I’ve got a fever. Both literally and figuratively. February and March has been one of the most illness laden stretches in recent memory. Packing up my goods during pregame warmups recently looked more like a NyQuil commercial than a fishing trip. And the malady doesn’t stop there. I’ve been feverishly laboring on the vise with an acute case of Steel on the brain. While trib exploits have been my central focus lately, I’ve still managed to trudge through a few of run-of-the-mill outings, including a run through a popular set of headwater springs.
As you may know, I’ve got a nasty habit of wearing my waders to and fro. I’ve grown comfortable wearing them while driving long distances in the car. En route to my fishing destination is a fairly comfortable undertaking, given that I’m still as fresh as the morning dew. When I wear them home, it’s another story altogether. I “one last casted” my way into running late last week. Which had me jumping in the car and racing home without so much as a loosened strap or shoestring for that matter. It’s this kind of behavior that gets my car smelling like the bowels of a high school locker room. A timely text from Mrs. Adrift only compounded the problem. A small scale honey-do list forced me to do a little grocery shopping in my boots, waders and accoutraments. This wouldn’t be the first time, nor will it be last that I stroll the aisles of a South Minneapolis grocer adorning full battledress.
One minute I’m blissfully standing ass deep in the receding snow drifts of early spring, the next I’m clip clopping my studded rubber soles through the perilously slippery confines of the neighborhood market. If only the dream couldn’t die. Make the most of what little time you have. It’s only a question of time before you receive your reality check.