Yeah: The bar across from Blue Creek on a warm summer night; one-ounce canonball sinkers coming at ya at mach-9 from across the river, their path traced through the dark by a glow ball, much like a tracer bullet. On occasion "contact" on the front line is made. You'll usually hear the casualty anounce that he's been hit, followed by some garbled profanity as they assume the fetal position in shallow water. Then, in comes his replacement.

Ahhh, the Cowlitz.................