Summer in the South sometimes gets a bad wrap. Don’t get me wrong — it’s hot. Real hot. I live in the mountains and it’s still too hot. How hot is it, you ask? It’s so hot that every, “It’s so hot….” joke seems asinine because it’s so f ‘n hot. But amongst the humidity and sweaty crotches resides the true jewel of summer in the South: choice. Bass in the ponds and rivers, carp on the flats and marinas, striper in the river mouths and on the lights, redfish on low tide mud flats and high tide grass, and tailwater trout, well, everywhere. You get where I’m going with this, right? There is no other season where the smorgasbord of options is as plentiful as during the dog days of summer.

A man (or a lady for that matter) might get a wild hair up his ass and go on a three-day shame spiral trip fishing trout, bass and salt with nothing more than Jagermeister, a borrowed boat and the foggy memories of summers passed to fuel his Sherman-like tear through the Southeast scene. This is hypothetical of course, I am not planning this as we speak…I repeat not planning this. But to those of you who seem to find yourselves filled with wild hairs once the summer solstice passes, a few words of advice: Wear plenty of sunscreen, pack clean underwear, and never, never taunt a Sasquatch. You’ve seen those commercials, right?

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