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The classic fishing yarn almost always starts with a line like this:  “Me and Bubba was a fishing up yonder on swillup crick…..”

Cowboy Hat

This tale, however, is deserving of a little more,   hmmmm,   editorial class:  “It was a mystical morning, that first clearing day after the storms, as this Father/Son fishing duo strung their rods in anticipation of their continued search for the legendary Klamath River Steelhead.”

The previous day had been stacked full of the powerful silver demon bullets, but the steady rain had pushed the intrepid duo to the limits of their physical prowess.  (How’s it sounding so far?)

But as the sun breached the limits of the ridge tops, burning the chilling cloud banks from the dark abyss of the canyon recess, the mighty Dave and Monty father-son team began their orchestrated and finely honed precision casting barrage that would taunt the helpless steelhead for the balance of the day.  Take this you nasty steelhead!

and take this!

First one came to hand, then another came to net, and another, till double and triple digit numbers were racked up,

until finally the fatal karmic prideful comment was uttered by the younger of the Holst team.  As the previously solitary fishermen drifted into range of the only other boat on the river, young David commented:  “Look there!   Those boys are pulling plugs and tossin spinners!    Lets hook up to a big-un and holler up and down the canyon as we fish a big boy!!!”

Not much can destroy an otherwise perfect fishing day quicker the the soul searing flaws of vain and arrogant prideful fishing….It’s that darned Y chromosome rearing it’s macho head again and laying the groundwork for fishing wars and generalized,  river dischord.

No sooner had Dave, this otherwise fine and upstanding general practitioner and good father from Mt. Shasta, uttered these fatal words, than the two elderly plug pullers connected with some form of un-godly hybrid between Orca, flipper, and Jaws.  They beat us to the prescribed hoots, hollers, and echoing laughter of fishing Nirvana.  Our spirits were destroyed, and the 30-plus half pounders suddenly meant nothing in comparison to that beast caught in the trebles.

“OK, lets pull up and move on” was my comment, as I continued to role play the spiritual advisor and began my sermon on prideful fishing….but first, if you are humble and repentant, we can quarter cast off of the starboard mid-ship and we will fish this seam as we pass….

Farewell – humility,     so long – compassion,    Drop anchor and grab a net!!!

The day ended with over 40 half pounders, three adult fish hook-ups, perfectly clear skys, and only one other boat for competition.   The hot-shotters did have a nice come-back in the end though:   “Hey, we got a double too!   it’s a fish and a beer!!!” as the bow man held up his can with a wide grin.

Heck,  I don’t drink anyway!   That don’t mean nothin….  Here’s number 41.

And so ended the day.   Just another excellent adventure, with fish, bubba, beer, religion and testosterone.

Till later, Doug

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