I’m reluctant to confess that in all my collection of angling tomes, I cannot find an author admitting he was skunked completely, exploited savagely, or simply ignored by the fish despite all efforts to the contrary.

My altogether too brief visit to the piney woods – the one where I was chased out of them self same woods by some vengeful icy jet stream from Alaska, without catching a fish, while everyone else around me caught their fill effortlessly …  that was a message.

This being unfamiliar turf, and given the hoots, catcalls, and finger pointing of my dearest companions, I’ve been struggling all week on whether I should confess outright or play it coy.

I could do so publicly, where I’ll need to wordsmith all the incoming name-calling and vitriol into loving support, or privately, where I resolve to do better and then as would you fail to live up to my end of the bargain.

Fly fishing being one of many imprecise sciences, largely spiritual and not really a hard science despite the many stern faced fellows that say otherwise, rather it’s a collection of mysteries, each related to one another via mosquitoes and sunburn. Being all squishy and subject to interpretation, I can only assume that after devoting the last forty years to its practice, and after fishing three quarters of each of the two dry days allotted with nary a bite,  I’ve offended God hisself …

It weren’t flies or their presentation, nor was it the hand twist retrieve versus an overhand yank, and it wasn’t #12 being a bit too big and a #14 would’ve been the better choice.

Fishing having only one truly similar comparison, and that being our nation’s beloved pastime, baseball. Whose players respect both the mystery and superstitions that goes hand in hand with streaks and slumps.

Crash Davis: I never told him to stay out of your bed.
Annie Savoy: Yes you did.
Crash Davis: I told him that a player on a streak has to respect the streak.
Annie Savoy: Oh fine.
Crash Davis: You know why? Because they don’t – -they don’t happen very often.
Annie Savoy: Right.
Crash Davis: If you believe you’re playing well because you’re getting laid, or because you’re not getting laid, or because you wear women’s underwear, then you ARE! And you should know that!

I figure it was the grunt necessary to pull on them wading boots, and despite an angling devotee’s ability to fold space and time, the sodden midsection of a disgusting fatbody whose given up smoking being too dense to compact further and therefore resists his efforts to fold, ensuring he can’t tie his shoes without holding his breath…

Gasp. Wheeze.

… and no amount of Pendleton’s or firearms, no armload of cane tackle, no wicker creel laden with fresh cut ferns and damp fish, no welcoming fire in a log cabin can erase the stain of that sound.

Should I post a bit less, or simply be a bit scarce, that’s because I’m doing the Lord’s work … er … streamlining things.