I haven’t wet a line since late February and most of my thoughts throughout the day take me back to Argentina.  A few days ago, a buddy who works for Blue Ribbon was pre-fishing, prior to his clients arrival, around Livingston.  This jackass sent me a photo of bare ground and sunshine with the text that went something like “just had a good baetis session on such and such river, note the green grass!”.  Then, to add insult, he called while drinking an IPA on his tailgate to tell me how good the fishing was and how he thought I should be there.  I had a few choice words for him to chew on, but soon apologized for my ranting.  I closed the computer, cracked a beer and sat down next to the large pile of receipts in our living room while he gave the play by play of his afternoon of dry fly angling.

Don’t get me wrong, Molly and I are fortunate to have purchased a house here in the Holy Land of fly fishing, but the remodel, house packing (and taxes) is really cutting into my fishing time.  There is light at the end of the tunnel as our wood floor is half in, leaving baseboards and the moving trucks left on the list to accomplish.  With a little luck and some elbow grease, we’ll be moved living in our new place in ten days time.  At that point, a trip to a lower elevation is in order.  Winter in Montana is long, and while all of us who live at high elevations know what we are in for, by mid-April, one is ready for Old Man Winter to get his is arse out of Dodge.

Where will I go you ask?  The list of possible rivers is too long, but let’s just say that Idaho is on the short list.