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.
Finding birds is gratifying under any circumstance out here, but doing so in a place that’s new to you, based on a hunch, some map study, and a hefty dose of legwork is triply so.
Eighteen hours after leaving the house, and 20 miles after leaving the truck, we reached our rig. With the elk in the back and the heater cranked in the cab, we headed for home.
We have a lot to be thankful for here at STS headquarters, and a lot to be excited about looking forward.
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?
What’s better than a great find, flush and retrieve? Doing it with an audience and bragging rights on the line.
Giddy, we roared through the last hundred and fifty miles to the farm we were going to be staying at for the next five days. We arrived a few hours past dark and settled into an old single wide.
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.
Things rarely go to plan. That’s usually half the fun.
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