I feel like I’ve been hit (and then dragged) by a bus, and while I won’t plumb the depths of my personal depravity over the last couple weeks, I will say this:

I’m going fly fishing today.

On a small stream.

That looks something like this:

It looks like a small stream, but to a beat-up fly fisher, it's an ER.

It looks like a small stream, but to a beat-up fly fisher, it's Intensive Care.

In yet another sign of Just How Bad Things Have Gotten, I even lack the energy needed to taunt my readership over my good fortune.

You know the situation’s become critical when there’s no pre-trip end-zone dance broadcasting from Underground/Man Cave World Headquarters, and yes, it probably is time to wheel me into the ER and connect me to the machines that go “beep” and “ping.”

Of course, for a fly fisherman, it’s not so much “beep” and “ping” as it is “splash” and “chirp,” and instead of disinfected tile floors, we’re looking at spring-green meadow grass surrounding a winding stream.

Yes my furry band of Undergrounders, the only good news is that beating the debilitating disease called “civilization” doesn’t involve reclining in a hospital bed as much as knee-crawling your way behind a tuft of grass and sidearm casting a dry fly to the far bank.

And instead of “nurse, I have to go to the bathroom now” you say “whaddya think – a #16 Adams or an Elk Hair Caddis?”

See you on the stream, Tom Chandler.

p.s. – To any clients who were expecting me to stay home and work on their projects today, rest assured I’ll be working all weekend long on your stuff. Really.

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