Maybe if I take five more steps, throw one more mend, skate one more fly, a hero will appear, armored in chrome, and dance to the music of my singing reel.
Calf deep now in the cold river, Trent’s completed his prelude of silky false casts and is ready to start the show in earnest.
Over the course of 6 trips, in and out, and nearly 40 miles, I question whether or not it’s worth it.
Folding neatly the greenhead splashed soundly onto the water. The old lady made quick work of the retrieve.
I’m not one to fish and tell, but there’s a fine line between keeping your honey-holes secret and writing manifestos in a shack in the woods.
It had been a lackluster day for pheasant hunting in Montana. Tragically, after covering nearly a mazillion miles of normally productive cover we had seen exactly one rooster. A rooster far enough out we would have needed a .243 to take down, not the 12 gauge I was lugging.
Like the imperfect sentence that almost conveys an elusive bit of truth, this particular run can’t be left alone. Something rare and universal is lingering there, just beyond the periphery, so you turn to it again, and again, and again, finding it just gone each time… maddening.
The buck, an honest thirty incher, now hangs in my garage. Grandpa is gone. So now I tell the story to my kids… when they’re not out building their own memories with their grandpa.
It’s a big world, and these places, small and unlikely, sown far and wide, are indifferent to our discovery. They can’t be manufactured and they don’t come to you.
Lucas Carroll is passionate about family, fishing and photography, in ways that can be matched by few.
I grinned, expecting a punchline, but he’d said all he had to say. The sound of outbound flyline singing through the guides was his only response.
The next few hours are a blur. Yet they might have been the highlight of the trip.
You live in a proud community which is chock full of admirable institutions and civic virtue. In all likelihood I’ve never been there, but I’ve experienced enough places to make that claim with confidence. I’m equally confident asserting that the local fly shop does more for you and your corner of the world than, Read More
Her head and neck were covered in feces. The color and consistency led me to believe it was human. In a panic I made several wild motions complimented with a few guttural utterances that let the dog know I didn’t want her anywhere near me or the truck.