“Phtooey!” spit the Urban Angler. “Damn gnats — I hate it when I eat them when riding — and today the air is filled with them. Must be some kind of hatch” … he thought as he closed his mouth and squinted his eyes. “Look at them all — they’re all over me. Thank the Fish Gods that I’m here” he said to himself as he downshifted and coasted into his parking spot beneath the large oak tree beside the retention pond.

The small pond was alive, with dimples spreading out all over the surface of the water. The winds had calmed down after the typical heavy afternoon thundershowers had stopped and there was still about an hour of daylight left on this summer afternoon. The Urban Angler had spotted this small pond a while back, and now was his first chance to fish it. The pond was not large, and had the typical drainage culverts directing water from the street down into the pond from two locations. The banks were not overgrown and while there were a few trees surrounding the pond there was ample space in which to make a backcast without getting it snagged. Everything seemed perfect.

The Urban Angler started off by tying on a #8 small white spider with chartreuse legs. This fly usually excites the bigger fish in the pond ….but after several minutes with no takes, the Urban Angler switched to a yellow fly of similar type and again experienced zero takes. This was perplexing, as he noted the dimples and splashes of fish rising and slurping something off the water. He tried several different flies, including sinking Ants and Wooly Buggers, and was skunked for all his efforts.

Pedaling home the Urban Angler mulled over his disappointment in his mind. What was going on? Why were the fish not eating any of his offerings? For now, he’d chalk it up to “one of those days” but in the back of his mind it kept gnawing at him, because he knew that he knew the answer.

Once he was home, Urban spied his wife unloading shopping bags from her car. “That’s the danger of leaving her unattended” he thought half-jokingly to himself. She called him over to help bring the bags inside. They were from a store called “Small Designs” ……

Ms.. Angler insisted that Urban check out all of the new clothes she had just shopped for. He groaned and rolled his eyes and said “Do I have to?” and got a stern look back that said “Yes you do or else!!”. Once inside, Ms. Urban began unpacking the different selections and talking about each. “look at this one — look at the colors in this dress! And see the matching scarf and how it has the same pattern, but much, much smaller? You have to get up close to notice, but …….”

But the Urban Angler wasn’t listening anymore, and had a look of triumph on his face. “Yes!” he said. “That’s it!”. “That’s what, dear?” said Ms. Angler with an arched eyebrow, but Urban simply said “your dress and scarf and the shopping bag gave me the answer I was looking for — thanks!!!” , kissed her on the cheek, and then ran off into the spare bedroom that acted as his fly-tying studio.

It had been right in front of him all that time — or more actually on his lips and in his mouth.

Urban began feverishly tying up several flies of his recent inspiration. Checking the clock, he figured he had just enough time before sundown to get there. Packing everything up, he kissed the wife and said “back right around dark — need to see if this will work” and he saddled up on Quicksilver and began pedaling to the small pond.

Just as earlier, the pond was active. Urban slipped on his latest fly — a #24 gnat. The fly was so small that he could barely see it on the water. But a slab-sided bluegill saw it fine, rising up from the depths and slurping in the offering. The 2wt. rod bent, and Urban shouted “Gotcha!” and smiled to himself. “Mother Nature was giving me the clues, but I kept ignoring her. I know better now, and will keep my eyes open … but my mouth shut”.

“I hate these damn headwinds” said the Urban Angler half-out loud to himself, “they are a pain in the ass blowing me almost backwards!” The strong East winds had been blowing for a couple of days now, and this particular section of the trail the winds were funneled directly down it’s length. “Easy there, QuickSilver” he said as a particularly fresh gust pushed the Urban Assault Vehicle both sideways and backwards. “You know, I’ll bet that there is a Stubb Rule Corollary that says anytime you ride a bike, the winds will be in your face no matter which way the trail goes, and much stronger than predicted”. Ahh Hell, he thought — that’s just one of the curses when you’re human-powered …..

The Stubb Rule thought made the Urban Angler think about his friend, the author of Stubb’s Rules of Absolute Certainty (When Paddlefishing), a grande storyteller, and a man with a few curses of his own. El Stubbo was infamous among the brethren of EldoraWatch for his ability to break any hook, any time — but especially his favorite Jobee leadhead hooks — off on any redfish. How many times had Stubb set the hook on those big redfish, watched and listened to his drag sing, felt the big bend of the rod, only to have it all go slack, and upon reeling in he’d have his broken hook? He’d broken hooks off of countless Zara Spooks and ChugBugs and Exxude jerkbaits. Stubb fished out of “Rule 13” — a highly modified Gheenoe-type skiff with poling platform, electric motor and a 20hp Yamaha that always ran out of gas (well, that wasn’t the motor’s fault). He was dead-set on catching big redfish, but heartbreak always happened when hooked up ……

Then there was someone that the Urban Angler knew very well. His closest friend, AP, was a salt-water guy who threw flies at anything and everything that swam. Only problem is that AP had a disturbingly expensive habit of breaking his flyrod in ways unimaginable for most mortal flyfishermen. At last count, he had confessed to seven breaks in the last year alone. Once casting, once by snagging his backcast on mangroves and breaking the rod on the forward cast, once with his car (by somehow leaving the leader outside of his truck with the rod inside — when backing up the truck ran over the leader causing the flyrod to bend like a bow and explode inside the cab of the car!), once by the curse of all flyfishermen, the overhead ceiling fan that decapitated a tip section, and a couple others that the Urban Angler couldn’t recall the details on, but AP tried to implicate Aliens and a Government Conspiracy.

There was French, who’s boat’s lower end unit could find any bar (oyster, sand, etc.) and ground up on it. The only saving grace was that French had this same ability on land as well as sea, and this could be an asset when needing a margarita or a rum-and-coke. Friend Jeremy traded in a perfectly good dry-riding boat for a better one that bathed you every time the water got a little rough. Monkey always forgot things when going fishing — one time he turned up with his kayak and half a paddle, another time he trailered his boat and drove for an hour to meet AP, but forgot the boat keys. You always brought spare of everything if you fished with the Monk … TailHunter was a friend and fly-fishing guide who was cursed with clients who could not cast.

Just about everyone had something in their lives they just shook their heads at and said “Why me?”. But equally true was that for every fault one could have like this, there was an equally amazing blessing given to this same person.

In Stubb’s case, it was his skill with the pen. The stories told by El Stubbo were legendary, many times involving the Brethren of EldoraWatch in various escapades and adventures. AP, on the other hand, had a lot of luck when it came to catching fish. “He has a lucky horseshoe sewn up up his butt” as French said one day. French himself was a chef par excellence. “Monkey and Jeremy both just had new baby girls born — I’m sure they think of them as a blessing” thought the Urban Angler. TailHunter was a top-notch caster and could thread a fly through a gap underneath a dock without a second thought.

So yes, it seems things balance out in the long run. Whatever the Curse, there seemed to be a Blessing to offset it. Maybe that’s the way its supposed to be thought the Urban Angler. And as he pedaled home he thought maybe all of fishing was like that. Good times, bad times, but it all balanced out. That brought a smile to his lips. Today was a perfect example in microcosm. The Urban Angler had ridden to a far-away destination, it taking him a good hour on the back of the Urban Assault Vehicle to get there. Once there, he enjoyed one of those rare days when everything seemed to go right. There were fish, they were hungry, and they liked the flies that the Urban Angler was presenting. Now, on the ride home the winds had come up making the ride home difficult, and of course would make him later than he already was, and thus the Missus would be upset at him. A balance of sorts.

The Urban Angler found it interesting that his thought always seemed to be circular and whole, coming from a beginning to an end, finding a balance. “Blessings and Curses” he thought, “like a Yin and Yang that gives interest to Life”. He pedaled up to his home, finding the Missus outside in the yard, giving him a smile and a stern look all at once. “You’re late, and now your dinner’s cold” she said to him. “I know — I’m sorry, but the fishing was great today! You should have seen …” and he stopped when the frown came up on her face. “Ahh, um, I better go in and get cleaned up first — maybe I’ll tell you later …”.

He parked the Urban Assault Vehicle, put up his tackle and rod, and made his way into the house. He saw the pile of bills on the table, right where he had left them earlier that day. He hated the drudgery of paying bills, but knew he had to do it and get it over with. “Curses before Blessings”, he thought, “and I’ll even Balance the checkbook”. That brought a small laugh. He headed to the shower, thinking about the next time life offered him either a curse or a blessing, and how he would react …………. hopefully, in Balance.

The rain clouds kept gathering up, and finally the first drops of rain started falling from the sky, from their formation in the grey bowels of the cumulonimbus clouds, pushed slightly sideways by gusts of wind, down towards the ground, and then finally breaking apart on the yellow poncho that the Urban Angler had thrown over himself just a few minutes before. He had parked QuickSilver, his Urban Assault Vehicle, against the large oak tree and now settled himself against the same tree, it’s large limbs offering some protection from the rain. “Looks like a brief one, won’t rain too hard” said the Urban Angler to himself. Leaning back against the tree, he dug out his old corncob pipe and his tobacco pouch. “Hmmm, probably a good time for a smoke — maybe a little Nutt Brown Burly with some Vermont Maple Cavendish” he said as he started the ritual of loading the pipe and lighting it. As he sat there, gently puffing and enjoying the pipe, he looked out at the retention pond he had been fishing.

There was nothing beautiful about it, at first and even second glance. It’s probably why all the local residents quickly drove past, or walked right by the pond with hardly a look. The small pond did not have a lot of pretty vegetation growing close to the shore — it had been removed because of concerns about snakes. As if snakes were a concern! They were a blessing and needed — they were top-notch predators who kept the insect, lizard, toad/frog and even rat population in check. At the Urban Angler’s home, he had two large Black Racers that he would catch glances of once in a while. They had a habit of laying in his hedge with about 6″ of their heads lifted up over their surroundings, tongue flicking out to sample the air around them. They were beautiful — smooth, sleek, jet-black uppers with a soft-white underside and throat.

The pond could not hold snakes without the shore vegetation, but at least there was vegetation in the water. Out towards the middle, the pond was deep enough to support a small lilypad population. Nothing large, but the shade it provided was enough to keep the local bream population close by, and therefore the bass were probably close by as well. The drainage culvert that directed all of the run-off in the area was gurgling now, and the Urban Angler could see the small minnows and bream picking off whatever small bits of food came tumbling out into the pond. Occasionally, a larger swirl took place — a bream chased by a bass. “And anyone who can’t see beauty in that is just missing it” said the Urban Angler. “Nature at work”.

Other ponds and lakes in the area had their own special beauty, if you looked. Some did have shore vegetation, and early in the morning you would see the dew-drenched Morning Glories opened up as their vines had intertwined with whatever it could touch. Of course there was wildlife. The male red-winged Blackbirds would be calling out and flying around from cattail to cattail. In certain ponds you would see ducks — Coots and Mallards mostly. Then there were the wading shorebirds, ever-graceful as they slowly walked the shallows — the White Egrets, the odd Green Herons, and occasionally the grand Great Blue Heron. How could anyone not see the beauty in all that?

As the rain slowed up, the Urban Angler put out the pipe and stashed it in his pocket, took off his poncho, shook it out, and then folded it up neatly and placed it into the Urban Assault Vehicle’s carry-bag. He took the Towney Two-Weight, strung it up and attached a size 10 olive Wooly Bugger and walked down close to the culvert. Stripping some line off the reel, he false-cast twice before sending the fly out to deeper waters near the lillypad. Before he had a chance to start a retrieve, the flyline went tight and a bass leapt from the water and tail-walked it’s way away. The Urban Angler grinned, and stripped in a small bass that didn’t quite go 12″ in length. He studied the bass — the green back with the black markings, the white underbelly, the head that took up almost a third of it’s whole body-length, the size of the mouth. Beautiful. He lowered the scrappy largemouth back into the water, and with a swish from it’s tail it zoomed out of the Angler’s hands and back into the depths.

Fish were beautiful. He remembered the purple iridescence on the heads of the giant bluegills in his own pond near his house, and the deep orange-red of the red-breasted sunfish on the Wekiva. He remembered the intense green, black and orange in the Peacock bass he caught in the canals of metro Miami. The beautiful tail-spots of turquoise and orange of the Mayan cichlids and Oscars from Alligator Alley. And of course he remembered the beautiful colored splotches and dots of the Brook and Brown trout, and the red slashes on the Cutthroat and Rainbows he’d caught up in the mountain streams of Colorado. All different, all beautiful.

The dark clouds had moved off to the East, and now the setting sun in the West threw it’s remaining energy at the clouds, producing a sight that everyone delighted in and saw as beautiful. The rainbow was only half-formed, but it shown vibrant in the sky. One end came down to the ground …. “that’s where the gold is” he thought and smiled again.

The Urban Angler mounted Quicksilver, and was off just as the sun set. The missus would have supper ready, he thought. As he slowly pedaled his way towards his home, he thought again of the little retention pond just a few blocks from the homestead.

“Beauty’s where you find it” — and the Urban Angler smiled again “but it’s usually right in front of you “.

“Now I’m stuck good” said the Urban Angler out loud, not that anyone could hear him. “I think I’m going to leave a flip-flop buried for all time if I make it out”. The Urban Angler looked around for any easy remedy, but none were within reach. So, with brute strength he leveraged one leg out of the muck, and buried the second leg. However, he was close enough now to grab an overhanging limb of sorts and finally extricate himself from the bog.

Tired, mud-covered, and minus one flip-flip, he sat down on the side of the lake and decided to take a small rest break. Of course his first thoughts were how he got into this predicament in the first place. Chasing fish of course, but more to the point, he had ventured out on what looked to be solid footing, only to be surprised when it sank him to his upper thighs. “There should be a Law about this situation” he said shaking his head.

That thought got him thinking: there are several Laws that are in effect when Urban Fishing, especially by bike. He decided to see if he could get them all listed, so that anyone taking up the Art of Urban Angling would know what to expect. As he spent a few moments in contemplation, it occurred to him that the Laws coincided with two things: first, Transportation to said fishing grounds and two, Fishing Issues in particular.

And so, here are the Laws the Urban Angler came up with, in no particular order …….

LAW #1 : Anytime you ride a bike to fish, the winds will be in your face no matter which way the trail goes, and much stronger than predicted. Any casts made to fish will be wind-impaired to wind-denied.

This was a direct take from one of friend El Stubbo’s Rules of Absolute Certainty (when Paddle-fishing)** and could really be applied to almost any sporting endeavor that requires you to be outside. Headwinds on a bike just cause you more time and effort getting to your destination. And of course, they can mess up your casting and fishing. Was it even possible to accurately predict the winds speed and direction? As Stubb has pointed out on many occasions “Boy, I’d sure like the Weatherman’s job. Get paid even though you are dead wrong 50% of the time ….”. And in never failed that when you had to make a long cast to the fish, it was always into the wind and your cast would come up short ….

LAW #2 : A water’s fish potential is is directly proportional to the difficulty of getting off a cast

You never find fish where you can make a simple cast to them. They are either just out of reach, or you are surrounded by Jungle that keeps you from being able to cast. Oh, you try to beat it. Roll casts, Bow-and-Arrow casts, etc. — but to no avail. And you know the fish are just laughing at you …….

LAW #3 : The closer the fish, the less solid the footing

Well, proved that one today, didn’t we?

LAW #4 : Water is attracted to bicycle-mounted fishermen

The Urban Angler can sniff out water like nobody’s business. The thunderclouds can sniff out the Urban Angler like nobody’s business. That’s just how it works.

LAW #5 : When riding your bike, treat cars like sharks, dogs like barracudas, and pedestrians like jellyfish

There are several road hazards to be on the watch for when pedaling the Urban Jungle. Cars, like sharks, prowl the streets, preying on the unwary. Unwary because they is talking on their gawd-dam&*^ cellphone. Respect them, don’t be afraid of them. But realize if they bite, it’s gonna be bad. Dogs, like barracuda, like to show you their teeth. Most are just showing off. The Urban Angler did find it interesting that the size of the dog is inversely proportional to it’s attitude. The smallest dogs are the most dangerous — growl, bark, bite and try to run under your wheels . The largest dogs just look at you and then look away, bored. Finally, pedestrians are like jellyfish in how slow they move … until right when you are up close to them, then they blob directly into your path. The sting of asphalt from wiping out on your bike trying to keep from hitting a pedestrian is not soon forgotten …..

LAW #6 : No water goes un-Fished because you never know

Small water retention areas and narrow creeks can hold big surprises. Not all of the time, but enough that every place deserves an inspection.

LAW #7 : The closer the fishing destination, the more it gets fished

Like boating — the smaller the boat, the more it gets used. In this case the closer the destination, the more you can and will fish it, because it’s easy. Walking is best — then you can fish even if you only have a few minutes. Biking gets you a little further out, but still can be done for a short time if that’s all the time you have. But starting adding a car, and then a kayak or a boat, and then you are committed for a long time just getting prepared, getting all the gear, and then getting there. Keep it simple, and either walk or bike with minimum gear.

LAW #8 : Weight matters

There is a temptation to take everything possible with you when fishing. That’s not necessary or desired when Urban Angling. A small fanny-pack or a plastic bag on the handlebars with your flies and some tippet material. Mojo necklace with clippers. Sunglasses. A poncho in your bike’s carry-bag (see Rule #4). Too much weight is a pain to walk around with when fishing, and to carry on the bike. Speaking of weight, bike more and stop eating those chocolate donuts and maybe you’ll lose a few pounds there, Chubby! Good for bike speed, good for your knees, good for your health. Lose the weight!

LAW #9 : You are not really wanted

Earl and Warren, the not-so-friendly Security Guards included, nobody really wants to see you fishing in “their” waters. Legally speaking, it may actually be their waters so it’s best to arouse as little attention as you can possibly get away with. Early morning and late evening are the best times for both fish catching and for limited attention drawn to you. And of course, there is night fishing ……. but at some point you may be asked to cease and to move on. It’s best just to do so — later check and see if you actually have rights to fish there or not. And if you are fly-fishing, you can always say “Oh, I’m not fishing, I’m just practicing my casting” and quickly do a whiplash on your backcast “CRACK!!” snapping off your fly, and then showing the person your empty tippet. “See, no hooks” ……

LAW #10 : The fun is in the hunt

You’re not going to get your picture on the cover of B.A.S.S. Masters Magazine, or any other magazine for that matter. You’re probably not going to catch any record-sized fish. But, if you are like most Urban Anglers, you know the thrill is all about the hunt in the Jungle. The hunt for a new location. The hunt to find the fish. The hunt for the correct fly. Making a cast and hooking up despite Laws 1-9. That is all it takes to put a smile on your face …….

LAW #11 : If you are out of cash, head to McDonalds (this one’s for free)

You’ll need: One bike, one plastic Publix bag, one fishing rod, an extremely wrinkled shirt and pants of non-descript color with some grime swiped on clothes, a 3-day growth of facial hair, a beaten up ballcap, some sweat, and 4 little old Church-ladies sitting inside …… (see Chapter 1: Rewards)

Happy Urban Angling!!!

** All references to 10 Laws of Anything can be directly traced to Sir Stubbo and an essay in his published book “Confessions of a Fishermen and Other Lies”. Used without permission — he’d want royalties. It’s kinda like hole-jumping and NASCAR cheating — part of the sport but you damned sure better not get caught. What’s the worst that could happen? As El Stubbo would say himself “What, sue me? Get in line with all the others and be damned” …..

“It is somewhat dangerous at times …” the Urban Angler said to himself, swerving QuickSilver, the Urban Assault Vehicle around another instance of broken glass shards littering the sidewalk, “… fishing here in the Urban Jungle, but perhaps it is like the Ying-Yang and the old Chinese proverb: Danger = Opportunity”. And so the Urban Angler’s mind drifted back to adventures of old Dangers and Opportunities as his legs pumped the steady cadence that got him closer to his ultimate destination.

The Urban Angler remembered back to a time when he had found a bream bed full of large spawning bluegills. Getting close to bed required some trailblazing through massive amounts of chest-high grasses and bush. Finally, in the correct position, he made two casts without a strike before feeling something on his toes and ankles. Looking down, he simultaneously screamed from the sight and from the bites — he was standing in a fire-ant mound and his feet were covered in swarming red dots. There was only one place to go, and with a mighty leap he jumped out into the bream bed waters, flailing about. “My how those little bastards can bite” swore the Urban Angler as he shook off his legs and examined his ankles and toes. The ant bites were already starting to swell with little red marks, and he knew from experience that the fire and the itch were not long in coming. The ants that were shaken off were now drifting out into deeper waters — the same waters where the bluegills had retreated upon the Urban Angler’s splashing entry. As the Urban Angler watched, some of the more aggressive bluegills rose from the depths towards the surface, and with a “pop” started feeding on the ants. Joined by more and more of his brethren, the sound was like popcorn in a popper. Despite the pain, the Urban Angler took this in and said “Yes, tomorrow, I will load up with small ant patterns and some Calamine lotion and I will be back!”

Danger Equals Opportunity!

There were other instances he remembered that involved wildlife. Like the corner of the Econ River that held a lillypad and grass bank that always held bass and usually held one of the biggest gators the Urban Angler ever cared to see. And there was the time he had scrambled around the bank of a small retention pond and nearly stepped onto a cottonmouth, who gave him a serpentine stare and opened to show the fangs and the mouth that gave the snake its name. “But, …” the Urban Angler mused, “I’d have to say the most dangerous wildlife situation is when I deal with Security Guards ……”

It is a fact of life that large industrial parks contain large industrial buildings that have large parking lots and paved areas. As part of the Municipal Code, the parks must provide adequate drainage for said facilities, and thus is born one of the Urban Angler’s first-choice destinations — the Industrial Park Retention Pond. It always puzzled the Urban Angler how the bass and bream got into these ponds — he didn’t think the Parks stocked the lakes — but the Parks protected the ponds as if they did — by hiring their Security Guards. These Security Guards are hired, thought the Urban Angler, not for their brains but for their Bulldog tenacity to latch onto an idea and not let go. Like the idea of “You can’t fish here!”. They had run him off of many a pond, so the Urban Angler did his best to avoid them.

The Urban Angler had a recent run-in with some local security. The Urban Angler had just positioned himself at one of the prime Industrial Park Retention Ponds and had cast his small green and white popper out next to some lily pads when he heard a voice.

“You can’t fish here” said the Guard “this’s Private Property, you know”.

“No, this is a StormWater Retention Pond” said the Urban Angler, “and under Orlando City Municipal Code if the Pond is used as part of the Stormwater Management System, then access rights to the pond are automatically given to the public. You can see the stormwater access drainage culvert over there in the corner. So I have every right to be here” said the Urban Angler “Look it up — Chapter 31.04 in the Code”. While not entirely correct, the Urban Angler hoped to scare off the Guard with this fusillade of semi-factual information. It didn’t work.

“You can’t fish here” said the Guard, his eyes going Bulldog. “this’s Private Property and its the Rules. What is you name, sir?”

“Why, I am the Urban Angler — perhaps you have heard of me? I, along with my trusty steed Quicksilver the Urban Assault Vehicle, have made it our duty to explore all fishing opportunities in this Urban Jungle we call home, and to report all findings to my fellow Brothers and Sisters of the ….”

“Who is this Earl?” interrupted a second Security Guard who had driven up in his white truck and yellow police-like lights.

“Why, I am the Urban Angler — perhaps you have heard of me? I, along with my trusty steed Quicksilver —”

“Name’s Urban, and I tol’ him he can’t fish here, Warren” said the first Security Guard to the second — Warren was obviously Earl’s boss.

And right at that instance, as the Urban Angler started waiving his hands to explain about the Municipal Code, Stormwater Drainage et al, the little popper that was sitting out by the lillypads skipped a step (from the Angler’s hand gestures) and then disappeared in a toilet-flushing explosion. All three parties turned and stared, just as the line came tight and the Towney Two-Weight began to buck in the Urban Angler’s hand. The waters burst white and tan with a large green bass thrashing in the center of it all.

“My Gawd, she’s huge!! She’ll go 7-8 lbs at least. Now don’t horse it, Son. Take it easy — wow, look at that jump — she can only get half-way out. She’s a hawg!!” shouted Warren. “Don’t let her get you wrapped around those lillypads or it’ll be all over!!”

The Urban Angler did all he could, but he didn’t have time to tell Earl and Warren that he only had 4lb test tippet (would they even know what a tippet was?) and it would take a huge stroke of luck to land a fish this big on such a light rod and light line. The Urban Angler skillfully played the fish, and bass grew increasingly tired. As he tried to steer the largemouth towards the shore, the bass made one last run for freedom and managed to wrap itself around a small group of lillypads a few yards from shore. The bass lay sideways in the water, almost panting. The Urban Angler started to step in the water …

“You can’t go in there!” shouted Earl. The Urban Angler stopped, turned and said “What would you have me do — leave the fish as it is?”

“Oh, go on in there and get ‘er” said Warren. The Urban Angler waded to his knees and lip-locked the bass, untangling his leader from the lillypads, and then waded back to shore. Earl and Warren crowded around, admiring the size and girth of that big female largemouth. After a moment, the bass was returned to the water and they all watched quietly as she gently took off to deeper water.

“Wow, that was cool” said Earl. “but Urban, you can’t fish here”. The Urban Angler said nothing, and for a moment all was quiet. Finally, Warren shuffled his feet and said “Earl’s right, Urban. You can’t fish here while we are here. We could lose our jobs. But …..” he said with a sly smile, “seeing as we don’t get here until 8:00am, and if ol’ Urban here gets some time to fish before we start, then I guess there’s not much we can do, is there, Earl?” Earl smiled and said “Yes, boss, that’d be true”.

Danger and Opportunity. That’s what the Urban Angler had on his mind when pedaled up to his house. He was late — he’d forgotten to call, not for the first time and certainly not for the last. The missus would be mad, but he hoped the small gifts that he picked up on the ride home would be enough to soothe. A couple of rose stems snipped from a local garden and Haggan-Daas Vanilla Swiss-Almond –her favorite — from the local convenience store. That should help set things straight.

Who knows, maybe even later ……………………

Danger, and Opportunity.