"Man, you realize it's gonna be 40 degrees when we get out of here," I protest. "I'll still go, but, let's hit it later. Say around 9?"
We agree on 830. We both arrive at 845. It's cold, but he's in a sweatshirt and shorts. Me, I'm smartly dressed in layers, including those zipper pants that turn into shorts, that I picked up 16 years ago, yet hardly ever wear.
I'm not sold on the idea. It's cold. They're not going to bite. His replacement rod had arrived the day before, so he was going no matter what. I'm tagging along because if you get a chance to fish, you fish.
Within a couple casts, we both hook up simultaneously. They aren't big, but they are hungry. And when you level the playing field with a 2 weight, they can be a lot of fun.
For me, about a dozen of them around this size on an #10 olive woolly bugger variation. My idea of a fun way to goof around after work.
After an hour, he's shaking uncontrollably. Me, I'm smartly dressed in layers, because I'm an ex-yankee, and I've learned...