956 miles later...

i love fishing.

i'll drive a long, long way for that first two or three hours of sunlight creeping over the rimrock. i'll brush my teeth with some chocolate doughnuts and mountain dew. then i'll quietly, carefully hike down a dark, jagged riverbank wearing a headlamp.

i'm quite certain the fish can hear me shut the door on the truck, silence is key.

i find a nice boulder. then settle in behind it, so i can barely feel the current. the green water is moving at the perfect speed at the perfect depth. it's that mystic shit that those knobby-knuckled old timers shake their wading staffs at. it's that religous shit that lets me forget about work and focus only on the swing, those deer bouncing up the canyon wall, and maybe that doves song i had playing on the ipod while rigging up.

there's never wind at sunrise. and my casts are cutting the water like a surgeon. no, it's more like esteban the guitar wizard, since i refuse to use the surgeon analogy because most surgeons are dicks. it's precise but relaxed. it's intense but my heart rate goes down. it's that wonderful feeling of fighting off the urge to hit that ugly, ugly snooze button and hooking into an early morning steelface.

now on to the usual shots of scenery, wildlife, fishagirl, and fishadogs.