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I've come to view fishing as being a burdensome activity. Yup, I admitted it, going fishing is no longer fun. That's a pretty extreme thing for a fly fishing blogger to confess, but I do, wholeheartedly.
I've kept my fishing stuff neatly stored away in the corner of my office, and it taunts me every time I see it out of the corner of my eye. I feel guilty about it. I feel like a fraud every time I open my computer or post a photo of a decorated trout.
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You could tell the fish had been severely mishandled, most likely with dry hands or gloves. I asked Jacob to scoop him into the net so I could try and get a shot or two of the damage. There was another pretty horrific spot near his tail, but I didn't want to cause him any more stress by additional handling. It's most likely that this fish died because of ignorance.
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There are a great many opinions about this debate, whether it takes the form of states rights, freedoms, energy independence or leans towards preservation, uniqueness, and keeping our public lands in public hands. Everyone has their opinion and their right to that conclusion, but here are a few reasons why we should take a closer look at the following argument of keeping public lands in public hands.
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It was a Sunday afternoon at Animas River Brewing. The Broncos were on the TV and it was packed. People were covering every corner of the place, from out on the patio to huddled around the bar, just finished with their morning bike ride, trail run, or just families getting out of the house for the game. Jacob and I spotted our fellow anglers and squished in beside them. Pale ales and IPA's started flowing and so did the fishing stories. We heard about a recent trip to Honduras and the sound your reel makes when you hook into a permit. Plans were laid out for an upcoming trip to Belize this winter and how someone could make their way there through various channels from other parts of South America. Guiding, clients, and debates on float boats soon followed. Eventually, a few beers in, we broke out the map and began narrowing down just where in Durango Jacob and I needed to fish.
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Fall had finally made its way to Western North Carolina. The 38-degree weather crept in through the open bedroom window, causing a simultaneous reaction of wanting to stay under the warm comforter and eagerness to hit the water.
It had been three long weeks with no personal fishing.
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As much as we like to spend the day celebrating how white people came to this country, I really wish I could have seen it before we did, especially Mesa Verde. I'm blown away by the raw beauty and harsh reality of the desert region as it stands today, so it's hard to imagine what it must have looked like so many years before.
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