The Trout Underground has successfully defending itself from a spurious lawsuit by San Francisco Examiner Outdoor columnist Tom Stienstra.

Mr. Stienstra took exception to the Underground mentioning his apparent 2010 Marijuana bust, and chose to flex a bit of judicial muscle, albeit a bit tardy given the statute of limitations had expired on any potential defamation complaint.

I suppose the angling version of the judge’s gentle reminder would’ve been, “ … you should’ve sued him last week.”

Anyone who’s ever relied on information provided by weather-people or outdoor columnists (present company included) should not be surprised someone was smoking something …

You can read the Underground’s initial report of the incident at the link above. Myself, I see it as a simple narration of facts reported by other news sources and have trouble with the concept of apparent malicious intent.

Thinking of the great heritage angling writing has – and the many colorful characters that have added to angling lore, the only surprise here may be denial. Amid all the flashing bulbs and stern gendarmes leading some minor angling worthy to the Hoosegow, should be an unapologetic smile and a couple of choice epithets for the press.

That’s the stuff of legend … not, “I never inhaled …”

I always wondered what the connection was between my “Gasoline Leech” and the brown water environment. I’ve not thumbed my nose at my quarry for exploiting their obvious weakness – rather I’ve just assumed it was a bit of good fortune that the plastic beads rolled off the table into the bag of Olive marabou.

Blink. Light bulb.

Naturally the fly fisherman in me suggested my creation the product of profound knowledge and artistic genius. My insight into the tainted watershed about me, the creatures that call it home, and the things found dripping into or oozing out of – rolled into a single creative whirlwind of fish death …

… but the scientist in me suggested there was not enough data to assume any connection between the gawky beaded mess and the fish that eat it, and a carrot stick trundled through the pool would have as much impact if twitched fetchingly …

“All living things seek pleasure and avoid pain,” being the scientific rationale why the former is more palatable than the latter. Despite the absence of an impartial third party I was all set to fit that olive wreath to my brow …

… when “Chumley” barfed lunch into my hand …

The fly fisherman in me exclaimed, “I’ve seen that before on the Upper Pit River, when the trout root in the vegetation for Ephemera SmallishKindaBrownia … Your Prescience has extended that cold-water treatise to the present odiferous watershed.”

The internal scientist suggested I was an egoist and hadn’t had an original thought in months. After being pickled in agricultural chemicals and estrogen, bugs taste about as “buglike” as a McNugget resembles chicken, and any fish with brains goes Vegan …

Blink. Light bulb. Fillet this one … it may be the final indignity.

In this occasionally competitive pastime we’ve either heard or relied on the familiar disclaimer, “ .. despite all the fish you’ve caught the truly important thing is simply getting out in the woods and having fun.”

… which my pal mentioned to me today after the long hike in gale force winds, unforeseen cold water immersion, and obligatory bee sting.

Immersed to his chin in cold water and enduring all with nary a hint of complaint.

I caught two but grudgingly let him beat me to the “frog jerky”. Desiccated amphibian mashed fetchingly against streambed cobble compliments of a passing four wheeler.

On occasion I’ve mused what life would be like if I could lick my nuts like he can, naturally I’ve assumed he thinks the same of my opposing thumb and fiberglass wand.

I don’t think he’s trading up anytime soon.

I don’t blame him.

It started with the discovery that hot flashes and night sweats lead to wastewater rich in estrogen and other hormones, making everything downstream of our treatment facilities female and completely irrational near a shoe sale.

Now our worst fears are becoming scientific certainty, anything we eat, drink, and pizzle, dips our watersheds and its many residents in a chemical cocktail of human excesses.

That which is excreted by us is swallowed by them. “Them” being fish both common and noble, insects, tadpoles, frogs, newts, and anything else that buries a muzzle in the creek to drink.

As anglers we’ve limited our outdoor competencies to the lifecycles of fish and insects. Entomology is used as the only device to explain both angling phenomena and our good fortune. Everything else, the lack of fish, the presence of Didymo, the absence of trash, the color of the water, its opacity, are all Mysteries of Nature – marginally understood and endured as part of the outdoor discipline.

Bugs and fish alone can’t explain much of what we witness, yet we use them as the “Lee Harvey Oswald” of angling; the guy they caught and hung, and chemically charged sewage ripples through our watershed undetected like a sniper cloaked by the shrubbery of the grassy knoll.

If the essence of everything we eat and drink are marinating fish, the difference is our visual recognition of them as food and conscious choice. We knew what the chili-cheese fries will do to our colon and eat them despite the pleas of the medical profession. Fish are not so lucky, they enjoy the same clogged artery endorphins we’ve released upon completing our sodden meal, but lack any knowledge of the source of this obscene pleasure.

If our excreted chemicals are part of the watershed then its residents are filled with unexplained cravings, unfulfilled deep-seated needs, and both fish and insects hunt for oddities they’ve inhaled but never seen, hoping it’s a Caramel Macchiato, cheese burger, or nicotine-rich cigar butt.

While afield we’ve seen countless fish dart from cover to inhale some current-borne morsel and being dependent on bugs science have assumed it to be a tumbling mayfly or caddis that caused this feeding behavior. Not surprisingly fish behavior has always been attributed to bug theory, and the reality may be our incessant pizzle of hormones have given them all seven cardinal sins; wrath, greed, sloth, pride, lust, envy, and gluttony, and the real motivations are akin to our own.

Flick, Schweibert, Swisher & Richards, all join a Human history full of ardent prophets whose outlandish theories were proven wrong after they were burnt at the stake.

Now that our sport struggles to free itself from its classical roots, and real scientists struggle with the role of human diseases, sexual aids, and dietary shortcomings as they pour into our watersheds – it may be time to rethink our dependence on bug-minnow imitations and upgrade our selection to include flavored and scented patterns that imitate the chemical essence of an Egg McMuffin.

Now that artificial sweeteners coat our stream bottoms and antibacterial soaps are denuding our watersheds of life-giving algae, it’s becoming obvious that the next century of anglers will be mastering sewage-sitology, the predation of innocent hosts using effluent based triggers.

It’s not really that far fetched, as it’s possible all of the great fly fishing mysteries remain so because insect science has never been able to explain them fully …

Why do fish prefer one fly pattern over another?

Entomologist: The #12 Royal Wulff more closely resembles the Ephemera Guttulata, and the trout mistakes the artificial for the real insect.

Sitiologist: The trout cannot recognize a cheeseburger by sight, yet it has inhaled beef byproducts in its water supply since it was an alevin. The Calf Tail emits a faint odor of cow flesh and the trout inhales it, knowing it to be a natural.

Why do bead headed flies work?

Entomologist: We’re not sure, but it sinks like a Son of a Bitch so it must be tasty!

Sitiologist: Normal insect imitations look like real bugs that live in the creek. Real bugs hide under rocks, burrow in the bottom, or simply fall in the water by accident. Despite their origin fish know they taste like shit compared to a Twinkie.

The addition of a big shiny copper bead makes the insect imitation something novel and new, therefore they eat the beaded fly to satisfy their craving for Twinkies (which they’ve never seen, and hope this is). Fish are optimists and something new may be that human thing they crave, yet cannot attain.

Why do large fish feed at night?

Entomologist: Large fish are wary of predation and feed on smaller fish which are wary of big fish, and therefore unavailable until black dark.

Sitiologist: Large fish have been in the river far longer than smaller fish and therefore have inhaled a great deal more Five Hour Energy, Starbucks, and Rock Star effluent and have considerable trouble sleeping.

Without much else to do they prowl around for smaller fish that are quietly sleeping so they can bully and eat them.

Insect theory suddenly showing itself as quite porous in light of the above …

Unfortunately for the wader industry it appears  front zippers are doomed based on the Fish & Wildlife’s concern about chumming …

Having just finished the National Wildlife Federation’s report on global warming, and how half of our cold water fisheries will vanish in the next eighty years, I was content that the conservation issue was destined to be hot topic for the next several decades.

If it matters, I vote for smallmouth bass as the neo-nobility …

At the same time I was equally determined to find out why my lukewarm fishery was chosen to be extincted in the next eighty minutes, and without benefit of additional discussion.

So I checked the upper river …

Plenty of water, nothing appears amiss other than the constant roar of gunfire from the morning’s dove hunt. Both doves and I were content to stay on the edge of the highway and watch – while hunters blasted jays, sparrows, and starlings, as they were all “gray” and sporting a long tail, and therefore fair game.

Then I checked the park area, two miles below the dam and some 25 miles further downstream …

… and even that was lipping full of water, fish, fellow anglers, and even cormorants.

Doesn’t take a rocket scientist to realize I’ve been victimized by canal diversion, rather than any drought related reduced dam flow. The water is diverted below the dam, sent through assorted farms, rice fields, golf courses, and tomato fields, then restored to the channel about five miles below the newly dewatered Dead Zone…

The same zone that used to hold all the really big fish and deep water, and now holds only big rocks and deep dust.

… and explains why repeated exposure to the water downstream makes me want to scratch body parts. It’s likely to have been treated with fertilizers, anti-fungal agents, and warmed to lethal temperatures as it drains all that boron, selenium and arsenic out of your organic veggies and into that dogleg Par 5, behind the club house.

If a Big Mac and fries is characterized by the sudden blockage and subsequent fatal aneurism, my health-conscious salad having been strained through a couple of fairways and a tomato plot suggests my doctor is advocating a slow, Zombie-esque  demise.

Which isn’t the re-invigoration he describes will result from distancing myself from the fatty and caloric, but with all the maladies I’ll be contracting from local lettuce it’s likely to make his remaining years Golden as Hell …

Naturally I attributed my proximity to my earlier howl of misfortune. Rant or critique being immaterial as there was no expectation of accomplishing anything, rather the commentary was like the Bat Signal over Gotham City – Justice being more important than revenge.

I walk in it, I fish in it (I scratch my chins after fishing because of it), and you are an unknowing consumer of it. Much of the Northern snowmelt feeds it, trucks haul it, and chemicals kiss it to juicy perfection.

… and on rare occasion the rear half of the semi stutter-steps into the turn just a bit fast, and the life giving snowmelt is returned to its prior form after a bit of sunlight and decay.

Which can smell like … well … Justice.

Naturally being a tremendous fan of both physics and dumpster diving, I opted to cut my fishing trip short and assist the Department of Transportation in clearing this dreadful mishap.

… with a shovel and a waiting pickup bed.

These are the Roma variety, commercial grown to be a dense fruit with a thick skin to aid harvest and transport.  Boil until the skin starts cracking, then shock under cold water to loosen the skin. Peel. Toss five pounds in a bag to freeze so they soften further when unfrozen, and then chopped or blended to make crushed tomatoes for spaghetti sauce. Toss in some extra parsley, basil, chopped onions, and a few bay leaves and refreeze as “Italian seasoned.”

Just remember my hammy feet when your spouse says, “We’re having Italian tonight, Sweetums …” A gift from my watershed to your suddenly sensitive colon.

It was like the lady said, “the only people able to fish mid-week are college students and millionaires.”

I lacked the nerve to tell her that a third option existed. One that ensured her lake was fished by more pedestrian types, but as she’d afforded me a glimpse of the doings of “one-percenters,” and while my social position was closer to “wait-staff on holiday”, I couldn’t help but aspire to the manor-borne.

… and as she grilled me on whose boat it was I was in, its lack of CF number and absence of parcel markings, how my orange “guest” ribbon was smothered by the fishing vest I wore, I wasn’t so sure the manor was something to be desired … now that “Mrs. Havisham” had given me a glimpse of the lake and her daily inquisition.

She relented somewhat when I admitted to being a guest, and thankfully I remembered the name of my host (whom I’d just met through an intermediary), and she allowed as how I could fish the lake after-all, now that my pedigree had been established.

I now shared the same trepidation as Pip felt when he relinquished the grip of Joe Gargery and the gate of the Havisham household clanged shut behind him.

It was true, I was in the grip of Great Expectations given the history of the venture and the stories of the fish that lived there.

It had been a Christian enclave or camp sometime during the 1950’s, and as the visitors became fewer the camp had shuttered its doors, but not before stocking the lake with Florida strain Largemouth Bass imported by the Pensacola Fish Company. Back in that day the average fish size had been nearly three pounds, and the owners of the facility had kept close tabs on the health of the lake to ensure its population remained vibrant and viable.

Now that the lake had changed from private enclave to a small neighborhood of bankside parcels, each homeowner was charged with ensuring guests adhered to neighborhood regulations and the community conservation ethic.

It was a bit of refreshing change knowing the community was intent on preserving both lake and the fishery.

I was equipped with a large badge that had to remain visible at all times, I was required to release all fish caught, and made responsible for all the gear I had to portage into the area, to make sure the environment remained clean and litter free.

Naturally the badge clattering on my waistcoat drew every errant coil of fly line like a magnet, and it took me awhile before I could find a plainly visible locale that wasn’t in the path of a double-haul.

The same clipped-to-the collar locale “Mrs. Havisham” took umbrage to earlier …

The lake was quite pretty. Banks dotted with the occasional canoe or rowboat (no powered craft allowed), a shallow impoundment whose deepest area was no more than twenty feet. Mid-August is not the best time for reconnoitering a new bass lake, as fishing is limited to a brief bite in the morning and similar in the evening. Its location in the Sierra foothills meant daytime temps were only in the mid-Nineties, versus 100° and greater in the valley below.

“Fish greater than 10 pounds are common,” is what my host told me. He mentioned his son having landed one recently whose mouth was large enough to contain both his clenched fists …

… and while I did the customary mental translation, dividing by two and subtracting a couple of pounds, that still represented a good sized fish.

I was hoping my earlier suffering had paid my way to great fortune, despite the inhospitable mid-summer temperatures and unfamiliarity of my surroundings.

I sculled about the lake exploring while listening to the throaty growl of Mrs. Havisham’s inquisition of another boatful of anglers out of sight near the center island. One fellow having the audacity to protest he was neither student nor wealthy, but was on sabbatical from Starbucks and his pal worked the late shift at the local hardware conglomerate.

This seemed to satisfy the “Lake Police” and she returned to her deck and the company of a decaying wedding cake and a brace of mean-spirited hounds.

I couldn’t help think she was far more fearsome than the Fish & Game could ever be, and with both dogs in tow – could board and sink any interloper.

Here’s proof of the fishing, a small specimen framed by the contents of my “large fly” box. Rubber legs and earth tones proved to be more effective than my typical cast of red crayfish with their lemon-yellow and orange-orange highlights.

.. and something a bit bigger. Which gave a good accounting of itself wrestling me in the timber lining the bank, and I lost plenty of flies getting the cast back into those welcome shadows. August is like that, fish unwilling to chase, but willing to eat if it’s dropped on their doorstep.

Note the near-absence of the customary black marled lateral line. These fish were nearly all dark olive, with only the light belly to break up their camouflage.

Fishing private waters should always be accompanied by a small token of esteem for your host. Of late I’ve been fortunate to secure local access to a number of small impoundments, and most get a double batch of Peanut Butter Arkansas Traveller’s, and a second bag of Oatmeal Raisin, it’s a culinary one-two punch that few can resist.

Rumor has it my return visit is now assured.

… and if he was napping his wife said she’d let me fish so long as I had an armful of baked goods. I’m thinking I might be able to lure the Lake Police with a similar offering, knowing how even dogs change to a more reasonable disposition when tempted with a cookie …

I may attempt this again in mid-May … lots of cruising fish visible and the Spring top water bite looks to be something special here.

I have a tendency for melancholy when my beloved creek’s bones are exposed.

Dewatering is now a yearly ritual and simply means the upper stretches of the creek won’t be worth fishing for at least another three years. While more fish will move down from the dam this Winter, it will take many more years to make them of catchable size.

What surprised me was how this year’s killing made me rethink the sport, its past emphasis on conservation and the environment, and how the tired old conservation rallying cry is no longer of any consequence to me.

Since 2008, both the US and world economy has dominated the headlines. Federal, state, and local municipalities have little money for conservation or wildlife stewardship and their focus has been avoiding fiscal insolvency. They’ve backed any project deemed “shovel ready” to stimulate jobs, keep tax revenues stable, and ensure some small fraction of us retain our homes and keep making those all important house payments.

At the same time, “fracking” has brought about a renaissance in our indigenous oil and gas industries, and the last couple of administrations have been quite happy to open new federal lands and accommodate new leases to ensure the boom absorbs as many out-of-work citizens as is possible.

State governments are concerned about solvency first, stimulating those areas hardest hit by the Recession of 2008 and falling home prices, and ensuring they make a business-friendly environment for whichever flavor of entrepreneur makes eye contact.

That means less money for all state programs, not simply our beloved parks, game, and wildlife oversight agencies.

As the days of the hundred dollar fly rod are long gone, as is the fifty dollar chicken neck, and anglers are being steered into a brand-conscious urbane fishing experience where tackle is the new professionalism, how come conservation still comes in its sorry old wrapper?

Sure, there’s a few mean old guys like myself that think fly rod technology has become Microsoft Office, a bunch of stuff added that no one asked for and so esoteric as to not even be announced on the box. But change has always been good, and if I’m to embrace this new fishing mantra, why am I still enduring the same tired “Salmonid Uber Alles” on the conservation front?

“Give us your money so we can spend it on the headwaters of some creek, shoring up its banks and ensuring the fragile little salmonid we hold above all else, is able to thrive for six months more …”

Salmonids are yesterday’s news, and creeks cannot be restored with grant funds as they’re available once and watershed restoration is a yearly cost, as the need is forever. In the face of climate change, why are we perpetuating salmonids, which are fragile like European aristocracy, inbred hemophiliacs and incestuous to the point of instability?

What conservation needs is a cockroach, something hearty with thick scales that can handle being squeezed, gut-hooked, run over, and peed on, as that’s what the new ecology warrants.

I only fish for salmonids occasionally, yet I ‘m supposed to care more for someone else’s creek than I do for mine, knowing that my money won’t sustain life, it will only postpone the inevitable.

In my state the environment is a foregone conclusion. Huge tunnels drilled through the Delta will divert all the remaining Northern water South and the real issue is whether we can pass the bond measure, not whether it’s a good idea or no. More billions for high speed rail relegates eminent domain or environmental press to the rear of the metro section as the Governor backs it, the legislature wants it, and the Resources Secretary remains silent.

“Fight the battle you can win”, and this is not about the environment as it is lowering the unemployment rate. Smiling workers growing crops, and ensures agribusiness has everything it desires to grow ever bigger and employ more. High speed rail permits those workers to live ever further from where they toil, allowing Southern California cities to sprawl unchecked, to annex large portions of Mexico or even Arizona …

Our governmental agencies are rooted in the propagation of dead fish over the living, which is why so much of their dwindling finances are spent raising so many. It knows the majority of its citizens ignore their doctor’s advice and don’t eat fish, but like all outdoorsmen, are thrilled to kill them at every opportunity.

Our angling conservation organizations serve up the same tired sales pitch that starts with an appeal to our sensibilities, how we’re duty-bound to steward the environment for our kids, yet our kids show no sign of stirring themselves from the embrace of their X-box, and both anglers and hunters dwindle further. “Conservationists” are seen in the major media venues as a radical cadre of eggheads and Vegans determined to impede the majority in their right to terraform the environment to their liking … and conservationists … conservationists are but a single threat level away from a drone strike.

As I regard all the vast expanse of sun-blasted rock that was my creek I realize my generation and those before me had our chance …

The Sixties were all about Mother Earth and Birkenstocks, whole grains, whole foods, and living in an uneasy peace with the planet. All those macrobiotic peace-loving citizens grew up and decided that while bean sprouts were cool, cheese burgers were better, and now cries for “Saving the Whale” means an exposed arse cheek and an insulin shot, as Earth shoes faded in favor of Cheetos, and Mother Earth was reduced to the Couch.

Swooping in for the kill is Madison Avenue, who picked up on the last half dozen presidential elections and elevated “what scares us” to the new Sex. Fear selling even better than a shapely ankle, and anything outside of our control like sleeping on the ground, bears, bees, or bats, should make way for gleaming hotels and more cell towers.

… after all, animals have had the run of the woods for tens of millions of years and all they do is crap in it.

In short, after many years of living that dream – of portaging out discarded leader bags and cast-off indicator foam, of spooling loose monofilament and tucking it into a vest pocket, of policing empty beer bottles and broken Styrofoam from dropped coolers, it has become time to turn this over to the next guys … to do with as they will.

As I’ve not fished for a salmonid in some time, I’ll ask of those conservation organizations what I’ve asked of my cable vendor, my Internet provider, and all other luxury items I purchase … how it’s time to tighten my belt, and “trout” is no longer enough of a message for me to continue my existing service.

As no one is interested in my stressed little brown rivulet, I’m no longer interested in footing the bill for the last two miles of some creek I’ll never fish.

… furthermore, the fact that you stabilized its banks and planted willows does not mean you can contact me next year for more money.

Global warming is likely going to treat your thin skinned, disease prone, clean-water-requiring salmonid and stress its watersheds and eradicate it from much of its historical and introduced turf. Just as its doing with all forms of amphibians. Global warming is change and while currently seen as bad, may just be the way of things when you consider the last 35 million years.

Remember it’s not the climate change that you need to fear, it’s the competing predator that climate change brings with it that will ensure no trace remains. That unloved cockroach fish that eats human waste, reproduces asexually, and doesn’t need the banks stabilized or willows planted to lower water temperatures, it only need pets and small children frolicking in the lukewarm brown water to feed …

It might be the Smallmouth Bass or the Asian Carp, but something will surely skull-fuck your fragile little salmonid and claim the prime feeding lie. If that’s not enough, then your remaining little enclaves of salmonids will be dispatched by well meaning humans, who delight in stomping life out of ecosystems as a byproduct of “stewardship” and unclean felt soles.

The future fly fisherman is not likely to be a poster child for a chilled Chardonnay, rather he’ll be chugging a tepid energy drink over something dirty and lukewarm…

… yet friendly. There’ll be no stiff necks and stiffer lips when a dead cat drifts through the riffle. It’ll be the Brotherhood of Suffering and Antibiotics, instead of ascots and clean linen.

.. and it’s about damn time.

For those conservation organizations that survive, your mission will evolve accordingly. Your issues no longer resonate with me or the environment. The headwaters of some salmon creek that hosts 30,000 fish held in higher regard than a hundred ignored creeks that once held  100,000 fish each, is “grant money” math that doesn’t add up.

When your mission statement and your desired outcome embraces more than salmon and trout, feel free to send me another request to reestablish my membership, as I can always use another swell hat.

The steady beat of his tail suggested he knew most of the dialog on his care and feeding was likely to be disregarded out-of-hand. I leaned over to scratch behind Meat’s ear, echoing the last commandments of his owner,  “… perhaps one tasteful cup of dry dog food with a little organic chicken broth sprinkled on it, should tide him over handsomely.”

Naturally that ration was fit for someone’s parlor plaything, not the fierce, trailblazing fishing dog I would be looking after for the next couple of weeks.

A real fishing dog is capable of fetching a rattlesnake in mid-rattle, whose exposed white teeth and fierce growl cause competing anglers to bolt for the safety of the car, and whose keen nose ferrets out the freshest of road kill, crunching through bones and meat yet always leaving the fur or most desirable feathers intact.

… and any animal capable of scaring a full year’s supply of turkey tails off fat-arsed birds unused to being first herded then chased, warrants a meal fit for a fellow outdoorsman ..

Yes, he’s pretty much useless for the next four hours but that’s true of all of us. We recoup precious calories via midday orgy and subsequent nap, ensuring we’re in top form for the evening hatch.

I sprinkled it liberally with organic chicken broth assuming it would ease passage through the small intestine … I just need to take him to the creek again tomorrow to ensure all evidence of our misdeeds is left there, rather than on the front lawn.

What was a working theory is now a confirmed fishing axiom. Only suffering while fishing begets great fishing. Actual knowledge of fish, flies, or casting has nothing to do with the outcome.

It started with the blown seam in the heel of my hip boots and the obligatory pants leg of lukewarm creek water. Anyone who’s spent any real time afield recognizes leaks aren’t real suffering, it’s part of the larger woodsy experience. Waders full of water only cause real hardship when it’s the other fellow’s waders and the long walk back to the car turns swearing and misfortune into an incessant whine.

To be bemoaned at his every retelling thereafter, naturally.

Rather, real suffering starts at the Big Box sporting goods franchise, where you’re ignored by the high school girls staffing the premises, and when approached glance at you distastefully while you pantomime what fishing is … followed by your asking whether there’s any repair adhesive on the premises …

… and while their drying fingernails prevent them from actually checking the rack, they wave in the direction of the Hot Pink Shoe Goo hoping that will make you go away.

There’s little sense getting worked up at this inhumane treatment. Next time retaliate by asking where the Speedo’s are … then emerge from the dressing room wondering aloud which color makes your gut look smaller.

That’s sporting goods retail suffering, of the highest order …

Real suffering is patching those waders and crossing the creek dry, where your elation dissolves in a wave of sour and stale coming from the field above. The rich smell of blood caused by last week’s tomato harvest replaced by the thick musk of upwind fertilizer. Dry enough so you no longer fear stepping in it, but as off-putting as it’s fresh variant when spread over a couple thousand acres.

… naturally it’s the thousand acres lining the creek, and temperatures flirt with triple digits.

That’s suffering.

While the fish don’t mind and the fishing is actually quite good, you cannot help contrasting the new hole sprung in the toe, with the cool trickle coming in from the heel, and the normally welcome breeze insisting on sharing Dung from One Thousand Cows, and think of the Pristine with sudden fondness.

But I know that all this pain is for the best. I recognize that soon, somewhere, I will be rewarded for all my suffering. It’s a simple matter of endurance.