Not so much a fishing trip as a sortie—Southern boys going where they ain’t welcome.

To hell with the Mason Dixon line—takin’ on the New York bait chuckers. Out numbered and outgunned, just the way we like it. This is the war of Southern aggression. 3 am, 20 hours to go: The truck’s packed to the gills. Yeah, it’s got a Hemi. Six hours later, the tank’s full and the tires are bald. It’s snowing its ass off. 15 hours later: Buffalo’s a cluster. Too much coffee and not enough sleep. Fingers burning. Feet numb. Casting too much weight. Back’s killing me. Jim Beam helps. My fly hits a metal fence post and sticks. Guides frozen to shit. Can’t feel my line. Indicator stops. Big fish. High for the week? 14. Wind? Gusting 30. Sun? What sun? Snow? Every single day. Soup in the thermos? Frozen by lunchtime. Hand warmers? Don’t do shit. Waders? Frozen on. Gotta get in the shower to take ‘em off. Yankees? Hiding! Southern boys? Kicking ass!

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