“Furlough Friday” had me on the prowl on the west side of the valley, I’d had the foresight to grab Sweetpea, got her grain-fed and rubbed down and while she gathered her possibles, I’d snuck a rod, vest, and waders into the cab while she wasn’t looking.

It’s the old “winery” gambit, “I think there’s a winery on this road somewhere’s..” – and it worked like a charm. Her howl of indignation at the sight of the rod was much too late, it’s telltale rattle as we squealed onto the Interstate had blown my cover.

Monstrous carp, rainbow trout, bass, and blue water was in the offing – and while the firm set of her chin slowly melted away, compliments of wild flowers and orchards in full blossom, she grudgingly allowed the trip might have merit.

Winds were gusting heavily and the day use area was being repaired, so I parked in the campground instead. The friendly instructions at lakeside gave me pause,  as the last panel seemed out of place. The arm holding the dead fish somehow didn’t jibe with “Good Luck.”

Locals recognize this as the salutation warning you of the gastronomic consequence of dining on your prey, out-of-towners are oblivious to the mercury laden watershed and must pay the ultimate price.

… hence the “Good Luck” – and explains why the campground bathrooms have big signs limiting “parking” to 30 minutes …