And now, some enlightened drifting by Dad...
Interpreted from pictures by those on the outside, the life of a Riverbum appears glamorous, tranquil and Jerimia Johnsonishly romantic; with flowing clear rivers dotted with eagles, bears and camouflaged fawns. But it is not, my dear friends, the life depicted by our cameras.
Behind the scenes lies the harsh world of wilderness river fishing and the endless task of painting the studio facade that blankets the Riverbum Blog with the intentional allusion of a sportsman's garden of Eden. Each trip begins by leaving home base four hours before the sun rises and as always in our attempt to reach the rental car from the front door, we find ourselves running the "Wally" gauntlet. Which entails dodging the ever present suburban sniper yard skunk "Wally" who lives for the opportunity to spray a groggy eyed Riverbum . Of course this ritual never fails to invoke the words, "Is that our dark Italian roast Starbucks coffee we smell leaking or frick'n Wally again missing with a long range squirter missile?" Fortunately, for the Riverbums, Wally has not been with a lady skunk in over a decade and as a result has developed a severe case of swollen prostate causing the old boy to fire with the accuracy of a frenchman due to his faulty stink sack sprayer. Wally is such a bad shot that a majority of his ammo falls fruitlessly right back onto Wally rendering him much like the crocodile in Peter Pan, but instead of "tick, tick, tick" it's "stink, stink, stink." After successfully reaching the car and doing a last second self-sniffing body check before entering (just in case Wally got a lucky shot off), we silently close the car doors taking care not to wake the neighbors. Especially the "Captain" whose shot is on the way other end of the Wally/Frenchman spectrum. Note to blog reading burglars; if the skunk and the vicious cattle dogs don't get ya... the Army Captain WILL!
And then we're off! Hitting the road, the IPod, the accelerator...the Break!?! Damn it! Forgot the frick'n coffee, or my wallet, or my fishing hat, or my glasses, or the tub of lures (no I left the tub of lures on the top of the trunk with the extra line and they fell off a block after pulling out of the driveway). Shit! I'm an idiot and now I have to run back (past Wally who's now humping a deflated dog chewed soccer ball) and into the house for whatever...
To be continued...
Cast Away,
Dad
Cast Away,
Dad
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