• The Steelhead With A Thousand Faces

    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.

  • The Birth of A Fishing Town

    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.

  • In The End, Style Might Be All We Have

    Over the course of 6 trips, in and out, and nearly 40 miles, I question whether or not it’s worth it.

  • Banded

    Folding neatly the greenhead splashed soundly onto the water. The old lady made quick work of the retrieve.

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

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.