Splitting and stacking firewood hasn't killed me, the rain hasn't melted me, the boys at the local watering hole haven't shot me (though it is in their eyes), 312,167 beers have not put me in the ground, and the old smelly dog has not smelled me to death. I can only conclude I am immortal. There is only one last test: a hunting trip with the Vice-President.
The rivers look great, the weather becomes more trustworthy in March, and this is the time for the big wild boys. So you poor souls in Sacramento I say head in the only reasonable direction...no, not south you crazy b@stard...no, not west you dimwit...geez...no, not east ya' dullard...NORTH!!! North to the rainforest, land of clams and elk and steelhead and women who won't ruin your life since there is no desire to touch them. Celibacy and the great outdoors. Sane you city boys up in a week. Look at what wonders the magical spot has bestowed on my noggin'.
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