Why is my life like this?

So I'm going trout fishing last night, and I decide to resurrect an old hole located deep, deep in the outback of Wisconsin. It's a hole I frequented as a kid, that rumor has it is still there, and still loaded with BIG trout. It is also still as hard to get to as it always was...No roads within 1 1/2 miles. So it is going to be cross-country through the thickest, scratchiest, buggiest, gnarl of brush and tree limbs you can imagine...For over a mile...Up and down hills...In waders...And it was 81 degrees out.

Picking my way through the briars and stinging nettles, it occurred to me that even the Viet Cong would have found this section of stream bank uninhabitable. I pressed on. Somehow the underbrush had gotten thicker (or maybe I had gotten bigger) in the 15 years it had been since I braved the journey to the willow switch. That's what it is known as, to those dumb enough to have ever tried to get there. But oohh man, those fish. Those big, beautiful German browns and fat, dumb, brookies. "This generation of fish probably has never seen a lure", I'm telling myself as I bleed out. "Kids today don't have the nads for this kind of punishment."

Back to the story. So about and hour into the death by 1000 briars, I finally have the pool in sight. It had slightly changed in position, but it was as beautiful as ever...Deep runs of dark cold water; overhung by giant trees, barely letting any of the waning evening light through. I inch closer, planning my attack on the 50 foot long section of runs and pools. Sneaking low and quietly to the tail of the first pool, I am in perfect position, and reach to unhinge my spinner from the rod for the long awaited first cast...

only to find half of my fishing rod. Yep, that's right. Somewhere in the brush crashing and belly crawling I had completely broken my rod in two and lost one half. What was left was an unfishable stub. To make matters worse, I was so focused on the goal that I did not even notice it. All that work, all that sweat, all those cuts...For nothing more than a benign, nostalgic (and somewhat painful) look at an old friend. The pool mocked me, it beckoned me to at least wet a foot, so I did...

Only to find out I had severely torn my waders on the trip as well. Ice cold water rushed in, filling my right boot to the mid-calf hole. Chalk up another $90 for this stupid, very stupid, idea. Defeated and broke, I left for the car. I found my rod half on the way back...wedged under a log I had REALLY struggled to get over.

The trout of the willow switch are safe; I imagine they still have not seen a lure. It will be months...Years... Before I so foolishly venture to try once more. I know when I am beaten, but I will be back. Lately this seems to be how things are working out for me. Call it dumb luck, bad karma, or poor planning...I don't know. It just IS.