Fish gotta eat

“Fish gotta eat, even in this.”

“Oh yeah? How would you know?”

“You’ll see after I pluck the ice from these guides.”

“You said that three casts ago. How’re those fingers feelin’ by the way?”

“Just need to get a little d-d-deeper.”

“More weight? You need to wait alright… for a warm, sunny day.”

Wyoming offers a wicked dilemma this time of year. Retreat from the cold and cabin fever will drive you mad. Head for the river, and three below has it’s own ways of questioning one’s sanity.

Were I a cartoon, the challenge would be represented by a devil on each shoulder, each whispering in my ear — damned if I do, damned if I don’t.

But I’m not a cartoon, so mostly it looks like me, standing in a barely liquid river, fumbling split shot and talking to myself, while imagining what I’d look like as a cartoon.

Because, given a choice of damnations, I’ll pick the one with the river every time.

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