Those other dudes had FIBfest, now we got ours. Sure, a week in the Bahamas chasing bones sounds appealing to most any fly fisherman. Even more jealous were the rest of us bloggers who were overlooked for the trip, attempting to stay warm within the frozen confines of home while getting fish porn updates from the white sands of South Andros. Well, through the hard work and generosity of the folks at Third Coast Fly, Indigo Guide Service, and others, they are sponsoring an event the rest of us "real" anglers all wish we could participate in over on Beaver Island in beautiful northern Lake Michigan.
In the back of my mind I always wondered if the Holy Grail of fantasy dream trips for the typical trout angler was an excursion off to the tropical flats, getting lost amidst the atolls, ghostly silhouettes, and copious amounts of fresh seafood, rum and lager. It would be hard for anyone to turn down a trip like this, even if you don't fish. But what about the roughfisherman? I like bikinis and white sandy beaches as much as the next guy, but I prefer a much more higher latitude, and a different quarry of fish. To me, the ultimate dream trip is one that holds potential for fish greater than forty pounds, bonus if they're carp. If it's in a beautiful locale, even better. Enter Beaver Island. You've got your white sand beaches, endless flats, northern latitude, bottomless supply of ales and stout, and oversized carp all right there. What more could you ask for? Oh yeah, you get to fish alongside some of the industry giants like Deeter, Romano, and Morlock, even my boy Rice-cakes will be there.
Now don't get me wrong, the folks at FIBfest looks like they had a great time, but this trip has legendary written all over it. Any self respecting carper can tell you that this is the ultimate trip that we all fantasize about. Well for once, I find myself inside the inner circle of all good things, and got the invite to participate in this year's Media Outing. Now, you guys get to drool about my carp escapades while I'm back kicking up my well worn heels, swilling from my goblet of rum and recalling all of the takes, misses, and runs from the day, in the glorious and eloquent manner that all such fly anglers recall their tales of ribaldry from the high seas.
This is the dream.