I was hoping for some portly fellow, about 40 pounds past lean, maybe a decade older than me – and with eyesight that died about 4:30 in the afternoon, unable to tie on anything other than a hot toddy.

That way I could dance about striking heroic poses while rescuing him from the fast water, show the same fish six or seven times (claiming they was different), and validate the theory Internet writers are all lean, hard, supermen – able to leap an algae covered boulder in a single bound.

That was my fantasy, anyways…

Instead, I’m staring at some lean predatory fellow in the pre-dawn darkness, he’s got twice as many rods as me, is in better shape, and is still breathing through his nose after loading the truck.

I figure I can shake him in the first riffle, using my superior flab mass to hold bottom while he floats helplessly past, that didn’t work, and as I’m straining to sheath my hindquarters in neoprene, he’s already finished the first two riffles, and patiently waiting for me to catch up.

Pure hardcore, the kind of angler where hatches are a luxury, the raw heat of midday is countered with a second split shot, and is waste deep in fast water while the crowd roars out of the parking lot to the cold bosom of air conditioning and heroic storytelling.

Singlebarbed reader San Mateo Joe (SMJ) and I brought the Brownline fervor to the blue water this weekend, leaving cleat marks on rocks, brush, and bear scat with equal aplomb; fishing was difficult with few hatches and little activity, but we were able to counter by covering a lot of water – finding the occasional unwary fish in the areas less traveled.

Down and dirty fishing, perched precariously midcurrent slinging nymphs and shot – “high-sticking” pockets with promise, dawn till dusk with scavenged Blackberries and creek water to hold us between gourmet meals – featuring SMJ’s “organo-Radiant” cookery.

I forgot the fishing after Joe debuted the evening meal, spending the rest of the weekend following him around asking, “..is it lunchtime yet?”

It’s “Organo-Radiant” cookery, eco-friendly and “double green” – bake the lunch in a car interior for seven hours and enjoy cheese melted to perfection, water warmed to near boiling, and Cadbury chocolate reconstituted into a semi-solid by stomping it into the cold creek bottom.

Then you turn green again when you realize there was mayonnaise on that sumbitch.

Pure heaven after leaning into fast water for most of the day. Precious life-renewing calories that let you shrug off the heat and exertion and settle scores with all the fish you missed earlier.

We made the pilgrimage to visit Darth Chandler and inquire as to the fishing – but he confessed the Maine/Montana exotic venue was more to his liking, and mentioned the astrologist and shaman in nearby Mount Shasta was a wealth of information on local conditions.

He did offer up Wally the Wonderdog as a guide, but only if we dropped him at the masseuse upon our return.

The shaman was a bust, requiring “the beating heart of an eagle, and the adipose fin of those you seek” – and the astrologist was ill mannered, “.. it’s a full moon, dummy – you no catch crap.”

Joe and I gutted it out old school, and did just fine. Details to follow.