tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57914963188199734642024-03-06T00:24:12.256-05:00Mike's Gone Fishin'... AgainWandering the Waterways and Annoying the FishesMike Sepelakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10569706920906836936noreply@blogger.comBlogger579125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5791496318819973464.post-80643107957061020002021-07-12T12:33:00.006-04:002021-07-12T15:26:54.892-04:00Cold<p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivyi8XezWk_YiUVHC48roKrY9hyoTrnmTYXpw1iBeEbN3jBqZawvD4InyXHZyUcS0dK840J1e3hMkzlVrEHLea9_-qa0jRv3Ah__-TuLzAu2lLVnIwYeYZRFd_lqoRqfa0EBaR-xb8TWE/s2048/Cold.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1367" data-original-width="2048" height="427" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivyi8XezWk_YiUVHC48roKrY9hyoTrnmTYXpw1iBeEbN3jBqZawvD4InyXHZyUcS0dK840J1e3hMkzlVrEHLea9_-qa0jRv3Ah__-TuLzAu2lLVnIwYeYZRFd_lqoRqfa0EBaR-xb8TWE/w640-h427/Cold.jpg" width="640" /></a></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Shivering, hunched down into scant layers that aren’t getting the job done, it occurs to me that it’s been over a year since I’ve been cold. Not chilled-so-I-think-I’ll-get-a-sweatshirt-from-the-closet cold, but teeth-rattling, bone-aching, finger-numbing cold. First-run-in-the-morning cold. Beneath the discomfort, the sensation is glorious.<o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">As Mary and I each have some years under our belts and skeletons in our medical closet that could make infection life-threatening, we’ve isolated ourselves quite drastically this past year-and-a-half, our world shrunk to the twenty wooded acres surrounding the house with an every-other-week run to the grocery (arriving, of course, at 6:00am as the doors are opened, in hopes of empty aisles). We’ve ZOOMed with our neighbors for social interaction. We’ve withdrawn. You may think us foolish, but so be it. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">That bubble, the place into which we’d taken shelter, has been climate-controlled; the thermostat sliding between 70 and 76, depending on the season. Those early-morning grocery runs preceded by remotely started truck-warming. Walks in the woods taken appropriately dressed or deferred during extremes. Our thermal conditions have been as regulated as our human interactions. We’ve remained comfortable in uncomfortable times.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">But comfort has costs, inertia the worst of them. Despite vaccination, our return to the world has been slow. It’s been too easy to hold on to the routine, well-established during this past pandemic, and to look for reasons to maintain it. We’ve lived, and lived well, but in the comfort zone of reduced scale and scope; the temperature, consistent and even.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">So now, as I skip across this lake, five states away from my bubble, as I huddle deep into my Gore-Tex for the first time in too long, I remember how much it can hurt. How cold can coalesce into a single, sharp point of focus, driving deep into your being and obliterating everything else with a numbing pain.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><i> </i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Pain that means I’m alive again.<o:p></o:p></p></div><p><br /></p>Mike Sepelakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10569706920906836936noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5791496318819973464.post-48093657983078415312021-01-27T10:39:00.007-05:002021-01-30T08:45:10.201-05:00The Kid<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjit0b8kPnAMswTDSYRqRLSo0RbWYcoFW5RLBNH3fS1surt0uorqRbCkMZMyCHqQurPioeHf_xOV1cSxHc946UuAQDMvuGuK42EVJakslzAsgtpCZdGNtcv29X7Tjzl4Vq7E4N1Nh-EE38/s2048/The+Kid.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="427" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjit0b8kPnAMswTDSYRqRLSo0RbWYcoFW5RLBNH3fS1surt0uorqRbCkMZMyCHqQurPioeHf_xOV1cSxHc946UuAQDMvuGuK42EVJakslzAsgtpCZdGNtcv29X7Tjzl4Vq7E4N1Nh-EE38/w640-h427/The+Kid.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">I watched through the drizzle as the small herd edged closer to our bird feeders and to Mary’s beloved forsythia. They’re a bold bunch here, not terribly afraid of my shouting or waving, but wary enough to walk away should I physically infringe too far into their personal deer space. Already low on sunflower and with the forsythia’s early blooms looking tasty, I resigned myself to another soggy intercession and reached for my muck boots.<br /><o:p> <br /></o:p>But before I could slide into the galoshes, the herd, as one, lifted their heads and peered into the woods just outside of my view, around the corner of the house. There was no tension in their posture, as might be caused by a coyote or stray dog, but, instead, a wary interest. I, too, paused to see what played out. But several minutes passed with the herd’s distraction unwavering, so, tired of waiting, I walked through the house to an east-facing window to see what was holding their attention. It was The Kid.<br /><o:p> <br /></o:p>I’ve spotted The Kid a handful of times as he’s limped through the woods, his malformed right foreleg hanging loosely as he forages. He’s a young spike buck with either a birth defect or an early injury that’s arrested his peg’s development, leaving it several inches shorter than its counterpart and with questionable sturdiness. I’ve seen him attempt to use it for support but once, while bending low to root in the leaves for food, and it wasn’t pretty.<br /><o:p> <br /></o:p>As he approached, the herd (a collection of does and yearlings) began to move slowly away, in time with his awkward advance. They wanted nothing to do with him. As to whether their rejection was due to his gender or his disability, I cannot say, but I anthropomorphized it as both. He’s always alone.<br /><o:p> <br /></o:p>I love observing the wildlife here, but it’s the unfortunates that really take my heart. Last summer it was a <a href="https://www.mikesgonefishing.com/2020/06/the-house-finch.html" target="_blank">house finch whose limited flight was painful to watch</a>, day in and day out. Like The Kid, the bird was perpetually shunned. I think that’s what affects me most deeply here of late. More than their imperfection, their isolation. Life’s hard enough when one can’t fly well or is hobbled profoundly, but to be left an outlier for it is cruel and beyond my understanding. It’s one of nature’s brutal truths, I can’t deny, survival of the fittest, but it’s difficult to swallow. I feel their loneliness. <br /><o:p> <br /></o:p>As the herd melted back into the woods and The Kid continued towards the house, I slid the muck boots back under the desk. I wouldn’t be chasing him away as I would have the others, even if he eyed the forsythia. And after some thought I stood by the window, quietly, where he could see me, hoping he might get used to my presence; that he might have some company, odd as that seems. At my appearance he paused and considered my intrusion for a moment, then resumed his clumsy march to the feeders, scattering the mourning doves as he arrived. <br /><o:p> <br /></o:p><o:p> </o:p></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p>Mike Sepelakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10569706920906836936noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5791496318819973464.post-31558144028263929012020-06-08T11:24:00.000-04:002020-06-08T15:51:17.471-04:00The House Finch<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjRIqZ_5gaod37JKESdGorqDn5UOi0pjOoLxGeBiOn622OkcNCDOEBikRqzSrY_LA-1gxZTl6X9BIeQSZXKhDf4jDxqDTbPmmM2LCMFgq2uNadBMRJVwUKAw2t9eyih86Ez5QmerBqrig/s1600/Odd+Sparrow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjRIqZ_5gaod37JKESdGorqDn5UOi0pjOoLxGeBiOn622OkcNCDOEBikRqzSrY_LA-1gxZTl6X9BIeQSZXKhDf4jDxqDTbPmmM2LCMFgq2uNadBMRJVwUKAw2t9eyih86Ez5QmerBqrig/s640/Odd+Sparrow.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
I’ve grown attached to the little guy, a regular at the feeder for the past month or so. You might wonder how I can tell this particular house finch from the swarms of others that come and go from this station, but he’s not hard to pick out. There’s something not right with him.<br />
<br />
At first glance I thought him a fledgling, small, just out of the nest and not entirely into his wings. But as he’s come and gone over the ensuing weeks his movement has never improved. There’s no glide in his flight. He struggles to stay in the air, moving in short, frenetic bursts, forward and upward a foot or two, falling back half of it, and repeating until he slowly works his way to his next uncertain perch. More butterfly than bird. I walk faster than he can fly. But he gets there, usually. It’s not clear whether his impairment is physical or neurological but staying airborne seems terribly hard work and it breaks my heart to watch. For him, it’s supposed to be effortless.<br />
<br />
He must roost close by, somewhere at the edge of the woods that surround our house, for he’s clearly incapable of long distances. And he’s always alone as the other finches shun him, even chase him away from the feeder which is hard to watch. Surprisingly, he’s not intimidated by the bigger birds – the doves, the cardinals, the woodpeckers of various sizes - that come and go as he sits at his meal. He’s even tolerant of my presence as he's the last to flee when I approach to replenish the seed. He takes to the air only when I get within arm’s length. I interpret this as courage, but it may be that flight is so difficult that, despite the fear, he avoids it until there’s no other option. I suppose there’s a fine line between the two, if one at all.<br />
<br />
He seems happy enough, though, sitting for long stretches at the limitless flow of safflower. He’s a sympathetic little fellow and for him I’m careful to keep the hopper full. I worry that he won’t be around for long.<br />
<br />
At first, I assumed that my attachment was purely compassionate, that I felt sorry for this poor little creature and his handicap. But as these difficult Covid weeks have passed, I’ve come to realize that there’s more to it than that; that we’re birds of a feather, this finch and I. My flight, like his, is impaired; my range also limited by circumstance. We now both stay close to our feeders, leaving them only when absolutely necessary, invoking that odd mix of courage and fear. We are each removed from our breed. And, at the end of the day, I’m concerned for both of our futures.<br />
<br />
Poor little house finch. I wonder if he dreams of soaring. I know that I do.<br />
<br />
<br />
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Mike Sepelakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10569706920906836936noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5791496318819973464.post-68580976271303637932019-06-25T13:16:00.001-04:002022-05-17T12:45:35.967-04:00The Elephant<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMabbL1Rhnqj4xqmTrIyYuG4QKK-K_VtHsgcXnVyf1S6IDDlGZUy_eb_1q4CONgr5soao0xyirTryYuxFvf15xoBRbawvh_9xbuRYCDD5u-wpFYZ830sjjFeDmEqArCOZ5w2SXlA2TEQA/s1600/The+Elephant.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMabbL1Rhnqj4xqmTrIyYuG4QKK-K_VtHsgcXnVyf1S6IDDlGZUy_eb_1q4CONgr5soao0xyirTryYuxFvf15xoBRbawvh_9xbuRYCDD5u-wpFYZ830sjjFeDmEqArCOZ5w2SXlA2TEQA/s640/The+Elephant.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
No one will look at the elephant. No one will speak of it though it sits just outside the front window of the Dalwhinnie, all gray and dank and dour, staring in at us as we gather for breakfast. Heads down in our eggs, our coffee, our phones, we try to ignore it, knowing full well that every man around the table knows that it’s out there and that knowledge is killing us. There’s talk, but it’s small. Inconsequential. A mouse next to the brooding beast that drips outside the glass. Even the eye contact among us is fleeting, lest the elephant be reflected in our glance for others to see.<br />
<br />
We know what the elephant wants. It wants our submission. It wants our surrender. It wants to come in and sit down on us, to crush us under its massive flanks, to envelope us in its forlornness, its despair, its gray void. It wants to take away our Beaver Island fishing day. <br />
<br />
Kevin says that there’s one thing worse than missing a day on the Lake Michigan carp flats due to the weather and that’s dying in his boat. At our core we know this, but we are slow to give in to the inevitability. The longer we can ignore the creature just outside the window the longer the carnival can go on. So we each pretend that the elephant’s not there and wait for someone else to break the glass. We sit, the six of us, and hold our breaths, knowing that eventually the beast will get what it wants but not wishing to be the first to give it the satisfaction.<br />
<br />
In the end it’s done for us. A passing local casually asks “<i>You guys going fishing in this stuff?</i>” and with that the great gray pachyderm waltzes in the thrown open door on twenty-knot winds, jumps up on the table, and does a pirouette on the paper napkin dispenser. We all look up, first at the local, then at the elephant, and Steve dispatches them both with a short, annoyed “No.” The tension is released like a midway balloon at the end of the water shoot game and the elephant disappears before it can get a proper gloat on.<br />
<br />
We breathe again, and start thinking about tomorrow and the next act.<br />
<br />
Mike Sepelakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10569706920906836936noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5791496318819973464.post-72677419208274863822019-03-13T10:12:00.000-04:002019-03-13T10:12:52.065-04:00Fragments: Actual Fishing<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEika_KdfGbjTop_RMP7dbeNlBNdGWJCEvnK_MDIDr_PLPmnVzG9X9_erg1wISl8UDy2UgsyXs6XL6UMTVenu9s9vqxPJtJpYD6OmJmx3lgyFx4Nw7tEo1s0QaSm6xoLgyAEi1ir-5ApIhU/s1600/Fragments+Fishing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEika_KdfGbjTop_RMP7dbeNlBNdGWJCEvnK_MDIDr_PLPmnVzG9X9_erg1wISl8UDy2UgsyXs6XL6UMTVenu9s9vqxPJtJpYD6OmJmx3lgyFx4Nw7tEo1s0QaSm6xoLgyAEi1ir-5ApIhU/s640/Fragments+Fishing.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><i>Contrary to the run of play around here, this <b>is</b> a fishing blog. I suppose that a <a href="https://www.mikesgonefishing.com/search/label/Fragments">Fragments</a> from the water should be included. Stay wet, my friends.</i></div><br />
<b>Q: </b><i>So, Kevin, what makes a good carp flat?</i><br />
<b>A: </b><i>Carp</i><br />
Beaver Island, MI, June 2015<br />
<br />
They were rising like porpoises in the Pipeline. Big, fat Elk River cutthroats. To what we weren’t sure but the first red-assed ant we floated through there got hammered so the game was on. Now, there’s no way there’d be ants riding that torrent, but the red-asses looked enough like something else to work so we went with it. - Elk River, BC, June 2014<br />
<br />
“Technical.” “Presentation.” Scary words after four days of fat, stupid cutthroats on hoppers. - Missouri River, MT, June 2014<br />
<br />
First fish in Alaska, a robust four-inch rainbow. Outstanding. - Agulapak River, AK, August 2015<br />
<br />
An hour flight to the coast, slightly upstream, looking like tidal marshes of North Carolina but for the mountains on the near horizon. Nicked silvers as they came into the fresh water, sea lice still attached and bright as a new dime. Hooked up on my second strip and all hell broke loose. Flexed the Scott all day long. James said fifity fish. He might be right, though I stopped counting at three. - Bristol Bay, AK, August 2015<br />
<br />
I couldn’t set a hook to save my life. A fish needed to be suicidal, impale himself on the fly for me to stay buttoned. Thankfully, cutthroat can be like that sometimes. - Caribou-Targhee National Forest, ID, August 2018<br />
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When you’re a rookie on the flats it’s hard to discern between not being able to see fish and there not being fish to see. - Long Island, Bahamas, June 2013<br />
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Grayling in numbers, a few rainbows, colored up silvers, a sockeye, and a lake trout. A variety on flesh and bead. Should have gone to the strike indicator earlier but James insisted on calling it a bobber and I couldn’t bring myself to it. - Wood-Tikchik State Park, AK, Sept 2015<br />
<i><br />
</i>Mike Sepelakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10569706920906836936noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5791496318819973464.post-36058157046534790192019-03-11T06:00:00.000-04:002019-03-11T09:11:22.464-04:00Fragments: Alaskan Airspace<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnQj3e3kc7gtDstCZbCeAyBbF7vwJ2UIcXu0XYAs3p0V-AYFvNLanFEXgq53FKiQPGqg_AV-woyWByYsb4f21fYRG2LaYuuaL-1OwRMmCvpYbQkFHw5i7vhxx0wF0am5eUBxyEkH0uHQ8/s1600/Fragments+Alaskan+Air.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnQj3e3kc7gtDstCZbCeAyBbF7vwJ2UIcXu0XYAs3p0V-AYFvNLanFEXgq53FKiQPGqg_AV-woyWByYsb4f21fYRG2LaYuuaL-1OwRMmCvpYbQkFHw5i7vhxx0wF0am5eUBxyEkH0uHQ8/s640/Fragments+Alaskan+Air.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><i>The journal entries from my Fall 2015 adventure in Alaska are rife with references to flying. They deserve a <a href="https://www.mikesgonefishing.com/search/label/Fragments">Fragments</a> of their own. In chronological order:</i></div><br />
As comforting as it is to have your gear with you, carrying on a rod case has its downfalls. You have to listen to everyone’s fishing stories at each gate.<br />
<br />
<b>7:30am</b> - Sitting on the tarmac at RDU. “<i>We have a minor maintenance item. Shouldn’t take too long.</i>” Yeah, we’ll see. Visions of missed connections dance through my brain. I knew the day had started too well, skating through TSA as I did. Like catching a fish on the first cast.<br />
<b>7:35am</b> – Rolling again. Just the gods tugging at my ragged edges. They do that when I fly.<br />
<br />
I’m toast, though the sun has not yet set. I’ve gained four hours as I’ve flown to the west and I feel the weight of them.<br />
<br />
Tantalizing peaks as we fly from Anchorage to Dillingham and seat 5F is a window. Unfortunately, it looks straight into the engine cowling of our SAAB 340. Shit. I get a good, brief view as we bank hard to the north but I don’t have the camera ready. As it turns out, the mountains are just getting started. But so are the clouds. There’s no winning.<br />
<br />
There’s talk of the president’s arrival at the small Alaskan airstrip in Dillingham. Big news. Concerns about folks who live in the bush not knowing about the visit and trying to fly their small aircraft in for supplies. No radios, no warning. What to do? Escort with F15s? Shoot them down? It’s a worry.<br />
<br />
Flying has been a bit of a nightmare for me. My Baja debacle two years ago (mostly of my own doing) got that ball rolling. Commercial flying is no fun anymore. At the mercy of the airlines. Delays, packed planes, tight connections or long layovers. Flying the Beavers gets rid of all that. Delays are elemental, quite literally; understood and more easily tolerated, and the flying is at levels that let you appreciate the world. Closer to the real.<br />
<br />
I've been here but two days and I’d happily put down the fly rods and just soar for the rest of the week. Black spruce, juniper, birch, scrub willow, alder, fireweed, caribou moss, salmon and crowberries. The Autumn tundra is stunning when viewed from a De Havilland. <br />
<br />
After flying back through iffy weather in the tiny puddlejumper, we prepare to load into the ground transportation for our return to the Dillingham airstrip and our departure for home.<br />
“<i>Now comes the dangerous part of the trip</i>.”<br />
“<i>Statistically speaking?</i>”<br />
“<i>Yeah, but not just that. Look at this VAN.</i>”<br />
I see his point.<br />
<b><br />
</b>Mike Sepelakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10569706920906836936noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5791496318819973464.post-60015809176592748102019-03-07T06:00:00.000-05:002019-03-11T11:07:12.710-04:00Fragments: On the Road<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN2DJ9gVHU-PjMjt9hgqJbWhizc1jcX1oTIElbcolc-_o9u97j3A6Ge692R8Yv9GYaTFStAf7WptY0stXVlOYaqFKiQ_Fq6tFqpDNfbBC9-M2eQY0xonGVIJQMSj1sk17En6bR3itMde4/s1600/On+the+Road.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="998" data-original-width="1600" height="398" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN2DJ9gVHU-PjMjt9hgqJbWhizc1jcX1oTIElbcolc-_o9u97j3A6Ge692R8Yv9GYaTFStAf7WptY0stXVlOYaqFKiQ_Fq6tFqpDNfbBC9-M2eQY0xonGVIJQMSj1sk17En6bR3itMde4/s640/On+the+Road.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<i>More of the <a href="https://www.mikesgonefishing.com/search/label/Fragments">Fragments</a> series. Miscellaneous excerpts from my journals. Today, realizations that fishing travel is not without it's challenges.</i><br />
<br />
3:30am. Alarm rings. Seems like I just closed my eyes. Probably did. But we need to hit the road north for our early flight out of San Antonio. Where’s your ruby slippers when you fucking need them? - South Padre Island, TX, April 2012<br />
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Four guys standing in front of the airport at 2am. Piles of gear. Crammed into a cab for the Days Inn at the truck stop. Crashed hard. Hotel at the intersection of interstate and industry. Woke to the sound of diesels. Shuttle back to the airport for our rentals, less than four hours after our arrival. Toasted already and we've just gotten started. - Missoula, MT, August 2014<br />
<br />
The ferry is a roller coaster. Attendants running back and forth with crisp white barf bags, both empty and full. The Polish couple behind us is playing Gloria Gaynor’s “<i>I Will Survive</i>” on their cell phone. We all hope to God that she’s right. - Culebra, Puerto Rico, March 2015<br />
<br />
Flew out of Raleigh at dawn. By 1:00 I'm nicking drum off the pier while waiting for the others to arrive. Buzzed on Kaliks by 4:00. Damn fine start for the week. - Abaco, Bahamas, February 2016<br />
<br />
Destination fishing is not all sun and hookups. If you can’t find a way to enjoy yourself with your mates or the locale on a crap day, save your money and stay home. - Dulac, LA, January 2018<br />
<br />
Hitting the wall on day seven. The roomy SUV that comfortably held the four of us has shrunk to clown car proportions. But I’ve been here before and know that it’s just something I have to push through. An inevitable part of the road trip cycle. So I grit my teeth and try not to lose it. Hang on tightly to my last nerve. By day eight it’s all good again and will stay that way. But, on day seven, I seriously hate my fishing partners - <i>Location and time withheld to save a few friendships</i><br />
<br />
Kilometers, not miles. Goddamn I always forget. - Fernie, BC, August 2014<br />
<b><br />
</b>Mike Sepelakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10569706920906836936noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5791496318819973464.post-19844195609779735552019-03-04T06:00:00.000-05:002019-03-06T11:50:23.253-05:00Fragments: Self Awareness<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6vgJtWPO3aKL5-Nw1Lg_ANPit7MoERHcUP_GIjTkAenQ6cZlCSdz6AVHx7WXUnsoFA8rMZ1seV74eN5AO8JsPidWsnYDC49ouVoOMkGmmwQZFNudZmQExfmBFnPXBdR5Y86SN5o0-NA8/s1600/Self.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6vgJtWPO3aKL5-Nw1Lg_ANPit7MoERHcUP_GIjTkAenQ6cZlCSdz6AVHx7WXUnsoFA8rMZ1seV74eN5AO8JsPidWsnYDC49ouVoOMkGmmwQZFNudZmQExfmBFnPXBdR5Y86SN5o0-NA8/s640/Self.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<i>More of the <a href="https://www.mikesgonefishing.com/search/label/Fragments">Fragments</a> series. When reading back through old travel journals I regularly stumble onto things that shine a light into the dusty dark corners of my "self." Here's a handful that do just that, whether I like it or not.</i><br />
<br />
The truth is too precious to be beaten to death for such trivial narratives. I might forget some things or the facts might not quite fit the point, so, for expediency, I’ll just make them up. But don’t worry. They’ll be true enough. - McAllen, TX, May 2014<br />
<br />
“<i>What do you do?</i>” I’m never sure how to answer that. <i>I’m retired</i>? <i>I fish</i>? <i>I write, though not professionally or seriously</i>? The real answer is probably “<i>I do nothing</i>” but that’s harsh, both as a response and a confession. - Anchorage, AL, August 2015<br />
<br />
Destination fishing trips only seem real while I’m in them. Not before. Not after. They’re a slice out of time, completely disconnected from the bulk of my life, but they teach me a bit <b>about</b> my life. Each trip seems to have a lesson. What lesson will this one bring? - Dillingham, AL, August 2015<br />
<br />
Saturday night sick. Too many Kaliks, too much fried conch, a splash (or three) of Kahlua on ice. It all didn’t mix. Sat hugging the toilet thinking “What if I die here?” I seem to have that thought often on these trips, though seldom for this reason. - Abaco, Bahamas, February 2016<br />
<br />
Headed out for Box Canyon. Snowing. Wet, nasty snow. Two weeks ago I was in the Bahamas, standing on the bow of a skiff under brilliant blues skies and warm, tropical breezes. At home, today, it’s 85. What the hell am I doing here? I know where I belong. And where I don’t. - Last Chance, Idaho, April 2017<br />
<br />
I’ve decided that I’m not a particularly entertaining fishing partner. An observer rather than a participant, if that makes any sense. - Beaver Island, MI, June 2017<br />
<br />
My father was the next thing to a hermit but on rare occasions he loved to be out. To visit. He was the life of the party but often in ways he did not intend or recognize. He was a <i>one-off</i> but did it with great enthusiasm. I suspect that I’m more like him than I'd care to admit. - Pittsboro, NC, date unknown<br />
<br />
Lesson #3: Pack duct tape. I always break something. - Craig, MT, April 2017<br />
<br />
<br />
<i><b>Note:</b> My thanks go out to my big brother, Chris Hunt, for the image at the top of this post, taken as we kicked around in the light surf off the back porch of the house we rented just outside of Nassau back in 2013. In truth, I have much, much more to thank him for than that. Get back on your feet soon, bud. There's more fishin' to be done.</i>Mike Sepelakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10569706920906836936noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5791496318819973464.post-39541091961235603722019-02-18T06:00:00.000-05:002019-03-04T07:47:29.251-05:00Fragments: Craig, MT - Aug 2014<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl4WSg-K_cWjxQZAaglPCdn7EWTd-tkTT8fF-6LZZDzuraHbe0beVIwM0cZR0TJU30OhbZxdzcAtCpBFgc9EBhiWf6cAgo2EL_e3lUj2XI2oLmJu0Y3uWtYA4eMWwrRZ1pbc5ZksLZ9mM/s1600/Craig.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl4WSg-K_cWjxQZAaglPCdn7EWTd-tkTT8fF-6LZZDzuraHbe0beVIwM0cZR0TJU30OhbZxdzcAtCpBFgc9EBhiWf6cAgo2EL_e3lUj2XI2oLmJu0Y3uWtYA4eMWwrRZ1pbc5ZksLZ9mM/s640/Craig.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
It exists for only one purpose. Trout. It wouldn't be here without them.<br />
<br />
An easy vibe, older gents in their Simms and Patagonia puffies and quick-dries; younger wearing the same but somehow making it look different. Hats, sunglasses hung around necks. Three fly shops, a restaurant, a bar, a takeout breakfast. And cabins. Talk at Headhunters and Isaac's is easy and jovial. Everyone’s been or is going fishing so what’s there to complain about?<br />
<br />
Mornings are abuzz with the comings and goings of drift boats. Anticipation of a big day. Whether it’s realized or not it’s all good, or it should be.<br />
<br />
Big portions for big appetites. Dogs come and go everywhere making it a good place by my reckoning.<br />
<br />
The world is away. Cell phone and wifi signals are scarce so you quickly get used to being disconnected, adding a small melancholy based in shared loneliness. An isolation.<br />
<br />
At the bunkhouse:<br />
“Got room for three people?”<br />
“What kind of people?”<br />
<br />
Do any other kind come to Craig?<br />
<br />
<br />
<i><b>Note:</b> Not much going on, either here on the blog or out on the water. To jumpstart these pages I've taken to leafing through my ragged pile of old travel journals and attempting to decipher the barely legible notes scribbled within them. Low hanging fruit for a writer on the rebound. This, then, starts a <a href="https://www.mikesgonefishing.com/search/label/Fragments">series of brief Fragments</a>. Unedited passages originating from hither and yon that might have evolved into something but were ultimately left to languish in their moleskines. Raw material relegated to musings, word pictures, and random odd thoughts. Unconsidered, undeveloped, unread fragments.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i> <i>Until now.</i><br />
<b><br />
</b>Mike Sepelakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10569706920906836936noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5791496318819973464.post-46584313286351504242019-02-11T06:00:00.000-05:002019-02-11T06:09:45.890-05:00Mike's Gone Missin'...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
No one’s seen him ‘round these parts in months, nigh on a year. Not since McMinnville. Some say those Tennessee backwaters swallowed him up whole or that a big mama musky ate him as a snack, the bony little bastard. Others claim he’s giggin' with some skanky blues band, touring the dive bars and low places along the Gulf coast for gas money and beer. Getting thrown out of most. And there’s a lady in Pittsboro that swears he’s off working on the next Great American Novel. But, let’s face it, if he’s writing it ain't on no novel. More likely he’d be stuck in an endless editing loop on an obscure six hundred-word piece, hoping some fly fishing mag might lower their standards, just enough.<br />
<br />
Sure, there have been sightings. Unsubstantiated, of course. Odd trickles of reports. Idaho. Michigan. The Louisiana marshlands and south Georgia swamps. Then there's the quiet suggestions that the fishin’s been shit around his home waters for so long that he’s given up the sport entirely - and with it, his soul. Who knows? One thing’s for sure. Wherever he’s been, it hasn’t been here. This blog's been silent as a tomb.<br />
<br />
But lately, there have been whispers…<br />
<br />Mike Sepelakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10569706920906836936noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5791496318819973464.post-61755373460671731912018-05-16T06:00:00.000-04:002018-05-24T18:33:58.760-04:00Musky Math<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwnmjTYLGaryyXhpwnvgphzxDcxMcMuraHpl4_0IO408-LTpTJPWRJz2cwD6NgqtbSTWVS72bo_YJAm8pFa5MUPK6GKv2XTmORXvZfJtOL9N5o-2bDMT8NJDVXhjunBsr0hMiIbqKAF2k/s1600/Musky+Math.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwnmjTYLGaryyXhpwnvgphzxDcxMcMuraHpl4_0IO408-LTpTJPWRJz2cwD6NgqtbSTWVS72bo_YJAm8pFa5MUPK6GKv2XTmORXvZfJtOL9N5o-2bDMT8NJDVXhjunBsr0hMiIbqKAF2k/s640/Musky+Math.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
Musky. <i>The fish of ten-thousand casts</i>. Fact or fiction? Actuality or self-delusive justification for our hours of failure? Truth or elegant lie that we tell ourselves because we suck at catching the bastards?<br />
<br />
Let's look at the numbers.<br />
<br />
Actually, before we dig into the math, we ought to examine the premise that these fish really do exist and that they are not the part of the formula that requires proof. Admit it, many of us have never seen one in the flesh, despite how long we've been chasing them. They're sort of like dividing by zero. They make no sense.<br />
<br />
A quick Google of the word "musky" (well, of the word "muskellunge" as "musky" sends us down internet paths we'd rather not follow) leads us to the species <i><b>esox masquinongy</b></i> and to pictures (mostly drawings, actually, which should make us slightly suspicious) of the large, toothy critters we have all imagined someday catching. Since anything we find on the web is true (and especially indubitable since the term is in unpronounceable Latin), I think we can safely assume that somewhere such a creature exists. Probably swimming right next to its cousin the mermaid.<br />
<br />
So, having established that musky are in fact real, we can safely begin to pursue this whole ten-thousand cast business. But how? While John Gierach's recent statement that "<i>all fisherman are liars</i>" may be a bit on the harsh side, you must agree that relying on anecdotal data from this particular population is more than a bit sketchy. We need to find a finite, quantifiable, confirmable set of data on which to test this whole postulation.<br />
<br />
Luckily, I have such a dataset. The <i><b><a href="https://www.hardlystrictlymuskyflyfishing.com/" target="_blank">2018 Hardly Strictly Musky</a></b></i> tournament. This past weekend I and host of other hopeful anglers spent a few days chasing our obsession on a handful of western Tennessee watersheds. The numbers were quantifiable. The tournament duration was set, the participants registered, and all catches were reported and fully documented with photographic evidence. From this, then, we can begin making our calculations.<br />
<br />
Let’s start with the anglers. Ninety, to be exact. Ninety chasers of the holy grail. Ninety Don Quixotes. <br />
<br />
<i><b>90 anglers</b></i><br />
<br />
The tournament itself was held over a period of two days.<br />
<br />
<i>90 anglers X 2 days = <b>180 fishing days</b></i><br />
<br />
But wait, it’s not quite that simple. A large number of the anglers arrived a day early and hit the rivers. Some to scout for the upcoming competition, some to test out their gear, but most just to enjoy a day on the water because, well, why not? Let’s assume that a third of the ninety anglers did this.<br />
<br />
<i>180 fishing days + (90/3) fishing days = <b>210 fishing days</b></i><br />
<br />
Now, a Hardly Strictly Musky fishing day is a long day, physically and mentally, because you’re fishing for musky which means that you’re working your ass off for essentially a lost cause. Starting times varied widely across the subjects. Some hit the boatramp at daybreak. Others chose to get a leisurely gas station or Smoke House biscuit. More than a few were delayed by their slowly diffusing inebriation. Let’s average it out at, say, 8:00am. Most everyone finished up about 5:00 as the evening festivities commenced at 6:30, confirmed by the simultaneous clusterfuck of boats at the major takeouts. Let’s call it nine hours, minus an hour for lunch.<br />
<br />
<i>210 fishing days X 8 hours = <b>1,680 fishing hours</b></i><br />
<br />
An adjustment needs to be made here as a large number of the boats in play were drift boats, effectively taking the rod out of one of the angler’s hands so that he could man the sticks. You’d think that would be a bad thing, being the rower, but after a couple of hours slinging a wet sock around on 450 grain sinking line with an 11wt, manhandling a cranky boat feels like a nap. Let’s conservatively estimate that at any given time 20% of the participants were “resting”.<br />
<br />
<i>1,680 fishing hours x .8 rowing adjustment = <b>1,344 fishing hours</b></i><br />
<br />
Let’s then figure that a single cast and retrieve takes less than a minute. At a constant rate that means 80, maybe 90 casts an hour. Of course, we’re all not machines and time out is required for sips of beer, lamentations, and the occasional retrieval of flies from streamside vegetation. Let’s play it safe and call it 60.<br />
<br />
<i>1,344 fishing hours x 60 casts/hour = <b>80,640 casts</b></i><br />
<br />
Now, we really should consider that this particular population deviates from the norm. Yes, I know anyone who goes fishing for musky with anything less than dynamite, much less a fly rod, must deviate from the norm, but that’s a psychological study, not a mathematical one and we’ll set that aside for the time being. For our purposes, the statistical deviation I refer to is that there exists in this dataset a large percentage of fishermen who have chased these beasties for some time and have established a certain elevated level of expertise. It might even be safe to say that they are twice as likely to catch one than the average angler. Let’s be uber-conservative, however, and say that they have an extra 25% of a chance.<br />
<br />
<i>80,640 casts x 1.25 expert factor = <b>100,800 casts</b></i><br />
<br />
Here’s where the tournament data saves us. We know exactly how many fish were caught. Exactly. No one claimed to have caught a fish on the practice day and you can bet that if anyone did, everyone would have heard about it. Believe me. You wouldn't hear where, but you'd know one had been caught.<br />
<br />
Eight fish were caught on Day 1 of the tournament. Two were boated on Day 2.<br />
<br />
Ten fish total.<br />
<br />
That’s right. Ten...fish...total. Ten.<br />
<br />
<i>100,800 casts / 10 fish caught = <b>10,800 casts to catch one goddam musky</b></i><br />
<br />
Now, these numbers are preliminary and there's a wide variety of other factors that might be considered. Moon positioning. Competitive juices. The HSM hangout/hangover factor. But we’ll not mess with them in this first pass. They would just be minor puts and takes in these calculations and my head hurts enough already. Besides, we got where we wanted to go.<br />
<br />
Proof. Fact. Musky. <i>The fish of ten-thousand casts.</i><br />
<br />
Thanks, <i>Hardly Strictly Musky</i>, for bearing out the numbers.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Mike Sepelakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10569706920906836936noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5791496318819973464.post-9815427773426635962018-05-09T10:19:00.000-04:002019-07-20T09:33:58.109-04:00Laundered<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi96j8hlxAtPXINAltX81TbJctfyqb7mEkkhl-_W7i3in31wuyK00EahZHRzwC6XpoJyGK9OgNrmFct-lukb0LwFxvFIqbjV_JUVqE-iyp0EHe1U2aNMO7zPUWTjpo3hgxo7GHwN1blCwI/s1600/Clean+Buff.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi96j8hlxAtPXINAltX81TbJctfyqb7mEkkhl-_W7i3in31wuyK00EahZHRzwC6XpoJyGK9OgNrmFct-lukb0LwFxvFIqbjV_JUVqE-iyp0EHe1U2aNMO7zPUWTjpo3hgxo7GHwN1blCwI/s640/Clean+Buff.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<br />
The second I pulled it out of the slingpack I knew there was a problem. It was neatly folded, all corners perfectly square, aligned, possibly ironed; not scrunched in a crusty ball like it should be. It smelled of peonies. <br />
<br />
Over the years it had been worn from British Columbia to the Mexican Baja, from the southern-most Bahamas to northern-most Saskatchewan, from North Carolinian farm ponds to Montana trout Meccas. It was my fishing security blanket, my talisman, my mojo. My buff. Now, it was…laundered.<br />
<br />
It no longer smelled of sweat and sunscreen and bug dope. Missing were the smoky undertones of Cuban cigars and the subtle spicy keynotes of Gunnison ganja (though I haven’t a clue as to how they got there). Gone were the phantom flavors of tacos and hops, readily available for a quick pick-me-up with just a flick of the tongue. My comfort saltlick was now tasteless. It no longer smelled of fish. <br />
<br />
Front was no longer distinguishable from back by the leaked tobacco stains. No amount of twisting found that comfortable impression of nose and cheekbones and chin. Like OJ’s gloves, <i>If it doesn’t fit, you won't catch shit</i>. <br />
<br />
Until now, its only cleansing had been courtesy of rainstorms, salt spray, and an impromptu dunking or two; ineffective for proper sanitation but perfect for the maintenance of a proper angling alchemy. <br />
<br />
So there I sat, rigged and ready on the flats of South Andros, mojo-less, with all of my angling history, encodings in scents, my comfort zone - washed, rinsed, and tumbled dry into oblivion. We’d been sterilized. The Tide had come in and I wanted to cry.<br />
<br />
But tucked neatly inside it was a bright yellow Post-It on which, in a beautiful flowing script, was written “<i>I thought you’d like this all nice and clean. Catch lots of fish. Love you.</i>” Now <b>this</b> was mojo of an entirely different sort. Strong juju. Magic that overrides everything else. Energy that I carry wherever I go, in fishing and in life. Her act was selfless and done for my pleasure. A lovely, thoughtful expression. How could I be mad? <br />
<br />
I fucking <b>hate</b> the smell of peonies.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i><b>Note:</b> I offer this as a follow-on to Jon Tobey's wonderful piece, <a href="https://gointothelight.wordpress.com/2018/05/07/she-loves-me-she-cleaned-my-truck/">She Loves Me, She Cleaned My Truck</a> to which this little piece doesn't hold a candle. I've done so as Jon and I discovered these similar premises were each stolen from our mutual friend (and <a href="https://www.theflyfishjournal.com/">FlyFish Journal</a> editor), Steve Duda. </i><br />
<i><br />
</i> <i>Now, who has a third for the trilogy?</i>Mike Sepelakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10569706920906836936noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5791496318819973464.post-52544699463767640652018-03-29T06:00:00.000-04:002018-03-29T16:57:59.793-04:00The Photo Bin - February/March 2018<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0lba_pitF_DN3jssk1zO-7i5WbLwaIIBEzxGEPV1koCmg8j6pmRnJd_kbSwhwbK5Bw0W3vq14Lj_ZEuFrJ_wB1Jedrk3UmD70Y22FD0Q6DeodECp2gPbKMN2YVFVUJRdrADzZfTBMQeE/s1600/The+Photo+Bin+-+February+and+March+2018-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0lba_pitF_DN3jssk1zO-7i5WbLwaIIBEzxGEPV1koCmg8j6pmRnJd_kbSwhwbK5Bw0W3vq14Lj_ZEuFrJ_wB1Jedrk3UmD70Y22FD0Q6DeodECp2gPbKMN2YVFVUJRdrADzZfTBMQeE/s640/The+Photo+Bin+-+February+and+March+2018-1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
I have no idea where they went, February and March. I looked up and they were gone. No evidence of their passing. No accomplishments. No progress made. No memories. Not even any real photographic proof that they existed. So I'm doubling them up, here at the Bin, and scouring my images for evidence that Spring really is returning. I need the reassurance.<br />
<br />
Above, though the trees are still bare around us, the sun's climbing higher over the horizon with each passing day. It's a start.<br />
<br />
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The small incubator pond above the house is chock full of spotted salamander and frog eggs, just as intended. And way too many leaves. It will take some cleaning out, but not until after the "hatch" is done.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr002lX9hVnRSsm5Sz4VGRGaTGNBlSgwxirBj7ZjTpnLrk9_VMQKhl__yzbvexzVCHeO_3kw_-QCZodRzCUfkxkSHH31c6kbndaNnig_MAs35VluI1buR-CMP0XbY5gJm5Hy0pdkDLdAs/s1600/The+Photo+Bin+-+February+and+March+2018-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr002lX9hVnRSsm5Sz4VGRGaTGNBlSgwxirBj7ZjTpnLrk9_VMQKhl__yzbvexzVCHeO_3kw_-QCZodRzCUfkxkSHH31c6kbndaNnig_MAs35VluI1buR-CMP0XbY5gJm5Hy0pdkDLdAs/s640/The+Photo+Bin+-+February+and+March+2018-3.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
A sure sign of Spring's approach is the depletion of the woodpile. And depletion requires replenishment. Here's a set of freshly quartered white oak rounds, set to dry a little longer before their final splitting. Next winter's warmth.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhmq-rt7kbGhcJ1U_vtpdjYxWle8hzTHN1f1QJWkuUDbPhE3UPpysKLmHFQ35NGbrWoPMeK4SzKTD3e7uUfU0Ix8qm3ynnE99WpZnpyy-hjs9kr_JoanbNSExxqUdwO7XEosJPM5iQyoY/s1600/The+Photo+Bin+-+February+and+March+2018-4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhmq-rt7kbGhcJ1U_vtpdjYxWle8hzTHN1f1QJWkuUDbPhE3UPpysKLmHFQ35NGbrWoPMeK4SzKTD3e7uUfU0Ix8qm3ynnE99WpZnpyy-hjs9kr_JoanbNSExxqUdwO7XEosJPM5iQyoY/s640/The+Photo+Bin+-+February+and+March+2018-4.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br />
Anticipating Spring always includes early trips down to the river; exploratory ventures to see if the bass are ready to play. Not yet, but the signs are encouraging.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEthXiiK-ejcpmsNiNsSnaN58Zb-YZ1S9AOHhRB0pn4FqoVVem-Icqyj2n0regvorxpkbn7o4leZJu53FgmPu82pRiyrjp67BfxKKEUnZjZApZyD_GQiWnUc-suc-IwwrqUKUJt5A9qgY/s1600/The+Photo+Bin+-+February+and+March+2018-5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEthXiiK-ejcpmsNiNsSnaN58Zb-YZ1S9AOHhRB0pn4FqoVVem-Icqyj2n0regvorxpkbn7o4leZJu53FgmPu82pRiyrjp67BfxKKEUnZjZApZyD_GQiWnUc-suc-IwwrqUKUJt5A9qgY/s640/The+Photo+Bin+-+February+and+March+2018-5.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
Another strong hint is the blooming the the redbuds for which our small community is named. But the flowering doesn't necessarily mean that Winter's given up just yet. The seasons clash for their turf.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTGjr2F6FlY6JR_yZ2a6alKDAtXWcudEPTxjrL8bsbki8vrP2n4CkrlSuFwwcbWYeaInWFWZiZunQrwLT7F02FQh91Lqmc06ZhbDM1zg8BukrpfWdwljzOlraGUPko3jFyI8Hj7hkz9gY/s1600/The+Photo+Bin+-+February+and+March+2018-6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTGjr2F6FlY6JR_yZ2a6alKDAtXWcudEPTxjrL8bsbki8vrP2n4CkrlSuFwwcbWYeaInWFWZiZunQrwLT7F02FQh91Lqmc06ZhbDM1zg8BukrpfWdwljzOlraGUPko3jFyI8Hj7hkz9gY/s640/The+Photo+Bin+-+February+and+March+2018-6.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
The only <b>sure</b> sign of Spring is the <i>clouser hatch</i>. Their emergence for white bass, shad, and striper (in this case, yellow stingers for Okefenokee bowfin) heralds the return of days on the water. The appearance is most welcome.<br />
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So the signs seem to be there, hidden in the camera, that things are warming up. I'm more than ready to put those lost months behind me and get on to some fishing. I suspect that I'm not alone.<br />
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Mike Sepelakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10569706920906836936noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5791496318819973464.post-56561470836442146162018-03-24T06:00:00.000-04:002018-03-26T09:43:19.997-04:00The Photo Bin - January 2018<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAWSjK1Ofhulnwxgo8mc82-LuEn8efgCatAXaKD9zqCDQMha3Eup1Q4Zj59GwVJrRneNqXLZQRq-8M461ZEmLxSOVC8X6eqAG3YTc24-vy7LDxOVspkZywD1QXwxuvFVARezKwMOhKwPYx/s1600/The+Photo+Bin+-+January+2018-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAWSjK1Ofhulnwxgo8mc82-LuEn8efgCatAXaKD9zqCDQMha3Eup1Q4Zj59GwVJrRneNqXLZQRq-8M461ZEmLxSOVC8X6eqAG3YTc24-vy7LDxOVspkZywD1QXwxuvFVARezKwMOhKwPYx/s640/The+Photo+Bin+-+January+2018-1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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I've let these Photo Bins get away from me and, frankly, I miss them. It's probably no coincidence that the volume of my writing has also dropped off. Wandering through the images that fall out of the camera always gets my mind turning. Not being one who can make up storylines or create circumstances from scratch, I need the stimulus of images or experiences - and preferably the two intertwined - to put words to paper. (What an quaint, anachronistic reference in these digital times, <i>words to paper</i>, though I still do it.) <br />
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So how about we return to the practice and see if we can't get back on track here at <i>Mike's Gone Fishin'</i>. Spring's coming and a little rebirth is definitely in order. Ironically, this month's bin is anything but Spring-like.<br />
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We don't get big snows very often here in the heart of Carolina, and rarely are they as genuinely beautiful as what we were graced with this January. Full-bodied. Graceful. Lasting. Winter's not my thing but I was enthralled. I took a shovel-load of pictures so this month's bin is knee-deep. Hope you enjoy it. I certainly did.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt5UBgEntwA714IIN95JCkqYeO9zOpyn8gL-njcb7xAkrXGNLkEwj_pAIEwAN8SQcxIs97YStmgCxn4OYN-xkJefaPBSsh7vCZSGQzLw0Ct93ITR8Q8FTqD35LvqdxjEbsP1s2DyF7shEj/s1600/Mailstop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt5UBgEntwA714IIN95JCkqYeO9zOpyn8gL-njcb7xAkrXGNLkEwj_pAIEwAN8SQcxIs97YStmgCxn4OYN-xkJefaPBSsh7vCZSGQzLw0Ct93ITR8Q8FTqD35LvqdxjEbsP1s2DyF7shEj/s640/Mailstop.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i>Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds</i>. Now, my wandering the half-mile down the ridge to the mailbox was another matter, even in this first light dusting.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY_s9Ug7E1NbQW7dskudElO8jM42Hf1dXdCbM3BMfI96jhEciOz7m7wMYxwK-x5hbkJZi0UBv5G6Rlo-xhtAIs5plDZHvPNl3bmab4X5zqTnA6Wt88CVCGyp3KIeavdiSzAoiEUjdyGgg/s1600/The+Photo+Bin+-+January+2018-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1068" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY_s9Ug7E1NbQW7dskudElO8jM42Hf1dXdCbM3BMfI96jhEciOz7m7wMYxwK-x5hbkJZi0UBv5G6Rlo-xhtAIs5plDZHvPNl3bmab4X5zqTnA6Wt88CVCGyp3KIeavdiSzAoiEUjdyGgg/s640/The+Photo+Bin+-+January+2018-3.jpg" width="426" /></a></div>
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The evergreens strutted their stuff when the days went grey.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJTxT0776x0aYhySJK1Iew9pyZa5OpFsYgrrOIUKriEb7tzoKqgU-bjDPoFfp5NV01YPBMNxchN-umCx7O41U_hCjXNvpc43OshVXo771VQR2sK2sG9FGtI0BE_L6uzCzpP2cs-U3Aclw2/s1600/The+Photo+Bin+-+January+2018-4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJTxT0776x0aYhySJK1Iew9pyZa5OpFsYgrrOIUKriEb7tzoKqgU-bjDPoFfp5NV01YPBMNxchN-umCx7O41U_hCjXNvpc43OshVXo771VQR2sK2sG9FGtI0BE_L6uzCzpP2cs-U3Aclw2/s640/The+Photo+Bin+-+January+2018-4.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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The houseplants gathered around the windows to peer out at the snow and to give thanks that they're, well, house plants.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHGqdUIeBzZTS3gjzdXNqi4KJDDYybHE6ZFhRLsdJTUTNkYx3Nydf6I7SUlOesAMg8kufqwSiOJYqP3vcK0vPM3wlP-XsK333J3YtuLFXVJNVLf2Uqry7BInT3x03WZqeMAjb4ZBhl_syD/s1600/The+Photo+Bin+-+January+2018-5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHGqdUIeBzZTS3gjzdXNqi4KJDDYybHE6ZFhRLsdJTUTNkYx3Nydf6I7SUlOesAMg8kufqwSiOJYqP3vcK0vPM3wlP-XsK333J3YtuLFXVJNVLf2Uqry7BInT3x03WZqeMAjb4ZBhl_syD/s640/The+Photo+Bin+-+January+2018-5.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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The deer fencing surrounding the garden turned into a white wall and the only color in the back yard was the Sarah Graham sunflower that defies any the weather.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWZRhuu53lqkmStFBl-4vC8PuGTGB9nU4qf6GVCfNf0Gc27rsMtce-dZBlcmePKpwzNNR1lrKodUz3bfxFY3sNZO93QafxtS4bwxD3zOPo3TBOhdWK1fVe2EDr9QHYm94dDlMlYptuxi9w/s1600/The+Photo+Bin+-+January+2018-6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1068" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWZRhuu53lqkmStFBl-4vC8PuGTGB9nU4qf6GVCfNf0Gc27rsMtce-dZBlcmePKpwzNNR1lrKodUz3bfxFY3sNZO93QafxtS4bwxD3zOPo3TBOhdWK1fVe2EDr9QHYm94dDlMlYptuxi9w/s400/The+Photo+Bin+-+January+2018-6.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>
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Piled high and deep in snow, we watched a bevy of bluebirds hunker down in the box together...</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghNZ2RiAUjq3p8-2qm7JE5173RUxu9lqpouFzwVfEQH9_E5feFEmyL3jI0cVuFs_aZEvIzpwVidzpHbSQ79f6mNh92S3BilHfB8CWZR0wmf6LDe63lUP2pEsJcm3tGB9HKmvYOvYede0b6/s1600/The+Photo+Bin+-+January+2018-7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghNZ2RiAUjq3p8-2qm7JE5173RUxu9lqpouFzwVfEQH9_E5feFEmyL3jI0cVuFs_aZEvIzpwVidzpHbSQ79f6mNh92S3BilHfB8CWZR0wmf6LDe63lUP2pEsJcm3tGB9HKmvYOvYede0b6/s640/The+Photo+Bin+-+January+2018-7.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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...as we did ourselves as the flakes continued to fall.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMsy8an9RE7QR4GARztsfohqygpvEhyHbzU2VVWfEHv0n_6L0nBJQSTC6ObNkSRQW5-RdYQI9Mxxsj9LBKR8-37pWS5YbkZXr2rL6_KEEG_z5PMW5y1QNDKzZx5lrH1tjwS4oA7QfrBN5q/s1600/The+Photo+Bin+-+January+2018-8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMsy8an9RE7QR4GARztsfohqygpvEhyHbzU2VVWfEHv0n_6L0nBJQSTC6ObNkSRQW5-RdYQI9Mxxsj9LBKR8-37pWS5YbkZXr2rL6_KEEG_z5PMW5y1QNDKzZx5lrH1tjwS4oA7QfrBN5q/s640/The+Photo+Bin+-+January+2018-8.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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In due time our Carolina blue skies returned, but it stayed icebox cold. The sun, bold as it was, made little headway towards a thaw.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiLG24AeXoWZR28pNm1iHU1szR8uk4wzIP7M38nFItGxXWBztdHwiOx0MXfXh9rxfu9zn0sTStxzpYm0qBaAnWpTMokfFpIKSz4Rb0j8ZPVxZLJixTVJG_fO2wODfjK0B7DJbIMTGXq3I5/s1600/The+Photo+Bin+-+January+2018-9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiLG24AeXoWZR28pNm1iHU1szR8uk4wzIP7M38nFItGxXWBztdHwiOx0MXfXh9rxfu9zn0sTStxzpYm0qBaAnWpTMokfFpIKSz4Rb0j8ZPVxZLJixTVJG_fO2wODfjK0B7DJbIMTGXq3I5/s640/The+Photo+Bin+-+January+2018-9.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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The mornings remained crip, the rising sun piercing, for the better part of a week.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6AnEgFZtKCncu44P4RjJXW7CSVxAGAkaFb-j-g3A6_ngPL8XWpH_RwuWuW1k_e8-6nqJVpPjXc1o6FLefC6zAuzEO8vJSMDqQleLQa5mC9dNoZwaAqxOZzjcZi0FeSFdLGEuIat82017S/s1600/The+Photo+Bin+-+January+2018-10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6AnEgFZtKCncu44P4RjJXW7CSVxAGAkaFb-j-g3A6_ngPL8XWpH_RwuWuW1k_e8-6nqJVpPjXc1o6FLefC6zAuzEO8vJSMDqQleLQa5mC9dNoZwaAqxOZzjcZi0FeSFdLGEuIat82017S/s640/The+Photo+Bin+-+January+2018-10.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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The hero of the week, Zeppelin came to the aid of the fallen snow angel.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBh9zQrdPJPGcRS3AY5wPpHrXSoIoOm8foE4NurHjpInk-TMiQUTmp55oZwDbSkKCwpuatc6lBmKL9ApqRMSmF66yEbzKWEoO8LJID_XrMA-7sDEtXz8v9f9pTHYiDOopvcgmF2VQfyYY1/s1600/The+Photo+Bin+-+January+2018-11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBh9zQrdPJPGcRS3AY5wPpHrXSoIoOm8foE4NurHjpInk-TMiQUTmp55oZwDbSkKCwpuatc6lBmKL9ApqRMSmF66yEbzKWEoO8LJID_XrMA-7sDEtXz8v9f9pTHYiDOopvcgmF2VQfyYY1/s640/The+Photo+Bin+-+January+2018-11.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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And for a few days, all was at peace.</div>
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<a href="http://www.mikesgonefishing.com/p/what-is-photo-bin.html">What is a Photo Bin?</a>Mike Sepelakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10569706920906836936noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5791496318819973464.post-69198508315228242172018-02-20T06:00:00.000-05:002018-02-20T06:00:19.588-05:00Louisiana, Check<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3yD6ffbt_Kb5YJJJm40SmqnR8AkiL6TbSk7-THxlAu9so_J56kVdBG33oEXuJ8qu7s8kvYZC3BUpa5IAHQviI4KwNfVrY6LEJ3FNloHrDQTlb8vehHWQL5rkR_axzLd7C6tds0v4n6o4d/s1600/Louisiana+Post-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3yD6ffbt_Kb5YJJJm40SmqnR8AkiL6TbSk7-THxlAu9so_J56kVdBG33oEXuJ8qu7s8kvYZC3BUpa5IAHQviI4KwNfVrY6LEJ3FNloHrDQTlb8vehHWQL5rkR_axzLd7C6tds0v4n6o4d/s640/Louisiana+Post-1.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Getting there</td></tr>
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When fly fisherfolk gather, the conversation almost always finds its way (after meandering through sidebars of gear, beer, and the opposite sex) to one universal angling topic; the bucket list. <i>Must-do-before-I-die</i> lineups typically include the classics. Kamchatka, New Zealand, Christmas Island, Alaska, Patagonia, Cuba. They are also, with increasing regularity, expanding to the more exotic. Oman, Bolivia, French Polynesia, the Seychelles. Some of our more adventurous practitioners have secret lists, far beyond most of our imaginations. (Heaven forbid Elon Musk finds something that will take a popper on Mars.) And while my personal desires also includes many of the these places, near the top has long been a more domestic destination. I've wanted to chase big bull reds in the southernmost marshes of Louisiana.<br />
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Hello Houma.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj3iq01fTP_KLtwLoovMHZ6ElgLdT0xf_9UpCn7cuk62TmFE0eFlERYzehVcebOUZM8mpgjBigMQbbIZqg0-oWkQr74thQKsh27aNUvItBZ6TrZQieQYQppsPhBpaS3WO0xzxY64dpW_Ni/s1600/Louisiana+Post-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj3iq01fTP_KLtwLoovMHZ6ElgLdT0xf_9UpCn7cuk62TmFE0eFlERYzehVcebOUZM8mpgjBigMQbbIZqg0-oWkQr74thQKsh27aNUvItBZ6TrZQieQYQppsPhBpaS3WO0xzxY64dpW_Ni/s640/Louisiana+Post-2.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Good Morning, Louisiana!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN7LXO6T2sgSmBzH0C8QgbkzvfiLaERTYQQ3wkHbWDKfR7-Rj0f-NNaDxiDcjKAw_0z50k7bVYXGiImrKP54yUa6bdSf3a3ZplwdHIN9rpLn_wfQqYS7o6yXy6ZJI4xbZK1NQxKl727nNK/s1600/Louisiana+Post-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN7LXO6T2sgSmBzH0C8QgbkzvfiLaERTYQQ3wkHbWDKfR7-Rj0f-NNaDxiDcjKAw_0z50k7bVYXGiImrKP54yUa6bdSf3a3ZplwdHIN9rpLn_wfQqYS7o6yXy6ZJI4xbZK1NQxKl727nNK/s640/Louisiana+Post-3.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">As they say in real estate, "Location, location, location"</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNJVqZqI9cdFoUlMoI9OfJjm_yyd9docLQmhyphenhyphen4c08HTNUh0o5EwqGlDBaZc_6fnckOxU24ZkWbyw9yYJeQz-I-DRpPSXMA_FjU0KtugPnqW2_MEPsmY82Q4rSqNQrCxIJp1wF2DClqhtHa/s1600/Louisiana+Post-4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNJVqZqI9cdFoUlMoI9OfJjm_yyd9docLQmhyphenhyphen4c08HTNUh0o5EwqGlDBaZc_6fnckOxU24ZkWbyw9yYJeQz-I-DRpPSXMA_FjU0KtugPnqW2_MEPsmY82Q4rSqNQrCxIJp1wF2DClqhtHa/s640/Louisiana+Post-4.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fish Camp</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjeXCoMUA17JIrtJ4UPV5o_B8N9rZIM3YFAA9AMIxzqM8v3OEWM5YZue3oDXx8-r6If02vFVgFASjXkYvdrBLzjwN-aHBTrT1YBNbQ9a3jv4CgP0t7sAllbAa2DvRE8cOlEK7EPLq_npvd/s1600/Louisiana+Post-5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjeXCoMUA17JIrtJ4UPV5o_B8N9rZIM3YFAA9AMIxzqM8v3OEWM5YZue3oDXx8-r6If02vFVgFASjXkYvdrBLzjwN-aHBTrT1YBNbQ9a3jv4CgP0t7sAllbAa2DvRE8cOlEK7EPLq_npvd/s640/Louisiana+Post-5.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ambushing from the weeds</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwAz_ZMQ-g9-ODCWlK1bPlZh-_QBs990ziHIrAeNX0rG3wNBjOaJH0rI7JqggDjhpBnQh-Y8_eW5uEyfL0TopknGe_qKWKf9OqgpsF2h3GmrHaNjZKlhN66bwnVwTRUIFyX-Ci5SKaCXS1/s1600/Louisiana+Post-6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwAz_ZMQ-g9-ODCWlK1bPlZh-_QBs990ziHIrAeNX0rG3wNBjOaJH0rI7JqggDjhpBnQh-Y8_eW5uEyfL0TopknGe_qKWKf9OqgpsF2h3GmrHaNjZKlhN66bwnVwTRUIFyX-Ci5SKaCXS1/s640/Louisiana+Post-6.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Steve Martinez hoists a dump truck black</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir7MahF24LWAS9w2eN6EgfaKMb5Er06tM0jvdRSiOuETYme7EnHDT7ZJwdQ5DJJ-ryyKyru-BF2lp7eH17L0qhBRS55QToG8bk2pir-EphE3NVct6YG16r-M7f8HnhHZsqosW3jOaGju7J/s1600/Louisiana+Post-6b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1233" data-original-width="1600" height="492" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir7MahF24LWAS9w2eN6EgfaKMb5Er06tM0jvdRSiOuETYme7EnHDT7ZJwdQ5DJJ-ryyKyru-BF2lp7eH17L0qhBRS55QToG8bk2pir-EphE3NVct6YG16r-M7f8HnhHZsqosW3jOaGju7J/s640/Louisiana+Post-6b.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No bulls for me, but lots of slots</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho4LovtggFijnx91on4LLXYvMq20nRT9aiwXaXBYwOGcnj8JbCSUyfYUM-DK9T3I47QpDb_zLS5RrAeMimf_2lOI5vGItBbQXAFJnsd25xHy9bHhAWXM2wU377VEmplqA7Xub1XDe9b0mV/s1600/Louisiana+Post-7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho4LovtggFijnx91on4LLXYvMq20nRT9aiwXaXBYwOGcnj8JbCSUyfYUM-DK9T3I47QpDb_zLS5RrAeMimf_2lOI5vGItBbQXAFJnsd25xHy9bHhAWXM2wU377VEmplqA7Xub1XDe9b0mV/s640/Louisiana+Post-7.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shut up and cast!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnFkzNrbOkULiDBq_lFUIgCYpchNZdwqSo85uNMjRTsLhMrDsgGOkdfgbzftES6CT5liaRQWyqts8C54yCR8ukEfkX2qbGXtrdpjscyTT2jt6e-9u1CcGoWu-QzJFwLr99SvqwYcnU73sj/s1600/Louisiana+Post-8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnFkzNrbOkULiDBq_lFUIgCYpchNZdwqSo85uNMjRTsLhMrDsgGOkdfgbzftES6CT5liaRQWyqts8C54yCR8ukEfkX2qbGXtrdpjscyTT2jt6e-9u1CcGoWu-QzJFwLr99SvqwYcnU73sj/s640/Louisiana+Post-8.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Other Woman</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwHk_-jLs1Zag4eM3bcB1deMgUQQO8xFHT7K7pXjsQkoFg7UAXpzavXTaMxphtBp_sP7p7WLQOZsKC5oaHGCRt7N2KuAxqn4q2w4z4BRIyYSzL4Qkm9XR_Z68p4japa1bIT34lFJKB3BWo/s1600/Louisiana+Post-9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwHk_-jLs1Zag4eM3bcB1deMgUQQO8xFHT7K7pXjsQkoFg7UAXpzavXTaMxphtBp_sP7p7WLQOZsKC5oaHGCRt7N2KuAxqn4q2w4z4BRIyYSzL4Qkm9XR_Z68p4japa1bIT34lFJKB3BWo/s400/Louisiana+Post-9.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looks like my fly line</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnVLD6b077tdszFw9YtHRUZCNvj8uLG545HosCd_pHz8VVLYK7uB5DXn6PdQX-39qnOIj7mW9ui5kCKavFVopkjfncyvoz831YLMo46XciW0_IhSYCdkWTZJUXls01-RHxSKwD_h077I0P/s1600/Louisiana+Post-10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnVLD6b077tdszFw9YtHRUZCNvj8uLG545HosCd_pHz8VVLYK7uB5DXn6PdQX-39qnOIj7mW9ui5kCKavFVopkjfncyvoz831YLMo46XciW0_IhSYCdkWTZJUXls01-RHxSKwD_h077I0P/s640/Louisiana+Post-10.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Schnnider Boy, LA</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwMRRD9_pXJz1YFM06O-UWz4dxiISwtBFRF7o1gzARzrbAtkJCMC_FcJ5VI9_alXnM0yNKSAomzZqntQNSoUz0uIEzwyTu5bhUhIgrtsS6X7rxLjdTq_zi5oQsV_DrkUiiGtGjGCHfeK8A/s1600/Louisiana+Post-11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwMRRD9_pXJz1YFM06O-UWz4dxiISwtBFRF7o1gzARzrbAtkJCMC_FcJ5VI9_alXnM0yNKSAomzZqntQNSoUz0uIEzwyTu5bhUhIgrtsS6X7rxLjdTq_zi5oQsV_DrkUiiGtGjGCHfeK8A/s640/Louisiana+Post-11.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bayou pit stop</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
The fishing was tough during our week in the marshes. I look at the pictures above and wonder where those blue skies were when we were actually slinging a fly. Wind and cloud cover gave us a good fight but that's destination angling. Just because it's on your bucket list doesn't mean it will click when you get there. The hardships are part of the game. A true bull eluded me, this time, but Louisiana remains high on the list with a <i>provisional</i> check.<br />
<br />
Who says a bucket list item needs to be a once-in-a-lifetime entry? Mike Sepelakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10569706920906836936noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5791496318819973464.post-24344177947428144982018-02-14T13:29:00.001-05:002018-03-24T09:28:31.808-04:00Actus Reus <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4zp0etxUYh6cLgkzbMDM6PTxqlN5A2QcT6G8fQeDgJKPBBeGQ5IHB3EE_U6BuibswJwUTkqH2TIEEU6xJNC-wZD5Ly2Nznmvq2VfD2aBkGvZDvBCEIAt6c8REKDZK709vxuTogO_Eq6nC/s1600/Black+Kow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4zp0etxUYh6cLgkzbMDM6PTxqlN5A2QcT6G8fQeDgJKPBBeGQ5IHB3EE_U6BuibswJwUTkqH2TIEEU6xJNC-wZD5Ly2Nznmvq2VfD2aBkGvZDvBCEIAt6c8REKDZK709vxuTogO_Eq6nC/s640/Black+Kow.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
First, I humbly thank the handful of you who have reached out to express your dismay and support regarding <a href="http://www.mikesgonefishing.com/2018/02/on-appeal.html">my recent legal difficulties</a>. Your concerns are deeply appreciated but, I’m afraid to admit, completely unnecessary. Despite the <i>fumus boni iuris</i> nature of the alleged lawsuit, it was completely fictitious. I was not sued. The RFA does not exist. No visit to the Supreme Court was made. (Gorsuch, however, really IS a notorious low holer.) My <i>crimen falsi</i> was simply a misguided attempted to justify my unjustifiably long absence. <i>Mea culpa</i>.<br />
<br />
But I must admit that I’ve struggled mightily in deciding whether to print this clarification or to let the story stand, <i>incognita</i>. You see, around here, <i>volenti non fit injuria</i> completely applies.<br />
<br />
In plain English, if you read this stuff, you've asked for it.<br />
<br />
<i>Legit cave</i>.<br />
<b></b>Mike Sepelakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10569706920906836936noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5791496318819973464.post-89737088791683517292018-02-06T16:10:00.000-05:002018-03-23T08:09:45.196-04:00On Appeal<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIVzTz_Gaf0sXVEN8NMMp88NwNZQMcAzvHCLTYYGNImdSLATQBEppVsQTK-CJYG8syhVZHNvGrN30u61593-3jQjlKqyE1cp38Go_PcY0tWL2ujIkN3ggCjhsqyrp6ynMVCLmMKByyINoH/s1600/or+maybe+not.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIVzTz_Gaf0sXVEN8NMMp88NwNZQMcAzvHCLTYYGNImdSLATQBEppVsQTK-CJYG8syhVZHNvGrN30u61593-3jQjlKqyE1cp38Go_PcY0tWL2ujIkN3ggCjhsqyrp6ynMVCLmMKByyINoH/s640/or+maybe+not.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
Hi. Remember me? I used to write with some regularity in this space. It’s been a while, but now the silence can be broken and the truth behind my absence may finally be told. I was sued.<br />
<br />
It's not a pretty story. The <i>RFA</i> (Real Flyfishers Association) slapped me with a cease-and-desist order alleging that I was fraudulently posting as, well, a real fly fisher. Apparently they found a sympathetic judge who had actually seen me cast and the lawsuit was on. <br />
<br />
It’s been a long slog, fighting the deep pockets of the <i>RFA</i>, but after numerous appeals and a rigorous climb up the judicial ladder, none other than this great land’s Supreme Court vacated all of the lower courts’ judgments, citing as precedent our present “state of affairs.”<br />
<br />
Ginsburg (who throws a pretty mean spey) wrote for the majority:<br />
<br />
<blockquote><i>Given the suitability of the current holders of many of our top governmental positions, Mr. Sepelak should reasonably be allowed to assume the role of a fly fisherman, a brain surgeon, or a ripe avocado for all we care</i>.<br />
</blockquote><br />
Alito (trout-setter) for the minority:<br />
<br />
<blockquote><i>WTF were we talking about?</i></blockquote><br />
It was a landmark decision, but a close one, won only because Gorsuch (a notorious low holer) is still having trouble with his buzzer.<br />
<br />
However it happened, the result is good news, presumably, to my half-dozen followers here at M<i>ike’s Gone Fishin’</i>, and I hope to be back posting shortly. At the very least, the <a href="http://www.mikesgonefishing.com/p/what-is-photo-bin.html">Photo Bins</a> should get started again, though <i>Photographers United</i> is watching me very, very closely with litigious intent.<br />
<br />
Needless to say, it’s good to be out from under the oppressive cloud of adjudication and back to the business of dispensing some serious fly-fishing false news.<br />
<br />
Stay tuned, comrades.<br />
<br />
<br />
Mike Sepelakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10569706920906836936noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5791496318819973464.post-22358542942305195962017-12-07T06:00:00.000-05:002017-12-07T10:08:31.006-05:00Numerology<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFPidVB0c0k8LlsavQpzq0cpUcmAg62dNF-AxyrAaJ1Sxxlp8-tZIo8ahZ3CtT4-feBFxTi0nD3X65vjFAd8-OMkzh4CpkFwTyFCOiYQZ4phOWe6DEvUy8mOJ1MuYbt2swsn3Xk2cSikwg/s1600/12+is+the+Charm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFPidVB0c0k8LlsavQpzq0cpUcmAg62dNF-AxyrAaJ1Sxxlp8-tZIo8ahZ3CtT4-feBFxTi0nD3X65vjFAd8-OMkzh4CpkFwTyFCOiYQZ4phOWe6DEvUy8mOJ1MuYbt2swsn3Xk2cSikwg/s640/12+is+the+Charm.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The twelfth time’s the charm.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I know it’s the twelfth because it wasn’t the eleventh. No, it most certainly wasn’t the eleventh.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I was trying to remember the right number. I thought, at first, that it’s the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">third</i> time that’s the charm, but the third time I only <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">hooked</b> my first White Oak bowfin. It came unbuttoned in a decidedly uncharming tarpon-like cartwheel. So the third time’s actually the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">tease, </i>not the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">charm</i>. It’s the twelfth that’s the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">charm</i>. Yes, now I’m sure of it.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Coincidently, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">twelve</i>’s also <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">lucky</i>. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lucky twelve</i>. Not seven, like many people think. Seven was the second hookup, lost when the beastie folded my 8wt and dove into a tree submerged underneath my kayak. Left me hopelessly hung-up. No, seven’s not lucky. Seven’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">mocking</i>. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mocking Seven</i>. Twelve is the ticket.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">All the rest are just numbers. Fruitless days on the water in dogged pursuit. Unable to find fish or unable to make them eat. Musky fishermen know them. Permit and steelhead guys, too. White whale days. It takes an angler with a short memory and a mathematically-challenged, non-quantitative disposition to keep at it. To push through the numbers. To endure those <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">teasing</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">mocking</i> and empty digits. To summon that long-suffering, analog optimism that defines us as fishermen. Normal folks would just move on to something else, undone by the numbers. For the rest of us there’s always tomorrow.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So I’m ready for my <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lucky Twelve</i>. My <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">charmed</i> time. It’s in the bag. I’m going to get one of those big bowfin the next time out.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Unless I don’t. Then maybe it’s actually <i>Lucky</i> <i>Thirteen</i>, though somehow that doesn't sound quite right.</div><i><br />
</i>Mike Sepelakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10569706920906836936noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5791496318819973464.post-27040164212703933472017-09-28T06:00:00.000-04:002017-09-28T06:00:14.923-04:00One Bug, Now Two<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwuonbnHPtgAnStq6VL6cKZruJOWCAJXkZ5ZgHgvoCPv_nJU9OMeYAJls4ZCJDlY-uDjy5RYxhxmtRzBhNGTGHtLpb4akMpz-IOk-B4EMZanJeIlWZYLRK7Mb52UgznEfZy1x2StRyK_Cr/s1600/B+and+C.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwuonbnHPtgAnStq6VL6cKZruJOWCAJXkZ5ZgHgvoCPv_nJU9OMeYAJls4ZCJDlY-uDjy5RYxhxmtRzBhNGTGHtLpb4akMpz-IOk-B4EMZanJeIlWZYLRK7Mb52UgznEfZy1x2StRyK_Cr/s640/B+and+C.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><i>A repeat, here, of a piece that I posted nearly four years ago under the title </i>One Bug is Quiet.</div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">~o~</div><br />
We stood back and watched as she roll cast the slow, shaded run that tucked tightly under the thick rhododendrons. Cast, drift, cast again; avoiding the encroaching branches with a quiet ease. “And she’s just getting started,” he whispered with a subtle hint of pride. “She’s figuring it out.”<br />
<br />
I hadn’t seen Brandon since our week chasing redfish on the Laguna Madre, a year-and-a-half past, but had followed his exploits through <a href="http://onebugisfake.com/">One Bug is Fake</a>, his online journal of fly fishing, survival, and whatever. I kept up with his angst through job changes, moves, and the generally painful business of sorting out what was important in his life. Kept up, that is, until the blog fell silent earlier this year. I worried a little.<br />
<br />
So when I caught word that he’d be in my neck of the woods for a family Thanksgiving gathering, I wandered westward and reconnected with him on a chilly Appalachian trout stream. There, I came to understand his disappearance.<br />
<br />
“Have you been writing?” I asked, thinking I knew the answer. “Not really,” he replied, watching her swing the fly once again. “I’ve been happy.”<br />
<br />
Those who write understand. Words, all too often, come from deep, dark places and passages born of hurt carry a weight and an edge that can resonate. It’s been suggested that contentment is the death of good writing. I’m not completely convinced, but do know that it’s easier to express when things are broken. Through the cracks seep emotion and heart and, inexplicably, craft. It’s a gruesome tradeoff.<br />
<br />
“But I’ve been thinking on a piece for a while now,” Brandon added, as his companion concentrated on her next drift. “About what’s changed.” <br />
<br />
I nodded, and smiled, and thought to myself that there was no need to hurry. No need at all. I’d be glad to not hear from <a href="http://onebugisfake.com/">One Bug</a> for a while.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">~o~</div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><i>Since that time I've heard very little from One Bug, for all the right reasons. And it's quite possible that today ol'e One Bug will be struck <b>permanently</b> mute as he and his companion on that chilly North Carolina stream, the source of all that hushed happiness, will be tying the knot.</i></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Heck, I'm so happy for them that I'm having trouble with the words myself.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>All the best to you, Courtney and Brandon. All the very best.</i></div></i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXoM6ooA-xN9uLrDaXAiRFzhSs2IPSGp2Y-NfNTWC4ErlLLQsGIP5QI3zJ9fuKVBhkAU9uSA7AlO1aTKjxAEOWHFGKN-nwBiTTDsfd9xvyRQPYKktXSJRVZefwVLuV9YuD76uOzUGYSBEX/s1600/B+and+C-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXoM6ooA-xN9uLrDaXAiRFzhSs2IPSGp2Y-NfNTWC4ErlLLQsGIP5QI3zJ9fuKVBhkAU9uSA7AlO1aTKjxAEOWHFGKN-nwBiTTDsfd9xvyRQPYKktXSJRVZefwVLuV9YuD76uOzUGYSBEX/s320/B+and+C-2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Mike Sepelakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10569706920906836936noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5791496318819973464.post-16424284514690253512017-08-15T06:00:00.000-04:002017-08-15T08:28:25.607-04:00Creepy, In a Good Way<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbWCcDCxHrmjdW5D-16stXa4kUcNo_Nr9Erx-7h-ituMDPmL6WXF8zU9YJLCvnD_BTCYdQUhAQwSP76i3cJhN4U4gECxgJg29xAOy4LgbjoEKVZDVU5OBFEKjhh0TbyqmIv2U5fhzu5C7T/s1600/Creepy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbWCcDCxHrmjdW5D-16stXa4kUcNo_Nr9Erx-7h-ituMDPmL6WXF8zU9YJLCvnD_BTCYdQUhAQwSP76i3cJhN4U4gECxgJg29xAOy4LgbjoEKVZDVU5OBFEKjhh0TbyqmIv2U5fhzu5C7T/s640/Creepy.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
The plan was to knock around The Big Easy for a few days. Wander the Garden District, the French Quarter, and maybe a bayou or on the outskirts of town. Eat and drink too much. Listen to some good local blues and jazz. Take lots of pictures. It was a good plan. Hell, it was a great plan.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0eXFTHd8oFaUSa5Z12R-kZ6W6rvIoX-iJ9fQc0G8a-fkJbTvBPpatupHZM-XzO4SFSvx8HqxHJn_FrvZbZii-ADVOh6_E0isRBg0O7DBxwiVFUdOmWUN9w_eytLyxG6CRWkVhsLlKxRDj/s1600/Creepy-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="428" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0eXFTHd8oFaUSa5Z12R-kZ6W6rvIoX-iJ9fQc0G8a-fkJbTvBPpatupHZM-XzO4SFSvx8HqxHJn_FrvZbZii-ADVOh6_E0isRBg0O7DBxwiVFUdOmWUN9w_eytLyxG6CRWkVhsLlKxRDj/s640/Creepy-2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
Mother Nature laughs at my planning.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP4oSP1w3V-Ljk03cHJD-zmtikBBzee8ZkryKLrW76Nat-OAMF-HzSR8ut1kdqDaiiR5x-k4QLDdU5mG-9hrpL_MqOLx77DOekQgW9rvbDkqIkYs-VgYw2bEe2xBKfZMXY6vdUckonaP95/s1600/Creepy-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="428" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP4oSP1w3V-Ljk03cHJD-zmtikBBzee8ZkryKLrW76Nat-OAMF-HzSR8ut1kdqDaiiR5x-k4QLDdU5mG-9hrpL_MqOLx77DOekQgW9rvbDkqIkYs-VgYw2bEe2xBKfZMXY6vdUckonaP95/s640/Creepy-3.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
Shortly after we arrived, unseasonal rains dumped eight-to-ten inches on NOLA in a short few hours, flooding The Bowl and many other low-lying areas within the city. Clubs along the Quarter found waters coming over their steps and seeping into the venues. Travel around town was a disaster, where you could drive at all. It wasn’t pretty. And then it kept raining.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj0ylAO9mpCZjkc7o3-5cKLHnVRd5MfnAtKuxNB0Tfa7CZLmsiiOj010xJexAHgrAXY8l1BIL0ygxbD2Yp5uxbLkwS6CH0d3-5kJxos-h7nrbKpON73RpNwPJqOEFnMpIE9PTSEU_l6iyO/s1600/Creepy-4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj0ylAO9mpCZjkc7o3-5cKLHnVRd5MfnAtKuxNB0Tfa7CZLmsiiOj010xJexAHgrAXY8l1BIL0ygxbD2Yp5uxbLkwS6CH0d3-5kJxos-h7nrbKpON73RpNwPJqOEFnMpIE9PTSEU_l6iyO/s640/Creepy-4.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
This mess left us to while away a large chunk of our time in the hotel, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. We stayed at <a href="http://www.thecolumns.com">The Columns</a>, a gorgeous old turn-of-the-century boutique boarding house, now twenty-guestroom hotel, that offered a dark, mysterious charm. And by mysterious, I mean creepy.<br />
<br />
Creepy in a good way.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI39PM43yx_xqvYKmNSmCFcHYejzjPO527765dSRGpJl5INjisP0HfWY2d8nVAHXpd87PlCMHcm1HBzkAqvODS-CZwgSITS9r9rui12cw3ifpfllz0LAVtZyUqFl1EpC7mDIWm0ndGzGCD/s1600/Creepy-5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1068" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI39PM43yx_xqvYKmNSmCFcHYejzjPO527765dSRGpJl5INjisP0HfWY2d8nVAHXpd87PlCMHcm1HBzkAqvODS-CZwgSITS9r9rui12cw3ifpfllz0LAVtZyUqFl1EpC7mDIWm0ndGzGCD/s400/Creepy-5.jpg" width="266" /></a></div><br />
Adding to the creep factor, for much of our stay we were the only guests in the place. Quiet dark halls. Empty staircases. Rows of closed doors. Were one to be effected by such things, there was some serious malevolence brewing.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbT01jhXlLQIrxmhIGxohKIL-HZyQBrOHCO2nAKo-YW6BvcR0zEvQF_Mohc327SEtq6rpsQNAOG5hyphenhyphenVYXBs6oZ5Bb5bdkuV7SK4VYUaslVvpFM4unLyJ0rhDBhYBSYIkHQaJXthHUiq2UM/s1600/Creepy-6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbT01jhXlLQIrxmhIGxohKIL-HZyQBrOHCO2nAKo-YW6BvcR0zEvQF_Mohc327SEtq6rpsQNAOG5hyphenhyphenVYXBs6oZ5Bb5bdkuV7SK4VYUaslVvpFM4unLyJ0rhDBhYBSYIkHQaJXthHUiq2UM/s640/Creepy-6.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
Did anyone see <i>The Shining</i>?<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiovhcyIH5dBN1uUBXgjE8ElyGcJkDEUDwE-Mf7pbuIIQtt-nRjEKnNkPl6E_8RyVQkOEBUy7l4PVf94LTUZLavUy6QHidppgI8tXmP2VJSAs2Tpo2XY9SpR4V77IwMcdRaYj139TQBxxUm/s1600/Creepy-7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiovhcyIH5dBN1uUBXgjE8ElyGcJkDEUDwE-Mf7pbuIIQtt-nRjEKnNkPl6E_8RyVQkOEBUy7l4PVf94LTUZLavUy6QHidppgI8tXmP2VJSAs2Tpo2XY9SpR4V77IwMcdRaYj139TQBxxUm/s640/Creepy-7.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
But we loved the place. While Mary napped or read in the room (number 25), I happily puttered around the haunting hallways and climbed up and down the incredible spiraling staircase to capture a few images, fully expecting to get back home to find soft spectral streaks in the photos. Ghosts of old New Orleans, peeking through.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7qcjH49LbRoI-ZJeGTPmQp5zimzgSrK_bYI2ziurf3d6OyTvbD47Qi8IlAjC3pA1wvwisvNKn5Atav9-rfFMPTRdipoSfj3kNYZ747kvg4ErKb7RcaQ34_aMo5Zo2MzB8n36352DCAVAV/s1600/Creepy-8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7qcjH49LbRoI-ZJeGTPmQp5zimzgSrK_bYI2ziurf3d6OyTvbD47Qi8IlAjC3pA1wvwisvNKn5Atav9-rfFMPTRdipoSfj3kNYZ747kvg4ErKb7RcaQ34_aMo5Zo2MzB8n36352DCAVAV/s640/Creepy-8.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
They were most certainly there, visible or not.<br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
Mike Sepelakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10569706920906836936noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5791496318819973464.post-74306564438145076942017-08-10T07:12:00.000-04:002017-08-14T11:02:53.178-04:00The Photo Bin - April 2017<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8J46w0VSJhV8PBOzfhyphenhyphenGwoIwTeHHQkoOP62WtrzMTW2uee-4ZlY66zGg-JLfP4tXIIsBBBFRAhQto7tRP-G6eJaj9At-XoenudPGJhyYynCGszh79SkN2RZOLr__xfrxy5lx9DPTO-wAT/s1600/Cornhole+2017-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8J46w0VSJhV8PBOzfhyphenhyphenGwoIwTeHHQkoOP62WtrzMTW2uee-4ZlY66zGg-JLfP4tXIIsBBBFRAhQto7tRP-G6eJaj9At-XoenudPGJhyYynCGszh79SkN2RZOLr__xfrxy5lx9DPTO-wAT/s640/Cornhole+2017-1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
It has occurred to me that I have been taking myself too seriously for too long and this poor little blog has suffered for it. I've fallen into the trap of wanting, needing, everything I post to be slick, well developed, and (dare I say) publishable. Wanting it to be remarkable. But by adding that pressure, I've throttled things to the point where posts have become few and far between. The twin ironies are that even my <b>best</b> work isn't all that hot anyway and that by holding out for "<i>the good stuff</i>," I'm not writing <b>anything</b> (which doesn't do a hell of a lot to help advance the craft). I've not even kept up the Photo Bins.<br />
<br />
Herewith, I'm shaking off the pretension and getting back to just putting it out there. It's that or stop altogether and I don't think I'm quite ready for that. As this is the April bin (and it's August already), there's some catching up to do, so let's get started.<br />
<br />
In April, the camera always fills with the extravaganza that is the annual <i>Live Free Cornhole Tournament</i>, a loving fundraiser for the memorial scholarship that we maintain at Georgia Tech in my step-son's name. Friends and family gather to share loads of fond memories, good fellowship, and just a bit of friendly competition, all in Freeman's honor. Together we miss him and keep alive the event he started as a simple gathering of friends to celebrate the arrival of spring. In his absence, we've repurposed it in his memory.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwnN_QisGg86XDHnFp01vxSkRJHgaFqIVhkgAO3OnfmoR7SHgaArhhS81tTr2wBg-4StxlbVWHMYz-AC5t58dzWFA-FdtAX5CA4a2v8cHAiNVFmhx4bHZGZTFz12k6XBhKWoHYH5PFjm_P/s1600/Cornhole+2017-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwnN_QisGg86XDHnFp01vxSkRJHgaFqIVhkgAO3OnfmoR7SHgaArhhS81tTr2wBg-4StxlbVWHMYz-AC5t58dzWFA-FdtAX5CA4a2v8cHAiNVFmhx4bHZGZTFz12k6XBhKWoHYH5PFjm_P/s640/Cornhole+2017-2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsuxdh83l9dUq94pU4vlDHW4Fh2o9pWMppIHGiZM9FU0rgPGWpVDEDtJhQd5JkjuJgtb3FbfJpTfcNi2hu-3Y3C_XAbUcKnPANRWtA7LYrO32R828xFVd0NmaJqpxPEo62zEpJptGk9xFp/s1600/Cornhole+2017-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsuxdh83l9dUq94pU4vlDHW4Fh2o9pWMppIHGiZM9FU0rgPGWpVDEDtJhQd5JkjuJgtb3FbfJpTfcNi2hu-3Y3C_XAbUcKnPANRWtA7LYrO32R828xFVd0NmaJqpxPEo62zEpJptGk9xFp/s640/Cornhole+2017-3.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNhjzYuIcl-G_SzikQZ2PwbPh5mLZy_wsPvX-X6VdC-MNwg-6HqVB7DZXYMgtaQjWWQ2zqQhDX3ESn4EATRbyQz7GlTqnqdCsbC_MNEpfQP0zzv5mwSPPJZi4QDXXVXBbTTUThKW7sd7LM/s1600/Cornhole+2017-4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNhjzYuIcl-G_SzikQZ2PwbPh5mLZy_wsPvX-X6VdC-MNwg-6HqVB7DZXYMgtaQjWWQ2zqQhDX3ESn4EATRbyQz7GlTqnqdCsbC_MNEpfQP0zzv5mwSPPJZi4QDXXVXBbTTUThKW7sd7LM/s640/Cornhole+2017-4.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTENDjXYgQgN56PfKC5F7B7E9viWbYzTlQ-lbJlgGVR_diQ4RcARqpHFDOLdgEPRoHrOVpsYOx7AzxD8kyhVYRMMjgKxhNhiaoQwYfTf4GsinCWIjYsyk5O4n2WoDkBFBbStfgiyIPUi1s/s1600/Cornhole+2017-5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTENDjXYgQgN56PfKC5F7B7E9viWbYzTlQ-lbJlgGVR_diQ4RcARqpHFDOLdgEPRoHrOVpsYOx7AzxD8kyhVYRMMjgKxhNhiaoQwYfTf4GsinCWIjYsyk5O4n2WoDkBFBbStfgiyIPUi1s/s640/Cornhole+2017-5.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1hOoEo28rp66oxLjBWp1QbgSNrvxHnLvUomZ8Flv7GKdRU2t11WTDa7hkvKCBU9ok5Sgyl0gGKugv1vECg-0vzBgskxLrFvjPNK08NmxjLpztPqgI-pZPPClpWn0sqGQHyQCHxD0omEdn/s1600/Cornhole+2017-6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1hOoEo28rp66oxLjBWp1QbgSNrvxHnLvUomZ8Flv7GKdRU2t11WTDa7hkvKCBU9ok5Sgyl0gGKugv1vECg-0vzBgskxLrFvjPNK08NmxjLpztPqgI-pZPPClpWn0sqGQHyQCHxD0omEdn/s640/Cornhole+2017-6.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwsbj9fxYQ6JFGtpRi_s_jOdiOY76-K1BNTshqENZ_r7G7fWCQB-EpZB32INEnAA5msoHIPxpGImtV_leviPbgK9f6fAY2utlI3kcBmwejrFJ3Wy1RyqGnqJLzwLkLkreRRSj89f0LPomD/s1600/Cornhole+2017-7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwsbj9fxYQ6JFGtpRi_s_jOdiOY76-K1BNTshqENZ_r7G7fWCQB-EpZB32INEnAA5msoHIPxpGImtV_leviPbgK9f6fAY2utlI3kcBmwejrFJ3Wy1RyqGnqJLzwLkLkreRRSj89f0LPomD/s640/Cornhole+2017-7.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The brave few that held out to the bitter end</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
That's a start. A slow month, April, but things got a bit crazy in May, June, and July. Their bins to follow here shortly. Then maybe I'll be back on track.<br />
<br />
Maybe.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mikesgonefishing.com/p/what-is-photo-bin.html">What is a Photo Bin?</a>Mike Sepelakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10569706920906836936noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5791496318819973464.post-73210610322771012542017-07-25T00:18:00.000-04:002017-07-25T09:12:42.174-04:00That Reminds Me of a Story...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5ipzk_IKWU0bOVzSqgPMPVHGsWLjJLNZnRtdnSc4uvz-p0odjBAnJwF_QBoyDE_IX7IEK2Bf7zXOYruv1TbgQdHKgMHElss3krhqDs5As1SmAKqX4qK-UfIYZXGDulHQRqqojwd8rX99u/s1600/Ed%2527s+Goodbye.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5ipzk_IKWU0bOVzSqgPMPVHGsWLjJLNZnRtdnSc4uvz-p0odjBAnJwF_QBoyDE_IX7IEK2Bf7zXOYruv1TbgQdHKgMHElss3krhqDs5As1SmAKqX4qK-UfIYZXGDulHQRqqojwd8rX99u/s640/Ed%2527s+Goodbye.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">We caught fish.<br />
More than that,<br />
We made stories.<br />
<br />
Stories that we’ve told over and over.<br />
Stories that make us laugh with every telling.<br />
Stories we will continue to tell, over and over,<br />
As long as we’re here to tell them.<br />
Stories that will keep you with us forever,<br />
Now that you’re gone.<br />
<br />
Some true.<br />
Some with a kernel of truth.<br />
Some we’ve made true in the telling.<br />
It’s hard to remember which are which any more, <br />
As if it really mattered.<br />
<br />
We gathered together tonight and told them again.<br />
Set aside the vises, the hooks and the feathers,<br />
And, instead, tipped a glass or two.<br />
Told the stories one more time.<br />
Laughed with you as if you were here,<br />
When, in truth, you were.<br />
In the stories.<br />
<br />
It may have started with fish,<br />
But not a single tale tells of the catch.<br />
They tell of falling overboard,<br />
Of getting shit-faced,<br />
Of putting our foot in our mouths at the worst of times.<br />
They tell of broken rods, bent transoms, and anchors tossed overboard unattached.<br />
Too many are poop or fart stories, I'm embarrassed to say.<br />
Funny at six and at sixty. Boys will always be boys.<br />
They make us laugh at our ourselves and we deserve it. <br />
No one is spared,<br />
For they are our stories,<br />
Yours and ours.<br />
<br />
Yes, we caught fish.<br />
More than that,<br />
Much more than that,<br />
We made stories.<br />
<br />
</blockquote>Mike Sepelakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10569706920906836936noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5791496318819973464.post-50275021005704003412017-07-13T07:21:00.000-04:002018-02-21T08:46:25.756-05:00Carp It<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFh2b7sUVMqiljcxC1iPECXJX88YJb6NOiR0J98W9em2kjLAiHA4g7plnr0XAzoXo0rYhYu8gpH7sM6s0S49HMLEmKYJvlbIZfX6fko4rWEyhXUmGHDVW2mv1B0eK_ZuAgrCZSgER9kpAG/s1600/Carp+It-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFh2b7sUVMqiljcxC1iPECXJX88YJb6NOiR0J98W9em2kjLAiHA4g7plnr0XAzoXo0rYhYu8gpH7sM6s0S49HMLEmKYJvlbIZfX6fko4rWEyhXUmGHDVW2mv1B0eK_ZuAgrCZSgER9kpAG/s640/Carp+It-1.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bend it</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ2vASXgMpfx0qrcNVN7A-LXV6W9fDSmogAO6SDo8S_rwnfxnFs4H8jO5d6MDJbuKFw14JFiaW-5J45IL1iMKpPRH27iXesHtibOA-HPYfEExu2ZIRqBX9PWvrjNG5C8I5_8wk6XSIbR4B/s1600/Carp+It-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ2vASXgMpfx0qrcNVN7A-LXV6W9fDSmogAO6SDo8S_rwnfxnFs4H8jO5d6MDJbuKFw14JFiaW-5J45IL1iMKpPRH27iXesHtibOA-HPYfEExu2ZIRqBX9PWvrjNG5C8I5_8wk6XSIbR4B/s640/Carp+It-2.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Net it</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirlxNy9K_Cx77dXjy9vS_Kx7OQedCSRkPMWDZLaID3VH_hIAweH3WAK7vI2SFKcVjK5iUTgAZAzkoxOUOpSF7mDjDmLKwLAv_vkhqseDAgAOJ4pAoSLkZ7hD-FSbXcREh0hR65RUM6ffja/s1600/Carp+It-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirlxNy9K_Cx77dXjy9vS_Kx7OQedCSRkPMWDZLaID3VH_hIAweH3WAK7vI2SFKcVjK5iUTgAZAzkoxOUOpSF7mDjDmLKwLAv_vkhqseDAgAOJ4pAoSLkZ7hD-FSbXcREh0hR65RUM6ffja/s640/Carp+It-3.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Juggle it</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsl4JwVvFi4IVEXH_oUUO2QLH-kmGrP_GAy8PXVYvupthOl33Nfzgs5XLCbxSbRycLocE1H-nniB9VpNtCT15VLk2e28-i_93IKWF_CvwkXnN_LsEHxCWwCXfJjsL4DchIiKh00Qcnw0c8/s1600/Carp+It-4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsl4JwVvFi4IVEXH_oUUO2QLH-kmGrP_GAy8PXVYvupthOl33Nfzgs5XLCbxSbRycLocE1H-nniB9VpNtCT15VLk2e28-i_93IKWF_CvwkXnN_LsEHxCWwCXfJjsL4DchIiKh00Qcnw0c8/s640/Carp+It-4.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Admire it</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip85tUJnTFqV04LkFw_Wk8Sln5tVH71e54_7H1o_GZ8zpO1dEAZRVCNWW7eYz89aTC6F71DYfYgfLdplYT4HMj3RluO9zmdffPlbFsVGQJBZydM5L9mm_388S7vslQSS1C7WUBcRbYPxnJ/s1600/Carp+It-5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="427" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip85tUJnTFqV04LkFw_Wk8Sln5tVH71e54_7H1o_GZ8zpO1dEAZRVCNWW7eYz89aTC6F71DYfYgfLdplYT4HMj3RluO9zmdffPlbFsVGQJBZydM5L9mm_388S7vslQSS1C7WUBcRbYPxnJ/s640/Carp+It-5.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kiss it</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgncGioFHybbbCYLaYOU0DYsvI4hIdsIkoZ4vwPiCSnB6LZRNd8biw5DIPbWpNaeCJnvj46NjrjSxWYQPMbbA1_OPytolW4WsU7rGboYM6twaGF2hTxZRwESmyBBJiSkpscSzLG5og7K5ZN/s1600/Carp+It-6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgncGioFHybbbCYLaYOU0DYsvI4hIdsIkoZ4vwPiCSnB6LZRNd8biw5DIPbWpNaeCJnvj46NjrjSxWYQPMbbA1_OPytolW4WsU7rGboYM6twaGF2hTxZRwESmyBBJiSkpscSzLG5og7K5ZN/s640/Carp+It-6.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Celebrate it</td></tr>
</tbody></table><i><br />
</i><br />
<br />
Mike Sepelakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10569706920906836936noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5791496318819973464.post-68684377996471464002017-07-12T06:00:00.000-04:002018-02-21T08:47:32.532-05:00Beaver Island Headlight<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ0CvThLjhe7g-zkxGcOWHIrYVSf7h8G7bW1PHk71QUNMUfSf56qGSzoEqdWIyZ6_5EheW8X21LHFzLyeEsBrPipMDVdH82aP4-nQ0y_9uH3dSS2-3qFXwwXJcxliEPNh0uyXvG6eDIn0n/s1600/Headlight-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ0CvThLjhe7g-zkxGcOWHIrYVSf7h8G7bW1PHk71QUNMUfSf56qGSzoEqdWIyZ6_5EheW8X21LHFzLyeEsBrPipMDVdH82aP4-nQ0y_9uH3dSS2-3qFXwwXJcxliEPNh0uyXvG6eDIn0n/s640/Headlight-1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkGKuMG09nC08kema-89EFqoL2PP6Qkk11edjn1rFwzTpCAye2Yzi-z8UxZr1EcqWsRm0Cc7WDWMCpF82abdXY7Fschu8UlVNQ4apu7PYrLJtMwTTpTFtAcangk9WxWLEk9fGKKoSYrzi7/s1600/Headlight-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkGKuMG09nC08kema-89EFqoL2PP6Qkk11edjn1rFwzTpCAye2Yzi-z8UxZr1EcqWsRm0Cc7WDWMCpF82abdXY7Fschu8UlVNQ4apu7PYrLJtMwTTpTFtAcangk9WxWLEk9fGKKoSYrzi7/s640/Headlight-2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic4sD5fpawp4Tu69DYOw8kbXfSvaURen2MpKqejiBZFLcIXsWrWHo8kUPMRorrKaXod_9_EhAO_6XYy6sUmjOo9VCHf6NOgDRVhEgg5bB4mYdYfvKj2tJpJzFfQJwjhPRwf364t0aM5QB2/s1600/Headlight-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1068" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic4sD5fpawp4Tu69DYOw8kbXfSvaURen2MpKqejiBZFLcIXsWrWHo8kUPMRorrKaXod_9_EhAO_6XYy6sUmjOo9VCHf6NOgDRVhEgg5bB4mYdYfvKj2tJpJzFfQJwjhPRwf364t0aM5QB2/s400/Headlight-3.jpg" width="266" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc6WKmf5U9DlWAtI0N0opI-7ly5BhyphenhyphenkQUhxbnRSgEA820k91r2PsmvnfEmt5y2OFLT1-0kSFyvW_AWnNxRwYPy3lIGCqjCkN7Zy0F6bT50WAqz71nkfBja0kNDE6kkG-Czjz-l85O_ZXlk/s1600/Headlight-4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1068" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc6WKmf5U9DlWAtI0N0opI-7ly5BhyphenhyphenkQUhxbnRSgEA820k91r2PsmvnfEmt5y2OFLT1-0kSFyvW_AWnNxRwYPy3lIGCqjCkN7Zy0F6bT50WAqz71nkfBja0kNDE6kkG-Czjz-l85O_ZXlk/s640/Headlight-4.jpg" width="426" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR8PIloaS4VWXsId-2lG_ahhAREKJ7Ww_5mszHhBD6PHoU-9aJvw2qn1w6_tzqYB5ac6MrH0zzOu3QUA8KZP3E7-3uyN9YHONfKbrSi777r16WkuSZmwWVmnuXdkoSM3_ZQSS0wYFKbyx5/s1600/Headlight-5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR8PIloaS4VWXsId-2lG_ahhAREKJ7Ww_5mszHhBD6PHoU-9aJvw2qn1w6_tzqYB5ac6MrH0zzOu3QUA8KZP3E7-3uyN9YHONfKbrSi777r16WkuSZmwWVmnuXdkoSM3_ZQSS0wYFKbyx5/s640/Headlight-5.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><br />
Mike Sepelakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10569706920906836936noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5791496318819973464.post-86732525985579722152017-07-11T06:00:00.000-04:002018-02-21T08:48:10.794-05:0010 Steps to Catching Carp<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDREJqXy11el_yjiTf_2HXla-5g2mRt1kwifQXou1irCcwk0eeB_jkxc5_UYsffx2EbD-Fvky-SS5cBUonKtbGkNXEwC1RdOFZXRssq3lCUtJcgcrC1jMij1Fng_lrcwgdNK5uO5sPKnMC/s1600/First+Carp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDREJqXy11el_yjiTf_2HXla-5g2mRt1kwifQXou1irCcwk0eeB_jkxc5_UYsffx2EbD-Fvky-SS5cBUonKtbGkNXEwC1RdOFZXRssq3lCUtJcgcrC1jMij1Fng_lrcwgdNK5uO5sPKnMC/s640/First+Carp.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Step 1: Find carp</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOYLRSuQ-WcNz3Jx7M-lWXa7rkOHxqrimQHulz7Wt0jolKb-nmNjMxIqP_FqiRCzXAFwz2OOwc44aEoyU29iMTePTyRnBm5-pGJY-eyRe5a00Lrxk46w5e_xHDh0UXj-R-9zkBi28LZUPm/s1600/First+Carp-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="428" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOYLRSuQ-WcNz3Jx7M-lWXa7rkOHxqrimQHulz7Wt0jolKb-nmNjMxIqP_FqiRCzXAFwz2OOwc44aEoyU29iMTePTyRnBm5-pGJY-eyRe5a00Lrxk46w5e_xHDh0UXj-R-9zkBi28LZUPm/s640/First+Carp-1.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Steps 2-4: Cast to carp</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuw3YBryIJJua2Rh4IoBcHHonCUCM8u_sqE1iGgLKR7weNjcU0mdn1LAs3bkr8N8chY9knOdw4wBNjbbN-fQOkDaazS3Y7URYkOCGGc1uTtnHAhIFw2ZZe65i9IJ9ktXBTMv84rSKmhrBl/s1600/First+Carp-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="428" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuw3YBryIJJua2Rh4IoBcHHonCUCM8u_sqE1iGgLKR7weNjcU0mdn1LAs3bkr8N8chY9knOdw4wBNjbbN-fQOkDaazS3Y7URYkOCGGc1uTtnHAhIFw2ZZe65i9IJ9ktXBTMv84rSKmhrBl/s640/First+Carp-2.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Steps 5-7: Scream at @#$% picky-ass carp (and guides, and Gods, and everything else)</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhVbWz8HxJLV6aYFBRsrZhMefpmThhyphenhyphenm1siXMR0eUGZuQHqL_n2xWKv6yxMyoGobrdViYSg3B4y5yzPzazccA1Icstua1BqpXzgO1_8LUybbN_kFS52k-dMsX0Pg6EP1XB68bVLTLMLVXh/s1600/First+Carp-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhVbWz8HxJLV6aYFBRsrZhMefpmThhyphenhyphenm1siXMR0eUGZuQHqL_n2xWKv6yxMyoGobrdViYSg3B4y5yzPzazccA1Icstua1BqpXzgO1_8LUybbN_kFS52k-dMsX0Pg6EP1XB68bVLTLMLVXh/s640/First+Carp-3.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Step 8: Catch carp</td></tr>
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</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMK3oIQeSE6ZkYr423z_kNXj03lmXbf1dSbswpg4JUov3t_3Zwwv0eEo3kOdgBzMTqCTC3hvhVxcIoSwAiM_3JnvYm-uNA9mjlHp8KnqG4EmakkQeEnigV6GE5PooKS41MRJ3-i9R_JWls/s1600/First+Carp-4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMK3oIQeSE6ZkYr423z_kNXj03lmXbf1dSbswpg4JUov3t_3Zwwv0eEo3kOdgBzMTqCTC3hvhVxcIoSwAiM_3JnvYm-uNA9mjlHp8KnqG4EmakkQeEnigV6GE5PooKS41MRJ3-i9R_JWls/s640/First+Carp-4.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Step 9: Release carp</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkOZSyXuNHuM4HSnfQ07N1uIzHEN3YAif4A9_2s1VKJufvxFUAP3UcVoBxKOQ5Qm1-C1nAXStvnT1RzsYCJ_I4uec1lyBAYXqZDNHWosNdwHbGLYVP8uBhFFYpoNfRpQWrcbv_2bn5I04x/s1600/First+Carp-5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1068" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkOZSyXuNHuM4HSnfQ07N1uIzHEN3YAif4A9_2s1VKJufvxFUAP3UcVoBxKOQ5Qm1-C1nAXStvnT1RzsYCJ_I4uec1lyBAYXqZDNHWosNdwHbGLYVP8uBhFFYpoNfRpQWrcbv_2bn5I04x/s640/First+Carp-5.jpg" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Step 10: Be bad</td></tr>
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</div>Mike Sepelakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10569706920906836936noreply@blogger.com2