Mr. Fischoeder gets a cleaning lady

Probably I haven't told you that I got a fish.

Please enjoy the fish's ironic backdrop because we know he does.

Not that I haven't caught fish - I've definitely told you about that - but that I have an actual fish living in my house. In a bowl. A fish bowl.

Like a pet fish would.

And like any pet fish, his name is obviously Mr. Fischoeder.

Because we love Bob's Burgers and when you love that show and then you get a fish, what the hell else are you going to call it? Ravioli?

No, that was for my pre-Bob's Burgers fish. Now, though, there is only one name - Mr. Fischoeder. Because it sounds like Fish Odor and that's amusing.

Every time I feed the fish or stare drunkenly at him in his big bowl (now anyway, he used to live in a tiny glass vase and before that in the ill-fated and useless AquaFarm), I laugh.

"Hehe - Hi, Mr. Fischoeder. You look lovely today, Mr. Fischoeder. You have no odor, Mr Fischoeder. Come face cuddle me, Mr. Fischoeder."

And so on. Because I'm a child that's also really easily amused.

Do those exist? I may be the first.

Anyway, so I have this fish with the amusing name and the pretty fluttery fins and also a semi-sordid history with pet fish.

Like, during my undergrad I basically rented some fish to swim around in a fish tank in my apartment and keep me company while I lay hungover on the floor with my hair stuck to the carpet with barf.

And also to entertain the maintenance guy who came around every so often to unclog my kitchen drain that was definitely not full of aquarium gravel.

Oh no. Never ever.

Once I graduated, I promptly returned to the aquarium store from which I purchased this little school of tetra and gave them back. They took them, quarantined them, and then started what I can only imagine was a mildly lucrative fish rental program for strange undergrads that have no time or the sobriety level for normal pets, but can't be left alone while they muddle through their hangovers.

I imagine. I don't know. That's what I would have done if I were an aquarium store owner.

Then about eight years later, when I was working on a new product at Google and it finally came out of beta, my cheeky sunuvabitch of a coworker got us all beta fish in little bowls with little gravels and ha ha he he ha.

My beta fish was blue and cheerful and I named him Ravioli because obviously.

He swam around in that bowl for almost a year and a half until one day I came in and he was not so much a fish, but a cloudy mass vaguely resembling a fish. It was a wee bit grody, but I gave him a proper burial and sent him to the great fish bowl in the sky toilet.

Farewell, Ravioli. You were a regal and trustworthy friend. Or something.

Then I quit that job and my life in high-tech to be a farmer. But instead of being a traditional farmer, I became a hydroponic farmer and got to also grow food the aquaponic way, and that is with fish.

About 400 koi, to be not exact at all.

And also a few sneaky hider catfish that swim along all dark and sneaky at the bottom of the dark tank so that you don't know they're there until you drain the tank and OH WHOOPSY who's that on the floor? Sorry, buddy.

But I was mostly really good to those fish. I made sure their feeders were full, clarifier was emptied regularly, airstones were pumping away and all that fun stuff that aquaponic growers do to keep their fertilizer machines working away happily. I even answered questions from snide bullshit hippies who gave me beef about how I was exploiting another creature for my own gain.

"You seem like fun!"

Asses.

Anyway, then I got the AquaFarm. I'll spare you the stupid details, but basically after running the aquaponic lettuce crop for a while and then having 18 people tell me that I should get one of the AquaFarm things "just to try it out and see if it works even though you keep rolling your eyes like that", I got one and it didn't work just like I knew it wouldn't.

Or something like that.

Basically, yes, it grows microgreens. Hooray. I don't need a $70 over-engineered fish tank to grow a few handfuls of microgreens. I have a jar for that. I think it cost me around $1 a bunch of years ago when I got a flat of them for $8 so that I could can some jam or something.

The other stuff it was supposed to do, like grow basil and lettuce, were, um...false. Even from starts I brought home from the greenhouse that had been growing fine in my work aquaponics system, they just sat and sat and then eventually keeled over and died in the thing. Because it doesn't have any light and Mr. Fischoeder, the resident fertilizer machine, could only poop so much.

Mostly though, it was the light.

Anyway, whatever. The AquaFarm got disassembled and put away in the shame corner of the garage for a future Goodwill outing and Mr. Fischoeder got downsized to an abandoned flower vase with a few bits of gravel but with a prominent spot on the bar.

He socialized a lot back then because we did. He got a lot of attention swimming round and round in his wee bowl because it was so damn small he couldn't do much more than go round and round.

Poor guy. He was probably sea sick. If a fish can be such a thing. Which I'm sure they can't.

Anyway, Bubba was horrified at the guy's living conditions, so eventually I upgraded him to a big boy bowl - a proper actual Fish Bowl. And to fancy it up further, I poured a good portion of my sea glass collection in the bottom because I felt guilty about his former living conditions and was afraid he was going to file an HR claim against me with management.

HOSTILE WORK ENVIRONMENT! Maybe we should have named him Archer?

But, here's the thing with a fish bowl that doesn't have a filter or plants filtering it - it gets dirty and needs cleaning. Which, no thank you.

I mean, I did it, because of my extreme and ongoing guilt and also because I don't like dirty things, but I was not a fan.

So, to get to the point of this random ass post, today while I was at the aquarium store getting some random ass shit for work, I had a random ass encounter with a very nice woman who was essentially buying a cleaning lady for her fish tank.

See, here I was standing in front of the glass case and a wall full of pumps and filters and handle jugs of Anti-Ich juice with my back to a billion aquariums humming away full of fish with my thermometers and humidity sensors and I look over to see what the lady next to me is getting and all she has is a plastic bag with a green ball in it.

"Uh. Whatcha got, there?" (Because I'm friendly sometimes.)

"I don't know, but it's cute!" (Because other people are sometimes adorable older gals making impulse purchases.)

"Hell yeah it is! What does it do?" (Because I always swear.)

"Um...entertain me?" (Because this is who I want to grow up to be.)

"It's a moss ball, ladies, and it doesn't do much more than look pretty and clean your fish's water." (Because aquarium store owners can only listen to so much nonsense before they have to interject and ruin our fun.)

"Ooooooooooooooooohhhhhhhhhh." In unison, of course, because this woman is a kindred spirit.

"I want one." (Because I'm greedy)

"YAY! Isn't it funny what entertains us?" (Because she's adorable.)

"Indeed it is. Do you think I could pet it?" (Because I'm retarded.)

So, yeah, while I was out getting stuff for work, I bought my fish a cleaning lady.

Tell me, Moss Ball, do you do windows?

He's stoked.

I caught some fish and then didn't die of heat stroke.

Dudes, can I tell you something?

I'm over summer.

Yeah. It's happened. I finally OVER-summered after years of being all "OH I LOVE SUMMER THE MOST! Fall sucks! Don't say Fall! It's the new F word!".

And now it's been summer for, like, three years and all I want in the fucking world is some rain and then some snow and to wear my down booties in the house without Bubba being all, "Really, dude? It's 90 degrees."

I know, my love. I FUCKING KNOW.

Ugh.

He hates it, too. It's not right for me to get all sweary at him about it, especially since we're both pretty sure I brought this on us myself.

Perhaps the entire state has me to blame for the drought and this bloody forever-taking hot ass muther fucking summer.

Perhaps.

Either way, I'm over it. And in a very visible LOOK AT ME MOTHER NATURE - I'M COMPLYING act, I'm setting out to bring about fall.

Like, starting today.

I went out to that yard and I gave everything its fall pruning. And I went out to the garden and took down the tomatoes and peppers. And if this state had adequate water resources to do so, I'd wash my car, but we do not so I'm only fantasizing about it while my beloved Duchess is buried under a heap of dust and bird doo.

Also, I'll probably bake some cookies. And if that doesn't turn on some fall weather, I'll start a knitting project, plant some bulbs, make chili in the crockpot and, like carve a fucking pumpkin or something.

What else is fall-like that I can do to get some NOT-SUMMER to happen, people?

It's gross out here in California, is what I'm saying. This state is dry as a popcorn fart and I have stopped enjoying it.

A week ago though, I enjoyed the piss out of it.

Can't catch the biggest cutthroat of one's life in winter, friends. That's something.

Or the biggest wild rainbow trout of one's life either.

It was approximately 100 degrees in this tent and that beer wasn't nearly large enough.

Riding this bike down the mountain in Mammoth was like descending into hell itself. But with extra sweating. 

Why, hello Eastern Sierras. I haven't seen you in five whole minutes.

So, yeah, it's hot here.

The yard work today was nearly my final act.

I had to lie down afterward is how bad it was. And then I had to have cocktails. You know, to cool off.

So, fall soon, then?

As I come screaming out of the woods

So yeah, I'm home.

A week early.

Because even though I planned, trained and packed for a two week backpacking trip to hike the John Muir Trail with Bubba and our Super Nice Neighbor, my knee had other plans.

Twisty plans.

So, we're hiking along on Day 2 of the thing, all stuffed full of Chili Mac and Nutella and then some things that are actually healthy food items, passing amazing scenery and not getting rained on yet (YET I SAID) and we come to our first set of steep rock staircases coming up to Evolution Meadow.

When I say steep rock staircases, what I mean is switchbacks constructed entirely of foot thick giant granite blocks stacked a few feet apart all the way up the muther fucking mountain in the soul-crushing shape of switchbacks.

Like this.
Like, blow me.

Yay.

But, being the Hey whatever, I'm totally in shape and I can do this even though my pack weighs two tons and I'm not so swift with the trekking poles yet gal that I am, I totally went for it.

Like one might just go for it with, say, a certain ill-fated workout routine.

Yeah.

And, like a certain ill-fated workout routine, I busted myself.

Now, I'm not going to continue aligning shitty shit Crossfit with amazing awesome beautiful LOVE IT SO MUCH backpacking because that would be unfair to backpacking, but my approach to extreme exercise like my attitude when I was a teenager, in the words of my mother, "has got to stop".

It's time I learned a few things, like:

1. I am not 10 years old even though I act like it
2. "Forcing It" should maybe not be my personal mantra anymore
3. One should never twist while lifting

If I'd embraced these things before this trip, perhaps I wouldn't have twisted my knee to the point of nearly tears and before that even maybe I wouldn't have wandered off into the woods with a backpack just shy of 50 pounds (49.5 said the scale).

Hi! I'm fucking retarded.

Sigh.

Sucks.

Now, the fun part about this (fun is just not the right word here, but I'm moving on), is that I did sort of embrace #2 back there as I continued to march on through the pain for another two days. What I mean is that after two days of being all, "Oh, I'll be fine. I'll just take some more Aleve and try not to be such a vagina about it." I finally gave in to the reality of things.

The reality being that the first pass we crossed (Muir Pass, 11,995') nearly put me in the ground and it being the second lowest pass we were going to cover meant that HI STUPID perhaps my knee isn't going to make it over 4 more passes that are higher, steeper and just full to the fucking brim with sunuvabitching granite block steps, monster gravel, boulders, massively steep descents that would press my right knee into action every other step and, you know, evil gremlins out to eat my feet and knees.

OH.

Also I was going terribly slow because it's hard to hobble at a normal hiking pace and OH YEAH my boots were consuming my feet at the rate of one blister per mile.

Or so.

It was getting ugly on my feet and knee, I was getting progressively pathetically slower and I had only crossed one of six passes. 

Oh yay me. Way to go.

Then it started to rain. And then snow. And then hail.

Not super encouraging.
Also, bizarre halo effect courtesy of hail on my camera lens.

So as Bubba and I sat out the hail/rain/thunder and lightning storm for 14 hours in our wee "2 person" tent, we got real.

This is Bubba's Get real and stop arguing with me because you know I'm right face. It's convincing, I'll admit.

Also, I had no escape, so that helped.

Ah, hail. Just what you want on your backpacking trip.

As in, if I tried to man up through five more high elevation passes, I was going to destroy my right knee forever, probably ruin my left knee compensating for my shit ass right knee and my feet were going to become one giant blister as soon as all of my toenails fell off. 

"Manning up" for 70 more miles wasn't an option. 

Instead, because Bubba is a wise Eagle Scout and good husband aware of the realities of backcountry injuries, his wife's stubbornness and the remaining available outs on the trail, convinced me that we should bail out over Bishop Pass (11,980') and thumb a ride into town so that we could hopefully get a rental car to drive my hobbled ass back to the Bay Area. 

He is very wise, this one.

"Why you no listen to Bubba? I KNOW THINGS, CRAZY WOMAN."

So I gave in. I came to terms with the fact that I wasn't going to finish the last five passes of the John Muir Trail with him and our Super Nice Neighbor like I'd set out to. I dealt with the oppressive feelings of failure and suckiness and not getting to swim all the live long day at Rae Lakes during our zero day as planned. I let go of my dreams of fishing high mountain streams and lakes for trout. I gave up on Eastern Sierra sunsets and waterfalls and pee-pee inducing views and seeing fuzzy creatures bouncing their fat butts over granite boulders and chasing frogs through the creek crossings and all of the things that I had stuffed my brains with as we'd prepped for this trip.

Because he promised that when my knee was better and my one thousand blisters healed, we'd come back. 

And he picked me some flowers so that I wouldn't be sad.

And I'd only carry a 30 pound pack, wear trail running shoes (MISSED YOU, BROOKS ADRENALINE ASR GTXs!) and never lift and twist again.

That was enough to convince me to scratch at Bishop Pass Junction, a scant 30 or so miles into our hike. 

What I didn't know, and what probably would have helped me over the hump had either of us realized it was ahead of us, was that the Bishop Pass Trail from Le Conte Canyon IS FUCKING GORGEOUS.

Hello, Eastern Sierras. AREN'T YOU THE LOOKER.

Oh, and YOU over there - not too shabby.

I'm a sucker for trees with sexy bark. There. Now you know.

I'm afraid I'll have to take a break from hiking to STARE AT THIS FOREVER YES.

Smiling even though bleeding. The sign of amazing views.

Monster waterfall? Yes, please.

So many pack outfitters. So much horse and mule poo. Still - never got old.

Nice going, Bishop Pass.

We were, uh, into it.

Now, yes, the trail is steep and switchbacky and knee-wrecky for three miles as you eat up a few thousand feet of elevation and there were definite moments of desperation as folks would be hiking down the trail from Dusy Basin all fresh looking and not swearing loudly at every step they took like some people BUT, like the book said, the views are distracting enough to keep you moving.

Like, as you're hiking the switchbacks to the south you're looking at an enormous gorgeous waterfall and as you turn back and hike the switchbacks to the north, you're looking at a span of the Eastern Sierra that busts your eyes with its hugeness.

Also Cal Fire helicopters.

So, I lived to see the glory GLORY I SAY of the unfortunately named Dusy Basin.

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME WITH THIS?

Yeah. It was incredible. So beautiful and peaceful and not full of hikers racing from one campsite to the next talking endlessly about their calorie consumption and Ultralight packs and even with a meandering stream chock full of trout feeding from the surface that I could hardly strip down to my skivvies and go swimming and fishing before putting my pack down.

Happy now. Even with fucked up feet and knees.

Well, it was exactly what I needed. 

And what Bubba needed. 

Plus, it didn't rain, I got to fish and swim, we watched the Super Moon wander across the sky and light up the basin and when we finished the pass and then descended into Bishop the next day, a very awesome couple gave us a ride into Bishop so that we could get my peg legged ass back to doctor-having society.

Which was a bit of a task.

I won't go into complete detail about our return to civilization, so will just say that it involved finding no available rental cars in Bishop, so instead orchestrating a near Planes, Trains and Automobiles transportation bonanza from a dive bar while people came out of the fucking woodwork to interrogate us on where we'd been and how was the hike and how long have you been in the woods and oh that's OK that you smell so rank since you've been "on the trail" and whatever.

Bishop is a cool place, y'all. Because after being treated like scourges as we hiked the JMT (no bathroom access for thru-hikers, no hot springs for thru-hikers, etc), suddenly we were in the land of Hey, Backpackers! Your sodas are on the house! Have a razor/shampoo/king size room at no extra charge! Put your big smelly dirty packs anywhere! Of course we deliver to your hotel room! Certainly you can pay with a credit card on board and stow your disgusting packs on the bus no problem! Let me lift your staggeringly heavy backpacks into the cab! How cool that you're doing this that I'm not judging you for your foul dumpster-like odor!

And that land is called, Bishop, CA.

So, on our journey back to the Bay Area, Bubba decided to rename our trip to something more suitable to what we'd accomplished rather than what we'd bailed on.

John Muir Trail Trip turned into First Trans-Sierra Trip right there as we cruised to Reno aboard the surprisingly accommodating Eastern Sierra Transit bus.

So, yeah, all told, we hiked about 70 miles, covered many thousands of feet in elevation, busted one knee, got a dozen or so blisters, saw waterfalls, lakes, super friendly deer, marmots, toads, frogs, picas, brook trout, rainbow trout, Swamp Onions, penstemon, lilies, huge peaks, the Muir Hut, met some cool people, met some lame people, had a bear in our campsite, rode out a hail storm in our still waterproof tent, swam, fished, ate some good backpacking food and some less good backpacking food, destroyed one backpack (mine) and one pair of boots (Bubba's), bruised our eyes with beauty and went swimming while it snowed.

And as soon as Bubba got me back home, we packed him up to go back to the trail to meet our Super Nice Neighbor, which is hopefully who he's with at this very moment at Charlotte Lake. 

Not going to lie, here, I'll be glad when I have him back home with me once I pick him and our Super Nice Neighbor up at the Mt Whitney Trailhead on Friday so I can give him the royal Thanks For Keeping Me From Wrecking Myself While Still Making Our Trip Super Fun and Awesome treatment.

Suggestions welcomed.

Before I run screaming into the woods

Just a semi-long random ass update before we go off the grid like psychos into the woods.

Walking around

Remember how I was all, "I'm going to walk around in the woods for 2 weeks" and shit?

Well, that's about to actually happen.

Like, this coming weekend it starts.

Even though I'm still sort of in denial about the whole thing.

Like, yeah, we've packed two bear canisters with 32 pounds of food, shipped a giant 34 pound box of food to our resupply guy, gone on some training death marches, set up the tent in the backyard, bought a new tent when the old one turned out to have some dry rot (15 years of hard labor, poor thing), test cooked dinner on our campstove, rebuilt the campstove when we realized all the O-rings were about to blow, outfitted ourselves with as much OMNI-FREEZE sunblocking clothing as we could find, realized we might be cold and then packed our sub-zeroest long underwear and down jackets and booties, dipped matches into paraffin to waterproof them, read the fishing reports, stuffed gallons of peanut butter and Nutella into squeeze tubes, filled soft bottles with booze, weighed our packed bags (53.25 pounds? HOLY EFFING MUTHER FUCKING SHIT) and put our mail on hold but still I haven't come to terms with the fact that we are about to go into the woods for two weeks.

Oh yeah. Let's do this.
I mean, I guess we could. Or we could stay home and lie down.

And that my rickety arthritic feet are going to carry me over six mountain passes (we're starting at Muir Trail Ranch in the middle, there), with one being the highest peak in the contiguous US.

14,495 feet? Don't say crazy things, map.

So, yay for my orthotics? And the Advil, Aleve and migraine inhalers busting out of the seams of our first aid kit? And a lot of booze?

Yes, yay for those things.

And also spreadsheet planners, maps, new bosses that are totally OK with their new employees ditching out on work for two weeks when they've only been working for a month, super helpful neighbor/co-backpackers that planned most everything else about this trip, friends who are watching the dog/cat/fish/house, other friends who are driving us to the trailhead, other OTHER friends letting us stay in their cabin the night before so that we don't have to camp at the trailhead for an early morning start, neighbor's wives who are picking us up at the end and, you know - a lot of things are yay.

As it turns out, it takes a fucking village to allow three people to leave life for two weeks to walk around in the woods.

Like morons.

Or at least that's how that sentence keeps coming out of people's mouths.

So yeah, that's happening.

Not really a farmer yet

I started my first job as a farmer and IT'S FUCKING AWESOME I LOVE IT and soon hopefully I will have an actual crop growing so that I can actually farm. 

Because, right now, what I'm doing is a lot more like planning to farm than actual farming. It's a lot of strategy and system design and plant nerdy nonsense that I won't bore you with (though, if you're into bio-mechanical filtration, I can talk at length. I'm sure you're interested so don't all email me at once.), but since all of our other farmers are farming their asses off, I get to see awesome shit like this on the daily.

Dry farmed tomatoes becoming FOR REALS.

Calendula fields for the edible flower packs.

So much squash SO MUCH FUCKING SQUASH.

And that's not the half of it. In fact, there's so many hundreds of acres more that YIKES. But it's rad. And not just because of the best perks in all of jobdom.

Why yes I WOULD like to fill up the passenger side of my car with whatever I want to pick from the farm.

And YES I DO have something to hold the first tomatoes of the season hold on while I use my hat.

I WOULD love a flat of padron peppers that are just too big for retail, thanks for asking!

Also some garlic and Napoletano basil because why not?

Yes. Yes I will take home a bouquet of basil.

And this flat of green beans that was left on my desk by the green bean fairy.
Which is weird but totally OK with me.

Just the best 10th anniversary ever is all

Meanwhile, Bubba and I celebrated our 10th anniversary last week and it was...incredible.

The man is super human in the ways of knowing me and how to make just a night out because we're about to go away for two weeks and have no time for anything else even though it's our 10th anniversary which is kind of a big one but oh well we'll do it up big next year or something super memorable and awesome even though it's just one night.

Like, he planned a dinner at a great place that wasn't too fancy so that I didn't have to stress about getting all dressed up after working like a maniac all day on the farm, but then didn't tell me where it was so that he could surprise me (I LOVE SURPRISES) and then told me we could get there whenever so that I didn't have to rush. 

I HATE RUSHING.

Then he surprised me with an incredible gorgeous unbelievable anniversary ring even though we weren't going to do gifts because we have this big trip to go on and let's not worry about it.  And told me that we could sit and enjoy dinner and not rush because the surprise thing we were doing after dinner didn't have any time requirements.

I HATE RUSHING. I LOVE SURPRISES. AND AFTER DINNER SURPRISE THINGS.

Bubba's mysterious SURPRISE face. My drunk happy face. You recognize it.

THEN he surprised me with the surprise thing that turned out to be one of my favorite live musicians playing at one of my favorite outdoor venues and OH we have really great seats. 

John Hiatt, Montalvo Winery, warm summer night, Bubba...

I was pleased. TO THE POINT OF BURSTING.

Amazing.

WHO IS THIS FUCKING GUY? And, more importantly, how did I manage to talk him into sticking around for so long?

I must use this power elsewhere. But only for good! 

Ok, mostly for good.

Anyway, yeah - we're off to hike, fish and swim in high mountain lakes for two weeks, being a farmer is rad even though I'm not really farming yet and I love my Bubba even more at 10 years than I did at 1 year, even though I never would have thought it possible.

Let's hope this trip goes well and I don't have to, like, fight a bear or something, because it would be a real drag for things to start sucking after the rad month we just had.

CATCHING

I looked like this all day.

Here I am with 45 minutes until a friend shows up and I've done all the shit I set out to do today and instead of watching the first 45 minutes of my favorite Bubba's Away Movie (Cold Mountain - he hates it now after the 435th viewing. Slacker.), I'm writing this post.

For you guys.

BECAUSE I'M NICE LIKE THAT.

Actually, no, I just want to get the random post trend started back up again now that the whole pesky BIG HUGE THING NEWS event of 2012 has come, gone and resulted in gainful employment.

Thank the maker that shit's over. Now we can talk about important random shit like HEY I CAUGHT A BOAT LOAD OF FUCKING FISH WOO!

Yeah, that's right, I got to go fishing. And, to quote my beloved hilarious slightly miffed father, "This is called FISHING, Jessie (my dad calls me Jessie. NOT YOU GUYS. Or anyone other than immediate family that has known me since I was wee. So shut it all up.). You're just CATCHING. You're doing it wrong."

Which he screamed from his boat on Father's Day morn as I caught, along with Bubba and my sweet uncle on our boat, "All the fish in the lake so that no one else had a fucking chance."

Or so says Finny's dad.

Salty sailor, this guy.

You may be getting an idea about from where I get this spicy language. Go with that. You're on to something.

Anyway, yeah. Bubba planned a very lovely Father's Day fishing trip for my dad and uncle to Crowley Lake (just outside Mammoth, CA) and let my brother and I tag along.

I saw it as a very sweet ruse to get me out on a boat for a day of guided fishing, but that's because I see all outings in which I participate as outings created with only me in mind.

Because it's all about me.

You know this.

But did you know that I kissed all the fish in the lake?

Well, I tried, anyway.

This guy was ready for me. Look at that come hither maw.

It's in the eyes here. Or, eye, rather.

Asking for it with those sexy spots, I say.

I mean, really, with the way they dress these days.

Just a little peck!

Whore.

 Also, Bubba took his turn making out with fish.

Full tongue on the first date? Suh-lut.

This one was not of age for kissing.

Practically begging for it.

First we fold the fish, then we kiss the fish.

Mmmmmmmmm...folded fish.

We all kissed this fish. It was the winner of the day - 19" rainbow.

And my uncle is not a fish kisser as much as he is a fish CATCHER.

LINE 1's FOR YOU, MAN!

No kissing. Only catching.

Quick march with the photo, woman! There are fish waiting for my fly!

And back into the lake with you, ya big tease.

No time to waste. In the net, photo taken, BACK INTO THE WATER STAT.

He's a mean tease, my uncle. 

That was the long swear-y way of saying that I finally got to go back out on a guided fishing trip (even made the guide's website) after the awesome one we took with the same guide outfit back in 2012 and HOO BOY was it great.

I love fishing. And catching. And hanging out on a boat all day while someone else does all the work of untangling my shitty casts (Thanks, Jerry! You're really patient and not at all giving me the hairy eyeball every time I fuck up my cast! Thanks for that. Sheesh. I'm a mess.).

Happy Father's Day again, dad. Sorry I caught all of your fish. I mean, it was a trip for me, right?