You and I, we’ve been through a lot together.

Flat tires on remote dirt roads. Terrible fishing trips. Miserable camping trips. Rainstorms. Snowstorms. Bugstorms. Skunkings.

Small trout. Big trout. Broken fly rods. Lost fish. Single. Married. The Meski years.

And no matter what – or where or when – you’ve come through. No matter what I asked of you.

Once, we huddled together for 18 hours in a wet, coffin-sized tent.

You never abandoned me. Never uttered a discouraging word. And willingly surrendered yourself so that I could live.

Sure, on hot days you got a little slippery. A little hard to handle.

Once I had to tear apart the box to free you. (Aahhhh, the box. Simple. Protective. And oy, the seductive photo on the cover…)

Whoppers box

I ache for you, my little fly fishing snack...

Unlike so many over the last four decades, you’ve never promised more than you delivered. Never disappeared when things got tough. Never failed me.

Never let me down.

Some decry your petro-chemical origins. Or your unpronounceable list of incomprehensibly chemical ingredients. And years-away expiration date.

Me? In an impermanent world, I crave your longevity – your ability to weather weeks in the cab of a truck and still delight when your forgotten, half-empty box is joyfully discovered.

Let the others have their sad, rectangular fishing snacks.

Their recycled-cardboard Powerbars. Mashed, oozing sandwiches. Flattened, crumbling Fig Newtons.

Even their grimly organic, high-fiber wheatgrass cakes.

Whatever.

In this day and age, some will say my lust is wrong – that this is a forbidden love.

That man and snack food shouldn’t feel the way we feel about each other.

Screw them. You and I, we’ve got something special. We’ve shared things – moments no one can take away from us.

I say this: If enjoying your Rich Tasty Goodness is a crime, then I am a guilty man. And when the fishing begins anew, we’ll find each other in candy aisle.

Again.

See you with chocolate-smeared fingers, Tom Chandler.

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