Trout and Me

Every now and then I like to be full of myself. More often than not this is getting difficult because age has a way of taking the "full" out of the cup. Still, whenever possible it seems important to gloat, maybe pose in what is an impressive position after having actually acomplished something at least impressive to me.

I know this statment has implications of being dilusional but at 68 who gives a moist pile of shit. Ernest Hemingway posed for cameras as a way of building his image, his myth. Georgia OKeefe, I suspect, only became famous because of Stiglitz's photos of her looking intellectual and forlorn there in the New Mexico dessert.

So here I am with a fat Brown Trout while holding my Orvis Flyrod, or is it Eagle Claw, while handsomely fondling the now dead fish. I am full of myself. I caught a fricking big trout and I deserve some recognition even if it is only from me---which I suspect is the case. Blown up like a toad, I am. Come on image, please establish my mythology, my dream place.

Truth is, I caught the damn thing while standing on a bridge over the Cranberry River in the far north. Just for the hell of it I slung my lure, not a fly, down the river and fetched it back. Boom, big trout. Did the same damn thing in the morning and caught a fat salmon. So ya, it is an illusion, or maybe a delusion, no, maybe a deception of sorts. Still, I caught a couple of nice fish. I fished my ass off seriously for two days but only from the stupid bridge did I get a spectacular fish. Just had to be at the right place a the right time. I'm still cool----right.