Eating Crow is the toughest dining there is – made especially so by the number of “soapbox sermons” I’ve delivered on the topic of foppish thousand dollar rods and how there was no place in fly fishing for that kind of cash outlay, unless there was a bet involved and this being the bar tab that resulted.

… and while I remain adamant on the subject of fly rods and the usurious dollars being charged, I have found a fishing accoutrement that’s worth a grand and cheap for that price …

It’s the Gibb’s Quadski, and while your toes curl at the idea that your fishing is liable to add to the earth’s burdensome carbon footprint, I say it’s time you shuddup and grew a pair.

Forty five miles an hour means never having to buy a fishing license, waders, or a float tube again. It’s immunity to “No Trespassing” signs and angry landowners, and bestows on its owner the awesome knowledge that you can kick sand in the face of interlopers in YOUR riffle.

Watch the angry warden pound the hood of his sinking truck, laugh at the landowner who’s sure you used his cow pasture to access his pristine trout creek, and thumb nose at the violently gesticulating float tuber as your wake pitches him overboard where the weight of his vest drags him under …

To hell with global warming and the price per gallon of dinosaur, with each passing day the best fishing is growing further from your home – requiring you to consume more gallons, spend additional cash, and endure litter, traffic jams, and the occasional movie theatre shootout.

The Quadski becomes your personal equalizer, the ability to tame any environment, pack exotic beer into the most hostile, pristine, or inclement environment, and leave your empties scattered about like D. Boone and his bear offal …

Uh, it’s $40,000 … but what price to outrun a radio?