All summer long business has been *good*. Orders flowing in slightly faster than I can attend to them means that there has been a slowly increasing backlog for the last few months.
I don't do well with backlogs. I like to turn out the lights at the end of a day knowing that I'm "caught up" and can breathe easy about the next day's work.
Not possible these days.
So you might say that I've been in a state of denial about catching up for the past few months, and have been desperately trying to do just that. Working nights. Working some weekends. Riding, fishing, relaxing less than a person should.
And just a few days ago it occurred to me that summer is pretty much over. I managed one tour with # back in the spring, and a few weekend trips hither and thither with L and D over the summer. Completely and pathetically unacceptable.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Friday I packed up the E with two bikes, two fly rods, a cooler full of goodniks, and a few buckets of clothing and essentials. I hit the Interstate, shifted into 6th, set the cruise at 81, and managed to punch through the elastic pretty easily.
Utah and Idaho were gone in a blur, and by 5 PM I'd bought a fishing license in Lima, MT. I drove up Big Sheep Creek to where it rips a canyon through the Tendoy's, parked, hiked, and stood at the lip of a pool smiling at the fact that I was finally, finally scratching a 6-years-deferred itch. The browns in this crick have been calling to me since I first ITT'ed the GDR in ought-three.
Painfully relaxing just to stand in the drizzle, ankle deep in ooze, casting to fish that found my attempts at catching them hilarious. One serious hit in three hours out, but I failed to set the hook and with a flash of tail that fish vanished back into the hole.
Suitably relaxed from my first day out, I parked on a ridgeline near Divide, MT, popped the top, and let the incessant whistling wind rock me to sleep.
Much, much more to come.