Incidentally, after a visual, wife suggested this was not to come home with me, under any circumstances.
Troy organized, Ralph was tourney officiant, as last year's winner. Our accommodations, lower cabin:
And the view from breakfast.
Big turn out - 13 maybe in all. By my count, I was the least educated of the bunch, by degree, unsettling, given this is a Shallowford Forest heavy talent pool. Put myself in the lower fitness third too, given all these nerds seem to be running marathons these days.
Night one arrivals:
Morning one, gear up. As usual, Carlson and his taste for the exotic. That is a non-regulation bait. I somehow dropped $50 at the Walmart on tackle that never made its way out of the package. Opted to go exclusively with the fly rod, bold, given my fight record coming in tallied 1 in 56 conversion.
We fished on the Tuck, relatively menacing. Apparently the ideal time to be on the water is dawn-ish, our best appearance, 11AM.
Success. Mine's clearly bigger than Ralph's:
The resident French Sapper. O-ferred.
This guy was always lurking, occasionally napping, a steady presence bankside.
The hot Carl-son:
Beer 13 group huddle and strategy swap. Right round the time we started falling in the river.
And man down.
(pic removed due to decency clause!)
Night two main event, explo to follow:
Day two found the spin captains killing it.
Ralph and his river otter.
Avoid this pig reheater:
Coming off the water day two. At this point, the tourney was decided. I succumbed to the currents and bad back, spent most of the after lunch with my sleeves under water, filling up my waders. Knees like bruised grapefruit, shins skinless. Never seen so many cargo pants.
Last night, after party and trophy presentation. Your host, Garo the Great.
This man is a machine. Congrats RK. Well earned.
I've missed you men.
1 comment:
So, where is my granddaughter?
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