Proper trout.

There's something about watching the lazy take of a fat cutthroat intent on swallowing an inch and a half of foam and metal in the heat of the July sun that I have always found hard to shake. So come mid-July I headed westward to the usual stalking grounds in the Alberta foothills.

We started off slow... we were rusty. You don't want to rush these things, or injury (to both body and soul) will result.

Some days were spent at base camp, becoming acclimatized to the thin mountain air and having a serious discussion of the days ahead. Also some other things I forget.

Once we were in top athletic form the circuit began. Southwards, from familiar waters to the unknown. You would be right to draw comparisons to the passion and thirst for adventure of a young Charles Darwin on the voyage of the Beagle.

On these crystalline waters we accepted only the tightest of loops.

We made our beds in the most dreadful and desolate of places, for we were motivated beyond the desire for simple comfort.

Countless miles were walked, often with no sign of the very water we worshipped. Only an inexplicable mantra as our driving force. Oncorhynchus clarkii lewisii.

And then something changed. It began.

The true impact of those few days may not yet be known. But something is different. Every time I pour a healthy splash of Clamato into a warm can of Old Milwaukee, I can sense the sea change.

Acknowledgments:
Honda Motor Corp., Spitz sunflower seeds, Environment Canada realtime radar, Joe, Jesse, Aaron and all those who selflessly sacrificed their physical well being to help with our training regime at base camp.