Running score: Fish 90, me 0.
The Boy and I hightailed it for Patagonia this afternoon and spent a lovely few hours hunkered under cottonwood trees, enjoying the breeze, drowning worms that came all the way from the White Mountains to die an ignominious death in Patagonia Lake, unmolested by any fish lips.
Nary a bite.
Well, one possible bite after we moved from the rocks to the handicapped fishing dock (insert comment here; we have long accepted our fishing impairment).
These vultures pegged us as an easy dinner, unaware that we had planned ahead and bought food against the distinct possibility that no fish would be caught for eating.
We're still waiting for that fresh-caught, pan-fried bluegill supper. Thankfully, Omar's Highway Chef is still serving up heaping plates of goodness at the Triple T Truckstop on the way back into town. My huge platter of huevos rancheros swimming in an ocean of beans and cheese was more than consolation enough.