The Small Person Who Lives at My House has been practicing every night in the back yard with the spinning outfit that I rigged up for her. She has really impressed me with how she has picked up casting. Don't look at me like that, she's five and there is no way we would both survive me trying to teach her to handle a whippy stick.
Because she's been doing a lot of casting, she got the wild idea that she should get to go fishing. Arrangements were made to visit Super Secret Stock Tank #7 this evening.
I had visions of some quality father-daughter bonding time and that worked out for the first ten minutes or so. At that point my father in law showed up and, as fathers in law are wont to do, took over the small person.
That left me with no one to supervise but myself and...hey how did this fly rod get in my hand? I decided to fiddle with my T-17 sinking shooting head to see if I could improve my casting with it.
That all went according to plan until this silly fish hooked itself in the middle of my casting practice. I mean, really!
I was starting to do slightly better with casting that monstrosity, not stepping on the line so often, less whooshing noises from the rod, fewer curses thrown about, when it happened again.
I thought maybe moving to a different spot to get away from this rude intrusion on my introspection would solve the problem. Nope.
About that time, the Small Person and her grandfather caught this fish using black magic, a Rebel grasshopper crankbait, and Powerbait. The unholy trinity of conventional fishing evil yielded this little jewel.
They decided to retire for the evening, but before they could make it out the gate, yet another green, scaly hoodlum attacked me. He was smaller and I don't have room in this post for his picture.
Finally, in desperation, I decided to take the cause of all my issues off of my line: the Upside Down Frog. How foolish of me to throw it into waters infested by this gang of piscatorial ruffians. Time and time again we have seen the results of such careless behavior.
After this epiphany I tied on that hideous orange and chartreuse Hells Bay Hopper that I tied last year. Certainly nothing would strike such a horribly tied foam charade. Wrong.
I took another mug shot so as to be able to identify this miscreant.
Finally, I cut the bug from the end of my line so that I could cast in peace, uninterrupted by these inconsiderate fish. Thus, my evening ended in a much more tranquil manner.
So, in short, if you want to get in some faux fly flinging without having to unhook fish after fish, stay in the backyard. My thumb is sore.
