The terror of a territorial tarpon.

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If you get this close...come on in. I won't bite.

 Inconveniently located three and one half kilometers South of the middle of "Noswim", among what would appear to some as a deserted, desolate wilderness wasteland, in need of deforestation, concrete and a strip mall, there's a decaying, decrepit, stream side compound that is "Fish Pants Dance Antics Ranch" and the humble hovel and habitat I call home.
 
 High country hikers, floundering fishers, haphazard hunters and calamity covered and/or claustrophobic campers are not common but, sadly, not infrequent either.
 More than a few have been await at the gate, maps up and G.P.S. whirring, trying to calculate a way to navigate while they recapitulate.
       I'll usually set them straight...Grin.
 Invariably, the first thing they ask is not, "how are you" or "how's it going". No, it's always the same, every time, "where am I?"
 This fish cannot resist. I take perverse pleasure in perpetually, gleefully and impishly replying, "that won't help. If I told you, you we're exactly three and one half kilometers South of "Noswim", your next question would be, "which way to "Swim" or "SpLaSh!?"
 No. The question is, where do you wish to be?"
 "If it's bucolic beauty, exquisite, ethereal ecstasy, a meditative mind switch or soul satisfying serenity, look about thee! But, if it's asphalt you're after or concrete you need, pick a direction, drive safe and godspeed!"
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