Mi vida loca

At work on Friday, I was at my desk untangling a Carolina rig (it’s used for bass fishing) and a co-worker walked up to ask a question. He smiled and shook his head.
“You’re the only guy I know who can do that at work and get away with it,” he said. “Tie up a bass rig and get paid for it.”
It’s true; my weekdays look a lot like the weekend. I spent Friday morning with bass pro Greg Gutierrez on Lake Shasta fishing for bass. I’m working on a story about bass rigs that are working on the lake right now. Gutierrez, who will fish his second Bassmaster Classic in February (think Super Bowl, only with fish) has forgotten more about bass fishing than I will ever know.
Last week, I was out on the same lake, knocking the snot out of the rainbow trout.
And I get paid for this.
But it does come with some complications (you can all give me the finger now).
My weekends end up looking like workdays. It’s like I’ve forgotten that these are my days, days to go out and play on my own. Instead, I become lethargic, sleep too long and shuffle around the house completing projects.
Balance is what I need.
I’ve got an 18-foot P&H kayak that needs attention. A Giant Warp full-suspension mountain bike that wants a little love. Fly rods and spin-cast rods, snowshoes and hiking boots. And millions of acres in which to use them.
On the weekends, I become a slug.
It was one of the glaring weaknesses I noticed after a retrospect on my life after my mom died. You take stock, figure where you can do better – then go out and be better.
I am an outdoors guy; inside sucks.
The sooner I realize that, the sooner I can return to being that guy – seven days a week.