fall to the floor.
So I go to this special rental place near an auto dismantler and I ask for a junker like they have at Kodiak Island. I get this old '48 Plymouth or Chevy or maybe a Cadillac (I can't tell because it is so beat up)for practically nothing per day. "If it breaks down," the guy tells me, "forget about it. It ain't worth no trouble. Just leave it." Man, such a deal!
Now I'm off to the river but this guy waves me down and explains he is the junior high basketball coach and would I like a pick up game.
Yeah, I told him and after the game(he won)I had broke my little toe but I had blackened his eyes.
Near the bucket, I had jumped up high, making myself small, and when I came down I made myself huge, all elbows and feet. So he has his eyes dotted and I got a right angle toe. He sets this for me (I screamed when he did it and Smolt went to work on my tears). Oleander gave him a what for. And we beat it out of there because the cops had been called again.
When I got to the bridge, I noticed there was no oil pressure and I stopped to check the level. The dip stick was gone! So I had to use the tip section of my fly rod and I got a reading of one guide in back of the tip top. I figured this was enough and went on.
Only a mile to go to the hole when I smelled smoke and saw flames in the back seat. Fortunately for me, the car maxed out at only 18mph and I was thinking about rolling out onto the pavement, but first I threw out my pets, my rod and reel, my vest and other stuff and jammed on the brakes. There was no petal! It was on the floor- only a hole where the brake should be! I thought about ramming it into "park," but it wouldn't shift period.
So I bailed out and was badly bruised. The toe on my other foot was now also broken.
I had to walk, broken toes, frozen feet and all. The temperature was dangerously low for a human being, and the wind was howling like only Wyoming can do. It began to snow. Hard, pelting, gritty shit that stung like the Missouri. It was not the best of fly fishing conditions. But quit--NEVER!!
I couldn't see Wilbur but I knew he was there, sulking, ready to beat someone up.
I have always longed to join the 20-20 club, a secret fly fishing society. They have no meetings, no president, no dues, no cards. They only have their honor. To belong, you must bring a trout to hand that is longer than 20" and you must catch it on a fly of size 20 or smaller. Thus, the 20-20 Club. I have dreamed for years of becoming a member before I die and maybe now was my chance.
I tied on a number 20 callibaetis emerger because I think, but I'm not sure, the fly must also be a dry fly.
A tiny dimple and I struck hard but felt nothing. I tried to cast again but I noticed a distinct "snapping" when I back casted. I checked the fly and all that remained was the ring of the hook. The shank, the gape, the point, the birds and beavers were all gone. I muttered and Oleander let Wilbur have it.
Now I put on a Western Bee that I think I've had since childhood and was maybe the first fly I had ever tied. I was so proud to tie two diffent pieces of chenille at the same time and when I showed it to my buddies, we all agreed it would be a killer. But I don't think I ever caught anything on it though I soaked it for years. If they ever have a rotten fly contest, I think I can win it with the Western Bee.
So know just a short cast. The fly hits first. The leader rolls over beautifully. A perfect cast! No wonder I'm so damn good!
But then an ugly kype appears (Wilbur) and drifts cagely behind the fly for a moment and then WHAM!, he's got it! He's off and running. I try to get the slack at my feet off the ground and straightened out but NO. a big fat, half hitch snares the first guide. Ping..Ping..Ping...ETC. All my guides are torn off! All I have is the reel and smoke is pouring out of it. I dare not touch it but
I must because I only have a few feet left before I am spooled. So I try to brake him and my index finger gets broken and my soical finger is hanging by a thread.
OK, Wilbur, you've got me now. But I'll be back. Yes, I'll be back.
You're not bigger than me. Remember that little fact, sweet buddy.
I'm bigger than you!
And I'm coming back to slap your face!

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