The butterflies in your stomach are not mistaken.

As you plan your next hunting or fishing trip, put some thought into who you invite to go with you. It might be the most important decision you make.

Clearly fish can sense when one’s focus is trained, heart and soul, on a drift, and as importantly when it’s not. Something about our attention, or maybe our intention, is tipping them off.

Six days, five nights and one of the most impressive rivers in the lower forty eight. Cut through the Frank Church-River of No Return Wilderness, the Middle Fork of the Salmon is as good as it gets.

Will the family all in on the action we caught fish until we were too tired to continue. Satiated, we roasted marshmallows over a fire, discussed the finer points of making smores, weather or not fish have tongues, and why we can’t hunt domestic cows.

I’m not suggesting you spend the dory fund on lawn-care equipment. But lets give credit where it’s due.

At times I effortlessly bomb casts with confidence, fishing with the certainty that the next swing will connect. Then it all falls apart. I blow my anchor, get tangled in running line, try to muscle the cast.

Call ‘em caddis, sedges, dancers, grannoms, shadflies, peters, makers, millers, micros, travelers or whatever your local dialect has adopted. Just don’t overlook them.

Nymphing is, at heart ,an exercise in groping around in the dark. Sounds familiar….

At what point does that instant become too pricey? How many vacant hours, miles, snags, tangles, blisters, bug-bites and burns are too many?