I’m always amazed at how quickly things go from somewhat under control to completely-tangled chaos when I’m flyfishing. Obviously the mature way to look at what always ends in an obscene display of frustration is to look upon these tangles of line and leader accompanied by numerous jabs and pricks from the hook–never a better case to be made for barbless–is to realize that the entire study in mayhem is little more than a benign metaphor for life. So what if forty-eight minutes of life are spent straightening out a mess that appeared to manifest itself on its own as if some mean-spirited wilderness sprite zapped her twisted magic my way. Being devoured by mosquitoes while fly line wraps around my legs, neck and feet is not only a fine possibility for internal growth, it also readily translates into one hell of a good time like changing a tire when it’s thirty below, dealing with a sinus headache or paying property taxes. But when I really do look back at these problems, what I’m really amazed at is how I can have so damn much fun dealing with annoyances that would drive me crazy back home.