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Perhaps it’s time I take mom up on her offer

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POSTED March 18, 2009 4:43 a.m.
My mom has a lot of good ideas.

After hearing details of my unsuccessful steelhead quest on the blowout Russian River a few weeks ago, she offered airline miles to fly me home for spring break so I could hook steelhead on my home river.

Great thought, but I declined.

I imagined calling some friends and asking them to go on Subfinder to report an absence because I was living off smoked salmon and popcorn at the Ketchikan Airport, waiting for the Southeaster to finish coating this section of earth with snow and move on to Canada. 

Good excuse, great column, but with all the heavy events of this spring, and the 1,817 mile drive looming this summer, I figured a week to relax would do some good.

With the trip I passed up still slow boiling, I headed up the Stanislaus for a little fly-casting.

Before I could hook the quarter-inch twig blocking my back-cast, I spotted a beautiful … golf ball.

It stared at me from the beneath an inch of crisp current, and reminded me of other oddities I had previously seen that day.

I was driving down Yosemite Ave. and saw a lady using a payphone.

I didn’t know those things were actually hooked up, thought they just held down the sidewalk. I later hypothesized it would probably be easier to decide where to space the penny pay-texters that will inevitably be installed once verbal communication becomes completely obsolete in favor of instant messages, comments, friending and unfriending.

Anyway, I looked around to see if anyone was looking for their drive that sailed a good couple miles from the nearest course. Seeing no one hacking the brush with their driver, I picked up the Top Flite, dropped it next to my fly box, and proceeded to snag that twig directly behind me.

I worked my way down river and eventually switched to a more colorful pattern for a deep pool I had seen on a previous trip. I missed a hit on the first drift, retrieved and gave the fish another shot, perfectly aware that the trout might not be eagerly awaiting another chance to bite a sharp piece of hook attached to a fake fly.

Naturally, my skillful persuasion yielded another hit, but also another spit. I would not get another chance the rest of the day.

I couldn’t help but imagine my buddy Justin, clad in winter gear, but smiling as he hauls in ocean-bright steelhead from the same spot in which we dive for lures in the summer.

Maybe I’ll give my mom a call.

To contact Jeff Lund, e-mail

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