Rush hour traffic is at a standstill on the graffiti-caked overpass 40 feet above our heads. Impatient commuters lay on their horns and bang on their steering wheels like caged monkeys as we hike towards the river. I step over a used rubber glove and then crouch down at the water’s edge near a soiled diaper. I try not to touch the water for fear of contracting some sort of unspeakable disease. A yellow Prestone jug floats by and almost looks as if it’s glowing in the low evening sun.
“Ain’t she beautiful, bro?” my guide asks with a huge grin.
This is definitely not my idea of paradise, but when my spinner gets crushed on the first cast and line starts ripping off my reel at an alarming rate, I start to reconsider. But let me back up here…Click here to read more…
