A Series of Random Events Gone Awry

It's been twilight-zonish week around here. First, there was the trip back to the old stomping grounds. A place where the beer flows like wine...where beautiful women instinctively flock like the salmon of Capistrano. I'm talkin' about a little place called Oxford, Ohio.

A trip back to Disneyland was going to kill not two but three birds for me- I'd catch up with a bunch of buddies for a night, see my little sis, and score a badly needed fish fix. I saddled up the Tiny Dancer and, needing a partner in crime, dragged Juan along for the ride.

All in all it was mission-accomplished, save for one crippling hangover that threw a bit of a wrench in Sunday's fishing plans. We persevered only to find that the fish had no interest in feeling "sorry" for us. A couple of players right off the bat was all the fun to be had for the day. We retired, tails betwixt legs, heading back to Oxford to lick our wounds in hopes of a better performance on Monday.

Monday morning found us back on the river ready to make amends. Our plans were interrupted however, for better or worse, by a riverside meeting with a couple kindred anglers several years our senior... never ceases to amaze me how a shared passion for sport can form a bond of friendship so quickly. Two hours, a few dozen stories and a couple nips of the flask later, we returned to fishing.

Then on Tuesday there was the run-in with the EnviroNazis that nearly cost me my career.

One minute I'm swinging intruders through a damn-sexy piece of winter steelhead water with a brand spankin' new two-hander, the next I'm being accosted by a group of militant birders, intent on defending the sacred breeding grounds of the "Chosen One" of all raptors.

Unbeknownst to me, fishing in a bald eagle breeding zone in a closed area of a national park without a fishing license on your person with a dog off leash is, apparently, not looked favorably upon. It took a little smooth talking (and me finally producing a current Ohio fishing license in the bottom of the 9th) to dissuade the enraged aviphiles from tar and feathering me in the town square. Alas, Victor and I escaped unscathed.

Moral of the story: Mind your P's and Q's and don't be a menace to bald eagles while fishing for steelhead in the hood.