First thing’s first. I need to figure out a way to get out from underneath all this freaking rain. Every time the river drops to a reasonable level, another storm front moves in, unloads a biblical flood on all the local drainages, and effectively screws the pooch for a few more days. It may as well be March for all the waiting and anticipation, and I am tired of waiting and anticipation. Granted that the rain is just what the local trout streams need to better endure the summer. Granted I’ve always had my best seasons when we’ve a wet June and July, but enough is enough already. The clouds need to part. The water needs to drop. The river gods need to conference with the weather gods, and get their respective shiznat together. If a sacrifice is required then there are in my neighborhood any number of wandering cats that I think might suffice. Anyone feel like barbecue? (I’m an unapologetic dog guy).

Second, I absolutely must make more time at the tying bench. More to the point, I need to make better use of what time I’m allotted by management. I made the mistake of hooking up a small television just to the side of my vise, and my productivity has dropped substantially as a result. No, I don’t have A.D.D. What I have is a serious crush on Fox News personalities Megan Kelly, Alisyn Camerota , Julie Banderas, Andrea Tantaros and Shepard Smith. I love each of them to the point of distraction, but I love Shepard most of all. Not in a man-love kind of way mind you, but perhaps in a prison way. You know … I’ll hop in the top bunk and call ya’ Ginger … that kind of way (at this point it should be abundantly clear that the continuous precipitation is pushing my mind past the limits of normal human endurance).

Third, I need to spend a little more time getting to know that downstate tailwater. Everybody says it’s the best trout stream on the east coast so I’m certain it must be. Why such crowds if it isn’t all it’s said to be? And as much as I hate the drive, maybe I’ll hate it less once I better know what to expect once I make it to the river … aside from New York, Pennsylvania, New Jersey and Connecticut plates at every other access point.

Fourth, I need to return to Montana. I miss the Yellowstone, Slough Creek, Duck Creek, Hebgen Lake, and the Madison. I miss cutthroat trout, pale morning duns and the Grizzly Bar. I miss seeing all those stars at night; stars we never glimpse here in New York. Sadly, my wife says that at two years-old the triplets are far too young to make the trip. I think she is convinced that once we cross the border from Wyoming to Montana, each of our children is likely to be stalked and devoured in turn by a rabid she-wolf. She forgets that normal, healthy children are everyday born to Montanan parents, and that most of these children thrive and reach old age. In an only slightly better scenario our children grow to love Big Sky Country as much as I do, and want to return every year. For my wife, such a possibility is worse than the inferno.

Finally, I need to start killing my own fly tying material. Grouse, partridge, turkey, rabbit, and squirrel are all here for the taking. I’ve a mind to start with the rabbit that ate my wife’s flowers, although I probably shouldn’t use the shotgun to perform the execution. I’m pretty sure firing a 12 gauge in my little corner of suburbia is verboten. No, the shotgun is out. I think I need to hit Wally World and purchase one of those Daisy, CO2 pellet rifles. Better yet, maybe I can pick up an “official Red Ryder carbine action two-hundred shot range model air rifle with a compass in the stock.” How cool would that be?

Who am I kidding? I’d probably put my eye out.