A Letter to Santa

Dear Santa,

I’ve been very, very good this year, and I have something special to ask you for. I want a fishing partner. You might ask, “Morgan, didn’t I already give you a fishing partner?” Well, Santa, I guess technically I have a fishing partner, but I need another one.

My kick-ass man-friend has been my fishing partner for over five years; but since we both guide, we rarely get to fish together more than once a week. During the summer we’re just strangers in passing. I need a real, honest-to-god, full-time fishing partner.

I tried asking our mutual friends to go fishing with me, but it was just too weird. I once asked one of my man’s friends to go fishing and fortunately he quickly replied that he had to work. It’s not weird when we’re fishing as a group, but something just isn’t right fishing with each other. I think there was a Seinfield episode about that. You would think that there’s someone in my town who needs a fishing partner, but I haven’t found them yet. I guess meeting new people requires socializing, but I’d much rather fish by myself than have to talk to strangers.

My new partner can be young or old, male or female, but having a woman to share layers and layers of fishing clothes with would be awfully convenient. Someone strong and dumb enough to wade with me during run-off would be cool, too. Personal hygiene is key since there will be close quarters in the car and in a tent.

On the river, I want a partner who knows what they’re doing. Someone to compete with and heckle each other endlessly would be super rad. I think that’s probably one of my favorite things about fishing (when I’m not being paid). Call me a dork, but I’d like to be able to discuss the fine qualities of Frogs Fanny or compact Skagit heads while I’m fishing. Chit chatting on the river is absolutely mandatory. Oh, it’d be amazing if my new partner attracted more mosquitoes than I do, but I really don’t think that’s possible.

I often feel the need to run over to Yellowstone or somewhere to pop a steelie. So…I guess a fishing partner who still charges their gas to their parents would be the shiz-nit. Hopefully we could put beer on the card, too. On said road trips, my new partner should have the same enthusiasm I do for side trips for Blizzards, Bar-B-Que, and fly shops. I think I stopped at 13 fly shops one winter between Ketchum and Livingston—a few were even closed. It also takes a special person (or a Southerner) to appreciate the countless playlists of alternating Jerry Jeff Walker and Cypress Hill.

Please, please, please, Santa, I really want a full-time fishing partner. I ate all my veggies and released all my fish. If that doesn’t work out though, I’d like a new iPod.

Love, Morgan