Instead of hitting the water early, I hit the trail for a brisk morning walk around one of the big water pastures that both Charlie and me are thinking about pursuing in earnest someday. During my morning walk I did slip down the sloped rocky and rugged terrain, on a number of occasions, to explore the fringes of the lake for carp. Stumbling through the rocky terrain, full of softball and soccer ball-sized boulders, it seemed like I was traversing through prime territory that could very well hold rattlesnakes.
Images of long fangs penetrating a deep vein can give a fellow cause for reflection in their fervor of the pursuit of carp. With that thought in mind yesterday morning, and realizing that this carp pasture was rather large, exploring the acquistion of a kayak seemed to be a good option. A kayak - one of those rather jazzy stabilized kayak numbers with the attachable outriggers. But, suck a kayak now is just a thought and around $1100.00 away from this particular fellow.
After the morning walk, I pull into the little store where I always get that sissy coffee I drink. Getting out of the prairie schooner I see a fellow I've known for a good number of years. When he sees me he points his finger and says, "Come here... I have something for you."
It seems that Ronnie has just returned from the Dog Trade. The Dog Trade is a Sunday flea market event that has been taking place for half of a century around this area. Ronnie reached behind his pick-up seat and brought out a wall-hanging graphic, handed it to me, and said, "When I saw this, I thought of you. Here you go."
I love fly fishing stuff you can hang on the wall. That spare bedroom at the bunkhouse - the fly-tying/mini-museum room I refer to, is quickly filling up with such stuff. This gift from Ronnie was in pristine condition and I'm delighted he was so kind to acquire it with me in mind. I shake his hand, slap him on the back and then... I probably insulted him by asking if I owed him anything. Yeah... I insulted him... because Ronnie, in a nice way, let me know I owed him nothing.
From this parking lot I travel to the mercantile store of which I owe my livelihood. Running short on money there is a need to cash some paper so I can buy lunch for my in-destination grandson traveling from Tulsa. As I pull into the mercantile store parking lot I see a man standing next to a rather large hog motorcycle, but pay him little attention. Upon exiting the schooner he calls my name and I recognize the voice right away.
David, is the son of my long time co-worker, dear friend, and fishing buddy Francis Rozell. We lost Francis almost two years ago and I haven't seen David since the funeral. David looks rather sunburned, a little road worn, somewhat tired on this Sunday morning, and there is good reason as to why.
He shares that as he pulled into the mercantile parking lot he just completed a 4800 mile road trip that took him west and north. He mentioned Yellowstone, Flaming Gorge, Beartooth, and the Pacific Coast Highway. Then he reached into his pocket for something, and the conversation turned to while he was in Montana at an outfitters. David handed me a plastic cup full of flies, explaining when he saw the fly shop in the outfitters he thought about how much I love to fly fish.
After a half-hour or better visit, David was ready to wash the road off and we said good-bye, but not before making plans to have a get-together to view the several hundred pictures he took on his trip... along with slamming some good food and maybe some brews to go along.
In less than a ten minute span, I got to see and visit with two friends that were both in a gifting mood.
I didn't fish Sunday... and I'm damn glad of it. Fly fishing is always wonderful... but, friends are always better.