The thermometer is flirting with zero degrees again, and the Fire Girl Subaru is now sporting a coat of grey ice and white salt cracklings.
I’ve resorted to toting the space heater with me wherever I move in the apartment, and have realized waking up to a room temperature in the 30s is going to be the norm for the next few months.
Winter has set in, and cabin fever is a bitch.
It’s with great envy and no small amount of homesickness that I’ve been watching Jake back home in Montana, enjoying the January chinook and good fishing.
Here in Vermont, I’m the moron practicing my double haul in the city park while cross-country skiers give a wide berth and look at me like I’m crazy.
It’s months like this when the tropics sound like a rather brilliant idea.
Warm sun? Hot sand? Endless flats? Tailing bonefish?
Sign me up.
I was delving through Belize images for a few publications and found myself daydreaming of sun, sand, eight-weight rods and maybe a Belikin or two.
Yeah, the Caribbean doesn’t sound like a bad gig at all right now.
