This is what my breakfast looked like for a week in Mexico. I went out on a charter boat and caught six albacore, which are like underachieving tuna. There were yellowfin to be had, but you had to go out 60 miles in a super panga, and I'm not that brave anymore. There were rumors of mahi-mahi just offshore. People talked smack about red snapper as they always do. But the fishing never panned out. Other activities included snorkeling, shuffle board, beach combing, bingo and sun bathing. My special lady friend knows the head waiter at Garza Blanca. We were treated like royalty and then some.
Steve Beirstat of Flatville, Indiana has penned his annual letter:
"Fuck-face, you still hunting fungus and writing about it? Get over yourself. Why don't you and that odd duck, the Rodfather you call him, go ahead and get gay-married? Get a real job. Get a life."
Thanks for checking in Steve. Hunting mushrooms and trout fishing are real life. See, it's all based on luck. Today Steve, I saw a young woman in the local Starbucks. She had a baby with her in one of those baby-carriers. (I don't know what they're called.) Her family was all around and, periodically, one of them would pull back the blanket and kiss that baby, or drag their noses across its face. I was trying not to pay any attention. But then, I looked into the baby carrier and saw that it was the most horrendous looking baby I'd ever seen. I know what you're thinking: that the baby will grow up and be decent looking. But Steve, there's no way. You'd have to have seen this thing's face. She looked like a cross between Sammy Davis and Garrison Keilor. But man, were those people loving on that baby. It's all about luck. So much of life is just dumb luck.
This mushroom season never achieved what it might have been. Cold fronts and ticks sullied my efforts. Above, the Rodfather poses with a few golden morels. This three-hour hunt yielded only 21 shrooms. The soil temperature, he says, never reached 50 when it needed to. It's almost over and we have hardly tasted any success. Trout are biting at Alcova and Pathfinder. Fly fishermen are wandering up from Colorado tracking mud into the Albersons and generally bumming me out with their high-dollar waders and hat brims full of flies. I need a break from Wyoming.