Stupid Fish

I've spent the past two evenings walking stream side; casting what would be to the layman bits of fluff and thread placed on a hook hoping that skill, perseverance, and a little bit of that certain something will result in the perfect drag. Then is that magical moment when the fish, in out case a trout, gently sips the bit of fluff into it's maw and we will spend a few moments battling wills, light from the setting sun glinting off of ripples in the tailwater, until the fish at last comes to hand.


But none of that happened.

So I've determined that I like stupid fish.

I've heard all of the merits of tricking a wary fish, using technique to get a stubborn trout to rise. And you know what? Keep it.

I will admit what we all know to be true but won't say. I want to catch fish. Yes, tricking tricky fish is great for a sense of accomplishment and all that. But that leaves room for not tricking the fish.

So I'm going for the idiots of nature. The big, beefy, meatheads. The kind of fish that you want to take home because you really don't want those kind of genes to stay in the fishy gene pool. The kind of fish that manage to drool in the water.

Because at the end of the day what will be more memorable: a day of landing 30 bruisers that were caught on tinsel and cat hair with a strobe light attached (micro-stereo playing dub step optional) or a day of almost-but-not-quite catching one native brookie?