T-Bone doesn’t like me much.
He will, of course, deny it, but there can be no other explanation. How else can you interpret our spending nine hours together in a New River drift boat with nary a long, circuitous story told, rib-poking barb at my casting skills, or slightly off-kilter joke? All we did was fish. Nose to the grindstone, eye on the bug, minds on the water, fish.
Now, admitted, it took that, and more, especially knowing that every cast might yield a beast of a smallmouth in this unbelievable Virginia fishery. Our drifts had to be absolutely dead in the tricky currents and the smallmouth takes, when they occurred, were as dainty as a butterfly’s kiss, easily missed. Even our guide was all business, in a competent and collegial manner. It was all about the fishing...
...but still, I wonder...