There are no steelhead, there are no cutthroat, there are no rainbow, there are no crappy and there are no damn catfish.

There is no road and for all I know, there is no lake - Mike Lake that is.

The trip started out smoothly. All the snowfall warnings on the radio kept people off the road and my progress over the normally congested bridge during rush hour was unimpeded. I was off to meet up with Tambo and Frannie.

"Going fishing with a couple women I met on the Internet," I told the Old Bag.

Well, I guess I should back up a few days.

Tambo with dual rods

My life has been hell.

For days, the Old Bag has been on the phone to her friends, complaining.

"He won't take me to Save-On Foods,” she says, “but he's meeting some 26-year-old bimbo from the Flyfishing List."

"That's Tambo, not bimbo," I groveled.

"He can make plans to be with her, but he can't make plans to spend time with me."

"Take some protection," she says as I leave.

What does she think two pair of poly longjohns and 5mm neoprenes are?

The traffic came to a complete standstill half way to Frannie's house. Not a major snow storm, but an inch of ice with a film of water on top. I had my New York Times crossword, killing time without feeling the desire to kill my fellow commuters.

Now my house will fit in Frannie's garage, but Frannie is a neat kid, an artist and a flyfisher. I'd set her and Tambo on a mission the night before to prepare props for a picture. Nothing more need be said about that, except that they did a magnificent job.

We convoyed to Mike Lake, only to be confronted by a gate and a sign. Road closed due to hazardous conditions. It was time for plan B - Rolley Lake.

Approaching the road into Rolley, I pulled over and Fran joined us in the Subaru with 4-wheel-drive. Her Nissan Multi might not get back out - heck, the Subaru might not get back out. A foot of snow covered the road, but there were tracks so we followed the fools.

The lake.

It looked about as inviting as spending a night in the chest freezer. Eighteen inches of snow, slate grey water and firs draped in a white mantle as far as you could see. The sign said: "Danger, thin ice".

Well, I'd been on that all week with the Old Bag, but standing there, I felt my friends creeping up into my body cavity. Tambo and Fran, not having balls to worry about and having more balls than me, just kept looking at the lake.

You know, if I'd seen a rise, I probably could have done it. And, if it didn't mean several trips up and down the road to move the rest of the gear to the lake, I think the women would have done it too. But, we didn't.

Plan C took us to moving water nearby where we could cast freely from shore and get cold if not wet. There were no cutthroat, there were no salmon, there were just three idiots who had to do what they had to do.

On the way to the ferry back to Vancouver Island, Tambo stopped at my house so we could photograph her tattoos.

The Old Bag has been on the phone already.

"And, he brought her home so she could show him her tattoos..."

That’s how I ended up on the couch. No sooner was I off, than the Old Bag asked me if I noticed Lupita's breasts at the family Christmas gathering? I admitted I had. Lupita is 19 - what else was in the room?

The Old Bag had noticed too, that Lupita's were up and her’s weren't.

“And how would you describe them?” asked the Old Bag.

"Proud," said I. They must have been, she must have been, the way she was sticking them out.

“And how would you describe mine?” asked the Old Bag.

Took me a minute, but, "Titanic," said I.

Large and going down.

Couch again.

"There are no steelhead".