I holed up most of March, lashed heroically to the desk and chasing various details related to the release of my forthcoming album, as it snowed, and then snowed again. I ignored the empty three-weight reel and the winter resupply of flies and lines forlornly piled on the bookshelf, and kept myself to the strictest rations of tequila, wine, beer, and whiskey. I put heavy cream in only the first cup of coffee, and smoked my pipe exactly once, running quickly out of the tobacco bought at Bell's in Missoula last summer, which was anyway old and ground down to a fragrant dust that burned hot and smoked too fast.