Hope Lake is hopeless

This past weekend was my last in Montana.  Guess what we did to bid me bon voyage? It involved flies, water, and peeing in the bushes.  That’s right! We fished.  We stayed at East Glacier and fished Hope Lake again on the Indian Reservation.  Hope Lake is my nemesis.  The last time we were there 6 weeks ago I didn’t catch a single fish all day or even get a hit.  Unfortunately, history chose to repeat itself, but once again we lucked out with incredible weather and a great guide.

During lunch, the Southerner chose to amuse us by running around the lake butt naked trying to conjure the fish into submission.  He chose this well-timed move just as a grandfather and his granddaughter were pulling up to the lake to spend a nice day together bonding and fishing— I’ve never seen a truck move so slowly towards its intended destination.  The guide and I laughed so hard I almost pissed myself.

Before this incident occurred, the Southerner had caught a monster fish which may explain his enthusiasm and laissez-faire I-forgot-to-wear-underwear attitude during lunch.  I, sadly, did nothing all day other than stand around screaming obscenities at the water and adding some of the guide’s finer accessories to my outfit.

After fishing, we ate a TERRIBLE dinner at Luna’s, marred by the fact that no one told us Lunas is BYOB and their lasagna tastes like microwaved dog shit.  The Southerner and I get very upset when we hear the words No Alcohol, especially after a long day of outdoor activities.  I managed to convince him to stay and eat there since we had a couple of beers left in our car and we’d already tried the only other restaurant  (Serranos: good Mexican food, long wait but they have real margaritas with get this…Tequila!, impeccable flan) in town still open for the season.  However, I spent the whole meal staring at the gentlemen at the table next to us who had the foresight to bring three bottles of wine with them to dinner, one for each of them.  Men after my own heart.

No fish and no wine.  Jesus must be trying to tell me it’s time to blow this pop stand and return to the wonderful city of New Orleans where BYOB is a special place reserved in a dark alley of the French Quarter for tee-totalers and people who don’t own a costume box.

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