August and early September are the “boxing” months, not enough bug activity to make any imitation conclusive – and what little is available are the “bar fly” insects, out just before closing time hoping to hook up with something of loose morals and lower standards.

It’s the cause of much head scratching and contemplation, where you dig into the deepest recesses of your fly box for experimentals, bright ideas, and the ugly duckling – something you conceived out of dim light, feather duff, and a hunch.

Boxing makes me think “stick and move” – covering a lot of water and fly patterns hoping something proves consistent. It’s low water and aggressive wading – where a misstep is part calamity and part refreshing – as you’ll dry as quickly as you dampen.

I think SMJ and I pulled out all the stops this weekend – hitting upper, middle, and lower river, and poring through countless flies and pounding the heavy water – fearing little other than a misstep and “the other guy’s” camera..

Friday my fish were on dry flies, Saturday it was all nymphs and Sunday was a blank, neither style proving effective. There was no consensus, as both Joe and I caught fish on a large array of bugs; little Black AP nymphs and black midges for the lower river, Creamy-Orange Parachutes in the middle river, Caddis Variant’s and Brownline Czech-style caddis for the Upper river.

Joe opted for a couple flavors of rubberlegged “stonefly” nymphs, midges, and landed his largest fish on the Brownline Manhattan Leech. We couldn’t agree on much other than dinner was overdue, cigars are good, two splitshot minimum, and that pillow was going to feel really good tonight…

It’s too early for the fall reawakening, mornings are starting to chill a bit, but that burns off much too quickly. October Caddis always seems to energize the crowds – and there were plenty of the underwater flavor in evidence.

Call it the “Trout Underground Influence” – but the fishing rapidly took second fiddle to SMJ’s sumptuous dinners.

The Upper Sacramento drainage, like most backwoods venues, offers its heroes a choice between cold pizza and velvet-Elvis hamburgers. The first course is a napkin and the last is the bill, with charred bovine somewhere betwixt the two.

SMJ’s dinners were multi-course gutbusters, pre-cooked for minimal effort – and accompanied by the prerequisite “hearty red” served in plastic ice cream cups. Coupled with the daytime exertion, it was an effort not to fall asleep during the cigars and brandy chaser.

Us “Old Guys” watch our priorities change – where cold ground and cold cuts morph into creature comforts and warm soup.

As Poppa says, “.. any damn fool can be uncomfortable..”