I’m like a banjo minnow, plumes of long stems and barbs triggers a genetic response somewhere deep inside and I must add them to my collection.

Even if I screwed up, who cares, they’re carp. I’ve seen those fish eat cigarette butts.

Even Clint Eastwood got a touch of the gold fever. He filmed scenes for his 1985 western classic Pale Rider on the opposite side of the peaks.

I was the equivalent of a jig-dancing pauper on a street corner with a large cardboard sign plugging wireless services, pizza specials, or inventory liquidation.

Photo: Ben Romans

Stick it, wrap around the mono; stick it, wrap around the mono; then stick it a final time so a small alluring portion quivers off the stern like a rabbit strip flickering off a streamer’s posterior.

Photo: Ben Romans

We anticipated heavier-than-usual Fourth of July boat traffic and wanted to be in the right place at the right time to scrutinize any ensuing PMD or bikini hatches the river gods decided to give up. Unfortunately neither fully materialized.

8 a.m. Blow out a wheel bearing on the trailer while I’m driving—damned near lose the Clacka entirely.

Photo: Big Hole brown, Ben Romans.