Tuesday, August 13, 2013
I hate to rig them, hate to cast them, hate to get them snagged in trees, hate to lose them (Oh yeah! Four bucks worth of flies down the drain instead of only two!) and hate to constantly pick them out of the Gordian knots my shitty, unschooled, unpolished, self-taught (i.e. completely wrong) casting gets them in, but damn it, eight times out of ten when I catch a fish, I end up catching it on the cursed dropper.
So I mutter, swear under my breath (and often above it...) and go right on rigging up the evil little bastards, eyestrain, wallet drain and anger-induced high blood pressure be damned. I'm getting better at it. Much better. Almost - but not quite - comfortable, even.
But one of these days, I fear I'm going to experience the snarl that breaks the trout's back, and when that happens I swear I'm gonna say to hell with it, fling the whole sorry mess into whatever river I happen to be fishing and stomp back to my baitcasting, bass-fishing Okie birthright. Because sometimes you just want to chunk a big-ass spinnerbait.
Posted by Chad Love at 4:06 PM