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Well, it's that time of year! Jacob and I are getting ready to pack up the car and head out West for a month of fishing and exploring.
This year we're moving our sojourn to the month of July in an effort to catch as many fish as we can before all the rivers dry up.
So, here's my yearly PSA regarding rod bags. If you're in need of a bag or two please place your order before June 20th. Any orders placed after that date are not guaranteed to be completed and shipped before we head out.
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This morning I got an alert on my phone prompting me to be ready to evacuate my home in case of flooding or a landslide. I'm not too worried about the flooding part. We live on a hill, and while we may not be able to leave the house, we'll be okay. But, I've been surveying my neighbor's yard all morning and reminiscing about all the trees they've cut down over the years. I packed a small bag that's in the car, just in case.
It's been raining here in Western North Carolina for two straight days and we've got three to go. Last week we went through the same predicament. I'm not talking about soft, delicate rain, but hard rain, the kind associated with thunderstorms and hurricanes and tropical depressions (insert Alberto). It's dark and wet, a feeling of seasonal depression has started to creep back into my being.
During college, I took a studio class. It was meant to teach us about artificial lighting, present products in an agreeable way and refine our commercial skills. While I enjoyed the nitty-gritty details surrounding light, I was positively uninspired by the cleanliness of it all. At one point I decided that I would try to bring the 'outdoors' in, photographing my trusty backpack, hiking boots, and camp stove against a stark white background with beautifully even light. The photographs were good, but my product was a little too "dingy," or so I was told.
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I was fifteen years old when I decided I wanted to be Bonnie Abbzug when I grew up. This is also when I learned about feminism. When I started dreaming about living in an airstream, in the mountains, not tied down to anything. When I first learned of the American Southwest. And, when I decided, that one day I would blow up a dam. I was fifteen years old when I first read The Monkey Wrench Gang.
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Fly shops aren't simply retail stores.
They're places you hang out, gain knowledge, meet fellow anglers, and most of all, commune with your own kind.
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Picking out friends to fish wild water with is a bit like choosing your Survivor "tribe." These are people you know won't crack a joke when you slip off a rock or criticize your casting when you get hung in a laurel. They might even lend you a hand when bouldering up a waterfall. You know this because they will also slip, get stuck, and need a hand, as most of us do. Your friends will get to see you in all your embarrassing glory, from the funny dances you perform to try and stay in the upright position to your squatting positions, usually behind a large rock or tree.
They'll see every misstep up close. You'll share snacks and bourbon, stories and runs, and all the embarrassing moments in between.