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.
The arithmetic of another day away from the desk just didn’t add-up. But math was never my strong suit. And I know an offer you can’t refuse when I hear it.
Impatiently, he surveyed the clearing and with it the motionless pack of camo-clad men laying between him and the other bull.
There’s nothing like nature for tossing you a teachable moment, ready or not.
We were unencumbered by waders, wet wading with a laissez faire attitude common in August.
Personal responsibility doesn’t develop in a vacuum, and given a choice between my boy spending the day in cyberspace or in the sage… well, that’s a no brainer.
An up close fly by of the river had everyone salivating to rig up our rods.
The birds aren’t flying, but something unavoidable, concrete and ineffable has been set in motion. Even a six-year-old feels it.
At some point I realized I was buying a dog and should probably let the breeder know. He probably already knew. He took it well.
If you’re fortunate enough to have been taught how, you pour your sweat, and your tears, and your energy into the earth until the sides are square, and the bottom is flat.
“You got a beer?” Grady asked quizzically as he nibbled a fry. I nodded, taking a sip of a cold Rainier. “I didn’t know they had beer here,” he responded, genuinely surprised. The flicker of a neon Miller Lite sign illuminated our table. Three truckers sat at the bar. One had just picked up a load, Read More