Fishing in a mountain creek or river is an art. Or a ritual. or a ride. A ride on which you control(to an extent) the track. For those who don't know how the art is done, I will elaborate.
When I go fishing, first I go inspect my tackle box. I only like to use dry tackle, because I can't imagine if, given a choice, anything(even a fish) would choose a wriggling worm or grasshopper that has been speared on a hook, over a nice piece of soft, light green plastic shaped like a larvae of some kind(that has likewise been speared).
I know which I would choose. Plastic naturally tastes better. As I look at my assorted trappings, I notice a smell wafting from the box. It's not all a bad smell, really. (more wafting). *choke*! Okay, Okay, It is! It is! Holding my breath, I look some more. All my lures are in a big jumble, just the way I like it. It is more convenient in a mess. Tears coming from my eyes,I close the lid. I run for the air freshener. All satisfactory. I go to inspect the fishing rods. Around here, we call them "fish poles". I go to my room, find my map,hope the piles in the garage haven't shifted due to some seismic disturbance, and notify search and rescue. I open the door and look into the garage, a.k.a. the "k'iil-ya'" mountain range. I look for the trail to the south-east reaches of the place. I find it, find my fish poles, and return safely. It is easy to live off the land when the bugs are bigger than sheep.
Then I look outside the window. The weekly forecast didn't show this. It's raining!
I throw my rods in the mountains, log the place, and go read a good book.
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