Sandwiches, 'Shine, and the Space/Time Continuum

"Never let the lack of a sandwich stop you from having fun."

Unable to find a flaw in his logic, I accepted Chris' generous offer to assemble a stream-side snack for me. We had crashed, for the night, at a convenient inexpensive hotel in blustery Boone, sandwiching a night's slumber between a day on the Watauga and one scouting new Caldwell and Wilkes county trout waters. He was digging through his larder, preparing for the next day, and took pity on me and my cuisine de Clif.

With little in the way of a coherent narrative, I simply offer these three disparate images from the outing. A bonus photo bin, of sorts. The first pretty much speaks for itself - a warm, dry night's sleep under the 8.

The next day's scouting landscape was miles and miles of country road, winding through the foothills of the Appalachians, small streams running just beyond each guardrail.

This image's yesteryear filter seemed appropriate as the roadside view has probably changed little since the 40s when 'shine runners barreled through these passes, revenuers hot on their heels. This is, after all, a backfire away from the birthplace of NASCAR - a country lap or two from the old North Wilksboro Speedway - and it's early stars spent their night jobs running wide open through these hills.

We were looking for trout, but they proved as elusive as the feds had found those flying flathead 8s - those lightning loaded 'forty Ford coupes - smelling of corn.

The final shot was taken by Chris who pointed the camera at me but somehow cracked the space/time continuum and captured an image of my father, an old dirt tracker himself, hat-head and all. Not bad for a guy who also makes a mean summer sausage and crisp cheddar on hard roll sandwich. The banana chip and peanut trail mix wasn't bad either.

No one eats better on the stream than Chris. No one.

Thanks buddy.