“Why the hell can’t we ever take a fishing trip for something that’s easy to catch!” He said, ripping open the tab on a beer. I didn’t say anything, knowing that silence was the only thing preventing me from catching a left hook to the jaw. It was my fault, of course, because I had planned this trip down to every detail—except the salmon weren’t cooperating and my plans just weren’t coming together.
My brother finished the beer and calmed down. “It’s just that I always get so excited for these trips, and it seems like they hardly ever pan out,” he said. “Atlantic salmon, steelhead, friggin’ muskies . . . we’re always chasing unicorns!” He stood up and started struggling out of his waders. “Sometimes,” he said, fumbling with his booties and flopping down in the sand, “I feel like we’re kind of crazy for doing this stuff.”
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