The first fishing trip with an unknown angler is always a source of trepidation for both parties; you’re never sure what hand is being dealt, as prowess at the watercooler can turn into any number of outcomes when Nature’s involved.

Anything’s possible, a grizzled veteran or an utter novice, an incessant whiner, or that fellow surprised to find he’s only carrying hundreds.

It’s all part of the new-fishing-buddy pre-nuptial agreement; one or both lowers their guard and reveals the sacred fishing hole hoping they’ve found someone of similar mettle.

Those trashy Louis Lamour Westerns that I memorized described it as, “someone to ride the ridges with ..” – but Louie’s heroes never had to worry about going Dutch at Mickey Dee’s or camping with a metrosexual.

It’s worse than marriage and far more permanent – as you’re stuck with each other for the entire weekend …

Week after next it’s me and [name_redacted] doing a duet on pristine water. I’ve lowered my guard as Brownline activities have me shunned from the marble terraces of clubs, fraternities, and any real angling organizations – and fishing pals is hard to come by.

It’s not personal, I just refuse to be sprayed with 409 prior to the banquet – it plays hell with my complexion.

I open my email last night and [name_redacted] and I have finished the negotiation phase of the pending orgy; he’s doing the cooking, and I’m reclining on a divan helping, “Uh, needs more Garlic..”

I get the below update:

Got an invite to join some friends on a small Sierra
stillwater, so this past Friday night I met my brother
at his house and we headed east up into the Sierras.

We got a late start on Saturday, and saw fish rising
and the tail end of a massive midge hatch, but by the time
we got our float tubes in the water the sun was high and
the fish were down.  I strung up a pair of rods – one
with a floating line and the other with a sink tip – and
started working my way through my fly boxes. It had been
awhile since I’d fished a stillwater, and I had some new
patterns/techniques I wanted to try out.  Long story
short:  everything failed, and I eventually tied on
an olive wooly bugger and just trolled it behind me while
I kicked right down the middle and enjoyed a beer and a
cigar.  That’s when the brown hit and I was once
again reminded that sometimes easy and simple work best.

Everything’s good up to this point; punctual, adversity met and conquered – the whole astute angler bit – adapt, evolve, overcome.

Then it gets a bit … squeamish?

I had volunteered to cook lunch that day – grilled
Polish sausages with mustard, sauerkraut, and red onions – so
I kicked back to the takeout and started setting up the
new Coleman stove I’d recently purchased.  This is the
first stove I’ve owned that uses propane instead of white
gas, and I’d forgotten that you can’t attach a propane
cylinder directly to the stove without a regulator,
and the regulator was at home.  Without an artificial heat
source, I did the next best thing:  I put the Polish in a
cast iron skillet and set it out in the sun for about a half
hour or so – long enough for sausages to build up a sweat, but not long enough for any insect larvae to appear.  It was a memorable meal, but not in a good way.

Massive “pioneer” points scored in the above, but no mention of alerting his flesh and blood to the cooking methodology or the gastronomic risk. Think wilderness, doubled over in acute pain, and a multiple hour drive to safety.

That evening the fish started rising again, but I’ll
be damned if I could figure out what they were after, and
eventually I went back to dragging a bugger. That’s when
I got my second brown (not pictured), an angry beast
that gave me one helluva fight.

Sunday my brother and I decided to take a little hike
little fish, but nothing to hand. Later that day we heard
rumors of some guys who had caught fish on the stillwater
by drifting midges under indicators, so we decided to give
that a try before heading home. There was a film of dead
midges covering the water, mixed into the mess I could
see an occasional mayfly,not much bigger than the midges.
I couldn’t see anything coming off the water, but there
were fish coming up all around us, giving us the fin
I suppose.  I tried some of the smallest stuff I had.
Nothing.  We finally packed it in and headed home.

One final note:  Igneous Rock will be happy to know
that no rods were broken on this trip, and my ass came
through unscathed.

So I’m left with the impression of an angler of uncommon skill, wit, and no remorse over feeding flyspecked food to his kinfolk? This same fellow who’s the designated cook on our pending expedition?

If it was my brother I would’ve emptied the pan near the RV hookup, kicked the sausage around a bit, then aged the result in my extra pair of wading socks, so I can overlook that crime …

… It’s the not telling part that’s pure evil.

Do I beg off, insisting that weekend was reserved for a pedicure – or should I renegotiate?