I’m a mediocre to slightly above average angler who’s typically more interested in the places I’m in and the people I share them with than the fish count.

No one accused the conquerors, converters and company men who carved up and labeled North America of being poets. But there are exceptions…

Were I a cartoon, the challenge would be represented by a devil on each shoulder, each whispering in my ear — damned if I do, damned if I don’t.

Days go by without as much as a peck. Doubt begins to creep in. Are there any fish in the river? Should I change flies? Is my swing too fast…too slow? Why does my rain coat leak?

Short-sighted single-mindedness or good old common sense?

A fish can be memorable for many different reasons; size, species, location, the people you were with, the amount of effort it took to catch, it’s personal.

The day is perfect. No one is on the river except us. Golden leaves adorn Cottonwoods along the bank. The sky is a deep blue laced with a few wispy clouds. Temps are in the low 60’s and there is nary a breath of wind. These days are rare. But everyone’s cranky. It’s nap, Read More

We were unencumbered by waders, wet wading with a laissez faire attitude common in August.

An up close fly by of the river had everyone salivating to rig up our rods.

There would be no recovery. You would think the rod was an heirloom based upon the tantrum that followed. To the three year, old it didn’t matter that it was a freebie from a local thrift store.