It’s not that we’re abandoning the six regular readers out there, but three-hundred and fifty-nine days have passed since plans were laid and, finally, we’ll be cruising to Alaska just about 14 hours from now. There’s no fishing in the plans, but that’s not to say it won’t come to pass. (The Wife’s never put the kibosh on fishing and is even encouraging I do so this trip.) Regardless, there will be thoughts of fishing…in the suitcase is what’s needed to tie the flies I lose in trees use most.

It’s been a crushing week lining up the ducks. Everything’s been done that could be done at work, and whatever’s undone at home will be left that way.

Relativity being a real thing, the next 10 days will likely fly by. And human nature being what it is, I’m selfishly looking upon this as an extension of the birthday that crept up on me today. (Feel free to send any fly fishing gear, a Ferrari or cash.)

It’s not that I’m truly selfish and don’t appreciate those who spend a few seconds minutes stopping by, but don’t expect much in the coming week and a half. It’s just that there’s no guarantee that there’ll be a connection to the Interwebs or willingness to step away from the buffet or bar long enough to write.

I do promise to wave from under the Golden Gate.