I was supposed to go fly fishing on Sunday with Underground Older Brother Scott, but woke up at 3:00 am in the grips of what I’ll describe as an almost certainly near-fatal disease.

Sure, the L&T thinks I’m just being dramatic, but I’m positive I felt myself slipping away a couple of times on Sunday, bringing myself back from the brink (don’t walk towards the light!) by focusing on the idea I haven’t yet willed my bamboo fly rod collection among my friends, who would no doubt descend on my rod rack like a bunch of vultures concerned buddies.

Still, the disease effectively negated what was supposed to be a Quality Outdoor Hiking & Fly Fishing Experience for the Underground, and that, my friends, makes me cranky.

“What,” you ask, “does all this mean to me?”

(I knew you’d say that, you self-centered bastards.)

Because I’m teaching classes Tuesday & Wednesday evenings, I don’t expect I’ll see any water before Thursday (more likely the weekend), which – at this point in my life – seems like freakin’ forever.

That’s assuming I’m feeling human by then (which is starting to seem like a stretch).

Still, with a Donnie Beaver story waiting in the wings – and bad, bad news (and some damned hard questions for Fish & Game) about the Scott & Shasta Rivers – all this crankiness won’t be wasted.

See you at the chill pill counter, Tom Chandler.