Book Description

Publication Date: January 3, 2012

poor little trout fish - bring on the butter and skillet, but please, developers, leave the river alone.

    "Roosevelt, please," my Guardian Angel pleaded, putting his hands together like he was praying. "Let me warn you one more time. I don't feel good about this. I have no doubt trout fishing is going to cause you nothing but grief."
    For a brief moment I hesitated, my Guardian Angel pleading was completely out of character, but warning or no warning I am going trout fishing  My Guardian Angel followed behind me shaking his head and muttering. The only words I could pick out were 'stupid' and 'brain dead'.
   At the head of the trail that runs beside the stream I stopped. Beside the trail were four freshly cut pine boughs stacked on top of each other - each about three feet long. Seeing them puzzled me and for an instant made me feel paranoid.  "It is really getting bad when tree branches start bothering you," my Guardian Angel said. "You old hippies didn't inhale pine needles did you?"
    I have had paranoid attacks in my life, but this one is ridiculous.
I came around a small bend in the river and there was a pool over ten feet wide and twenty feet long. The water was so deep I couldn't see the bottom of the stream. A thick stand of red alders grew on the far side of the pool. There was no way there wasn't a trout waiting anxiously for my wooly worm in the deep swirling water. A skittish water spider darted away from me as I cast my wooly worm. My Guardian Angel leaned back against a tree with a worried look on his face - either that or he had an attack of gas.
    Cast after cast invaded the pool with no trout. I decided to add weight to my line to sink the wooly worm deeper into the water. I attached two small lead split shot to the leader and plunked the wooly worm back into the water. It hadn't drifted more than two feet when suddenly my line stopped. I pulled back with enough force I could have set the hook in a shark's jaw. The rod bowed fiercely, but there was no thrashing on the end of the line, disappointedly, only the steady pull of a snag. I don't think fried snag would taste good unless I was a vegetarian and into soggy tree bark. Although, in some places, soggy tree bark might cost $18.95 for a lunch special - especially if the soggy tree bark was soaked in high mountain, sparkling, stream water, and served by a girl who didn't shave her legs or under her armpits.
    "Cut the line and let's get out of here," my Guardian Angel yelled and took several quick steps back toward camp.
    For some reason, the cheap fly that had been made in India was important to me, and instead of breaking the line, I put my hand around the snag and pulled with all my might. If I could get the snag up and out of the water, I could see what I would have to do to get my fly. The first thing I saw coming out of the gloom of the water sent shivers down my spine. It was not a tree limb, but a hand, a woman's hand, with long slim fingers, painted red nails, a diamond ring, and a gold and diamond tennis bracelet. The naked body bobbed inches below the surface as I held onto the arm, my wooly worm was embedded in the crook of her left elbow. The face, opened eyed, gazed vacantly at me in bewilderment, as the long blond hair curled around her head like golden seaweed. I know the lady did not drown. There was a small hole in her temple - the type caused by a bullet.
   "Oh Roosevelt," my Guardian Angel moaned, burying his face in his hands. "I tried to warn you. But no, will you ever listen to me, what am I, just another pretty face?"