As winter sets in I feel my cabin fever creeping in just as fast. I realized a few days ago that I have only gone fishing twice since late September. Twice. I keep saying that over and over in my head. Twice. I haven’t seen a smallie smash a popper in months

I’ve traveled a lot for work, tried to fit in fishing while on the road, but to no avail. My casting arm twitches as I write this. I’m feening like a junkie for that fix.
I don’t care what I catch. It could be a creek chub, I’d be happy. I cross the Wildcat Creek and the Wabash River on the way in to work in the mornings. They’re both blown out worse than Belladonna’s rectum. I bet somewhere in there I could catch a fish.

If I’m lucky, I’ll be fishing a fast river in Michigan in a few days for some steelhead that will probably be too good to jump on my hook and let me ogle them like I would a glitter covered stripper. Until then, I’ll dream of smallies in August, like the one below..

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