I really enjoyed standing around.

So, I wish I had some wild stories to tell you from our flyfishing trip, but as it turns out, standing in a river in the back waters of Arkansas results in very few wild events.

Bubba thought this was wild. Breathables are apparently the next wave of fashion.

Which, frankly, I found to be perfectly acceptable.

See, I'm used to fishing on fast moving water. Where wading in is half the fun because there are errant logs jutting out everywhere and giant boulders waiting to drop you off into the dark nevernever. And then when you actually find a suitable spot to hang out and consider fishing, you immediately lose your fly on the first back cast into some gnarly bush of thorny hair from which you can't extract your fly without YAY traipsing back out of your sketchy wading spot to find the source of the snare.

And when, by whatever miracle, you get to a decent spot and manage to cast without losing it all in the shrubs you find that holy crap, the water's moving really fast so it's like a manic struggle to keep your fly on viable water long enough for some speed demon of a god damn trout to snap it up.

Eventually, cold seeps through even your wooliest of wool socks and you get tired of bugs trying to make a nest in your nostrils, so you wade out ever so carefully and drag your frozen peg legs back to the car.

Dudes, I love to fish, but I will admit that I don't really know why.

It can all just get super tedious is what I'm saying. Not that I don't like to fish here in NorCal, I DO, but so far I've not planted myself in a river as accommodating and pleasant and lovely than the Spider Creek area near Beaver Dam in Arkansas.

Friends, I  fished for three days. And during this fabulous yet rare event, I did not participate in any of the following activities which typically make up my fishing day:

1. Accidentally stepping into a depth which SURPRISE YIKES COLD FUCK exceeds the height of my waders.
2. Freezing my ass off because I'm wading waist deep into snowmelt straight from the Sierras.
3. Retying my fly 170 times because oh damn it all I just lost another behind a mystery somethingorother under the dark water.
4. Harvesting a poisonous nut in bulk with the intention of cooking for Bubba and I because I became inspired during a frozen club footed walk back to the car.
5. Slip sliding away while holding various bushes at various angles with the intent of making it *just to that spot over there* only to find that my rod is all wound up in the variously angled bushes when I actually get close to *that spot over there*.
   
   

Thankfully, I also participated in the activity known as CATCHING A FISH, so while there were many differences between my usual fishing itinerary, this was the most welcomed.

And then let's not get too excited beyond that. Because I just caught The One. But it was the most beautiful and graceful and lovely creature I'd ever seen and so I immediately decided that she was a she and barely resisted giving her a name before she slid out of my fingers back into the river.

It was awesome. The whole day was awesome. The whole weekend was awesome. And at the end of every day, we retired at the sound of the horn (when they start "generating" - which means "opening the gates of the dam and filling up the river around your dawdling ass" - they sound a loud horn which sort of sounds like an uninterrupted air siren and you have 10 minutes to move your ass or start paddling.) and drank our faces off. Oh, and because these friends are of the Arkansas and Missouri variety, we ate the requisite amount of proper BBQ so that we wouldn't be held back at the gates of the airport for not adequately observing local custom.

Of course you need two kegs of microbrew for 7 people.

Brisket. Beans. Sauce. All food should taste like this.

This is serious work I'm doing here, friends.

And because a trip report to the great and diverse state of Arkansas wouldn't be complete without an awesome WT story, here you go. Arkansas friends - I love you very much because I know that this doesn't represent everyone in your fine state and I'm sorry if this was your sister:

Once upon a time on our drive out to the river, we stopped in some along the way town (and now that I think about it, it could have been a town in Kansas or Missouri, so who knows who I'm offending at this point) for gas and I went inside to buy what fruity Californians buy at a gas station: a bottle of water.

As I stood in a line that was inexplicably long, cradling my bottle of Dasani, a scene unfolded behind me that was so awesomely perfect that I'm only sad that I couldn't have been standing somewhere with a better view so as to appreciate it in all of its glory.

Girl of youthful years (let's say she was *maybe* 17) holding a toddler while wearing a bikini top and jean shorts: Bay-be, you're hang-gry ain't ye? (SERIOUSLY. THAT'S HOW SHE SOUNDED.)

Boy of youthful years (perhaps 17 as well) staring off blankly while wearing an oversize tank top with a race car on the front: Uh, bay-be, I got the pizzas. 

Girl: I kin see thay-at. But do ya have the cooooou-pon? I don't have enough muuun-ey for them pizzas without a cooooooou-pon.

Boy: Uh, I think I left it at tha house.

Girl: Well, you better just git back on over they-are and git it because the baby's hang-gry and I don't have enough muuun-ey for them pizzas without it. Now move!

Boy: Yes'm.

Baby: [Silence]

And then Mr. NASCAR tank top slinked out of the glass doors and back to their house which I assume had wheels. And the girl kept nagging on this miraculously silent child about how useless his father was while fulfilling every stereotype imaginable.

It was, in a word, perfect.

As was the weekend and our super hospitable friends and most every person we met along the way and then the river and the fish and the food. I liked it all and now I want to go fishing again nownownow.