The world can be a cold and unforgiving place. Peddling your wares on the information superhighway is a tough road to hoe. You tend to tear yourself wide open to scrutiny. Sure, the digital high fives stroke your ego when it’s all going well, but the ebb and flow of zeros and ones eventually lead to the Willy Loman moment where you question what it’s really all about? As I’ve stated ad nauseam, I tend to fall into the “reluctantly engaged” category with a light side of misanthrope. Once you actually break through the digital veil I tend to be much more normal than I let on. Sometimes my writing strikes a chord, other times it falls flat on its face. Not to mention my willingness to express opinions with an artificially injected highfalutin ego (just for good measure). The somewhat heated commentary following my last post highlights the risk in “putting it all out there.” At the end of the day this place is more of a personal journal than anything else, but I’m glad to have anyone on board who finds amusement in my journey. Truth be told, my reporting last season was incomplete at best. I neglected to write or photograph a good portion of my efforts (not to mention I left a handful of posts cued up in WordPress, but chose not to publish my findings). These installments represent a small cross-section of leftovers. Like many of you, I fill up my hard drive with hundreds of frames of angling photos every year. Upon further review they come out good, bad and otherwise, but only scratch the surface here on the blog. I always test my cameras before I’m on the water. My trusty first generation GoPro with its VIC-20 like intuitiveness is always good for an inadvertent selfie, or two.
I can’t quite put my finger on why the mojo has been waning here? Perhaps my desire to focus on other activities is growing? My experience in the outdoors has always been a moving target with constantly shifting priorities and goals. Much to the surprise of nobody, I’m happy to report that my angling interests run much deeper than the fly fishing for trout. I’m a not-so recovered junkie of the tallest order. I’ve had stints where I obsessively chase giant muskies, found myself on the pulse of high-end tournament bass angling, searched far and wide for monster panfish, and ice fished until I’m blue in the face (amongst other more idiosyncratic and quite frankly embarrassing behaviors). While I have a tendency to prod the johnny-come-lately fly or die set, it’s all in good fun because I believe the children are our future (cough). It’s all about respect for everyone and anyone who loves the outdoors. I haven’t made any determination about what this year will hold. Maybe an exposé on wormin’ for bullheads with the Zebco? Or perhaps I’ll get back to my adolescence by offering up some hard hitting creek chubin’ with canned corn or Rooster Tails spinners? Maybe it will all remain the same? Or simply fade away. But its out of the frying pan and into to the fire, once you boil it down to the essentials. To be, or not to be, that is the question.