ALT FLY FISHING VOLUME 4 ISSUE 1 // BACK TO BUSINESS

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THE DELAYED HARVEST

IS DECADENT & DEPRAVED

“Asheville, my god!” I shouted as the news broke. Against my will I would be making a journey 720 miles south. Ft. Lauderdale, Saginaw, Kalamazoo and now this, all in less than a year. I began to panic, the thought of moving away from my precious steelhead and world class trout shery didn’t quite sit right. That’s the problem with cell phones, the person on the other end can no longer feel your considerable rage as you hang up.

WORDS AND DRAWINGS BY: MIKE “IPPY” IPPOLITO

I awakened to considerable snow on the ground. My phone soon rang, it was the engineer.

“Hey man, what are you getting into today?” He asked.

I knew he was looking to get out on the water.

However my desires were considerably different. After a few trips with nothing to show for our time I was going to reserve myself to the comforts of home.

We hung up and I spent some time on the world wide web looking up nymphing sticks. Should I just go with the standard set up or should I latch onto the whole euro nymphing craze. I didn’t even bother checking the stocking reports, North Carolina had stopped at this point. Unless it was stocked I didn’t have the slightest bit of interest in fishing it. jac I glanced at some jackets as well before working my way out of bed in search of porcellian. As I wiped my ass my mind worked its way back to the jackets, maybe something expensive, you are out there all the time working for stories and shots after all.

“Stories!” I gasped as I remembered my scribblings and ideas for an article. I didn’t remember much about them other than absolutely not doing a damn thing I had written down.

It was ten in the morning when I cracked open my first beer advising myself that there was no need to try and change a good thing like a predictable boozing schedule.

I nearly spit out my first sip as I looked through my hasty notes. A sense of panic, fear, and self loathing tingled through my body.

“For photos, try to capture the quintessential DH fisherman- stocker hipster- you’ll know when you see it” I th threw down the notepad and bolted like a bat out of hell towards the bathroom. I had seen the face, the personification of this whole decadent and depraved affair. It was my own, I caught a glimpse of it as I raised my pale ass off of the toilet seat.

I braced myself as I looked in the mirror to confirm b my suspicions. The shot I was desperately seeking was staring back at me.