the rest of the story

Well I would be remiss if I did not fill you guys in on the rest of the story.  Let me just say not every trip can be that bed of roses we all envision in the planning.  Last weekend proved that adage true enuf.

queue Ralphie in the Christmas Story: insert 'oooh fuuuuudge' caption here

Too lazy to pack everything for our trip the night before, I just told myself I'd finish packing in the morning, let the boy sleep in a bit while getting that done.  So the morning of, I'm up, all bleary eyed and stumbing around in the dark.  I'm 'clever' enuf to remember to double-check that I indeed put away all my primo fly gear taken on the Fourth of July backpack trip.  I feel thru the backpack in the dark (out on the back porch) check all the pockets for the tell tale signs of my favorite high country fly boxes, nippers, dessicant, hemos- not there, schweet. That can only mean I put that all back in the gear bag out in the garage right?  sure!

So we're packing the daypack at the trailhead, some hours later and miles upon miles from home, I'm digging around in the gear bag and just not finding those fly fishing essentials needed for the day.  Dam!  Left next to the backpack on back porch.   So I'm left scrambling to assemble a meager supply of secondhand flies from Mrs Wulff's box (boy I really need to stock her back up!), and those broken hemos, played-out dessicant, old tippet spools we all seem to collect for just such emergencies.

Not a good start for the day, I'm sure you all can empathize. 

We finally boot up, get ready to hit the trail, realize I left my wide-brimmed hat in the other fishmobile.  Back at home.  My lucky hat, not cool dude.

Moving on, we check the trail register, find that two over-zealous anglers have headed up the river before us.  At 7am.  Most likely will have strip-mined the entire stream ahead of us.  Guess we'll have to hoof it a bit, maybe get lucky and cut the river up above the competition.  That might give my boy a sporting chance.

Mid morning finds the boy and I two miles up the trail.  Lightning strikes in the form of 'wait a minute buddy, did you see me pack my waders?'  You guessed it, back in the car.  Two miles back down the trail.  Guess I'll just wet wade today, that liquid snow can't be all that cold now can it?

We finally cut the stream at our jumping off point, I'm rigging rods while the boy digs out his waders.  Ummm, Dad, these aren't my waders, I have the brown ones.  Yep, you guessed it, I packed my girl's waders.  Of course I did.  The boy had to fish in borrowed waders all day long.

Me? My teeth were chattering most all the day, especially given that 4-hour Tboomer that started not an hour into our fishing.  Don't forget my feet wore all to hell shifting around in wading boots too big without the neoprene booties.

Insult, meet Injury: we're finally packing it out at the end of a very long day, I'm finally dried-out and warmed up for the first time in like 6 hours.  One more stream crossing, I'm already imagining sitting down to big post-fishing burger dinner.  If not for that dam rock, which rolls underfoot, I plunge sideways straight into the drink.  

In like six inches of water. 

Enuf to soak me head to toe, bruise a hip, render a limp and shred more than a good amount of pride.  As a wise man once said- Mother trucker!

Well, back home I'm grinning as I write this:  A Trip To Be Remembered.

On the flipside, my boy caught some fish- can honestly say 'twas worth the coin paid.