Step One: Think of something interesting to write about
Step Two: Develop an ego big enough to allow you to think that others may actually give a shit about your rantings.
Step Three: Sign up for a clever blog name. Like "Dooce" (seriously, how stupid is that? I'm sure she knows that Dooce sounds like Deuce which is a euphemism for...well...anyway - too bad she's fucking funny and takes good pitchers) or "I Can Has Cheezburger" (if there were ever a website devoted to people who I would love to be the first group blasted screaming into space, this would be it). Or, this blog name, named of course because I have. Because I do. Because I will.
Step Four: Actually write the blog.
This is where I got lost. Step four. I have seriously neglected step four. Er, wait...this is a fishing blog, right? I have uh..."neglected to set the hook" on step four. No. That doesn't work. Sounds somewhat explicit. Naughty. I just haven't written.
It's not that I haven't THOUGHT about fishing. Or even GONE fishing. I've gone plenty. Well, mostly walked and occasionally fished while dodging people. I'm not a complete snob, but I don't like a person within line's reach of me while fly fishing and that sometimes proves to be impossible on the Provo River. Less people means a farther drive. Farther drive means more time. Time means...
But I solved that this weekend by fishing for Smallmouth at Rockport with H and J.
We also solved the "people" dilema by going really damn early, as in Barely Getting Light.
But that's the great part.
That was the key.
When I say "it was barely getting light" when I started fishing that is a bit of an understatement. We got up there early to look at the stars. To spot Mars and Venus. Betelgeuse (Betelgeuse Betelgeuse). We heard a family of coyotes yipping in the distance and moon's reflection onto the still water created a blue glow. It was, in a word. Nice. (it was also, in two words "fucking cold")
The eastern horizon was still a deep shade of blue when the first topwater lure hit the water. And, about twenty seconds after that a fish hit the lure. And, the next cast. And, the next cast. By the time any of us caught the last fish of the day, the sky to the east was still a shade of Post-It Note yellow. The sun hadn't peaked but our fishing prowess had and the rest of the morning was an exercise of comedy. We were flailing poles into the wind. Crafting balls of PowerBait (yes, I'm sorry, PowerBait) into delictable morsels. Coaxing worms onto hooks. Spraying incredibly awful smelling smells onto tube jigs (again sorry for the explicitness). The nadir was an unexplained fractured rod tip. It was as if the light somehow took away what made us a success.
But, more often than not, that's how it goes on the water. The fish are fickle and that's what makes me go back. This time, though, it was rather magical. Just the fading stars, the yipping coyotes and the SPLASH of a soon-to-be confuse, angry, sore bass hitting your jig.