Wednesday, March 30, 2011
La Smith et la Mouffette
Oh, mon cheri. Why do you treet me zees way? I come all zees way to wade in your beauty and chase your bright feesheez. Eeet's spreeng, ze time of loooove. So show me ze love, mon révérer, show me feesh love.
Such lovely sounding language. La mouffette. I was la mouffette on the Smith River yesterday. Seems springy, and nice, doesn't it? Well, I'm afraid that skunk smells like skunk, in any language.
I tried everything. I swung the post-generation falling waters with streamers. I scoured the settled runs and plunge pools with nymphs - princes, pheasants, CJs, you name it - big and little. I focused on emergers as fish began breaking the surface. And finally, as I began plucking late-afternoon fluttering mayflies and stones from the air, I floated dries, only to watch the sippers ignore my best efforts at matches in favor of the real thing, floating right next to them, not six inches away. Nothing I tried worked. I was ignored. I was spurned. I was thoroughly mouffetted.
Such a fickle river. Such picky fish. Such frustration. But, in spite of it, such a wonderful spring day on the Smith. The skunk, la mouffette? It didn't really matter. I've been Pepe before. I'll be Pepe again. Se la vi.
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