• 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.

Immerse yourself in the acrid musk as you approach a now still, and now still bleeding body, a clean bullet hole, like a lance wound staring at you.

Shouldering a shotgun I had never fired, with an unfamiliar safety, was not a recipe for success. My excitement likely contributed to my clumsiness. Fortunately, the opportunities were abundant and I soon settled in.

By two p.m., with the rain coming down in sheets, the patient resting comfortably, my football team getting clubbed like baby seals on national television, and the dog looking downright vindictive, the right play was feeling a little claustrophobic for all concerned.

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?

Once you’ve cut and paste it into your own document, all you need to do is customize it fit your plans, preferences and personal gear inventory.

My son pulls his camo ball cap tight over his eyes. My daughter grabs her leotard and jumps out of the car. She has gymnastics for the next two and a half hours. The boys are headed to the hills. For nearly two weeks we’ve been running in high gear. My wife has been, Read More

And let us be clear. We are being disregarded. The Senators and state governments who’ve led us down this path to the brink of unthinkable calamity have sized us up, taken our measure and deemed us impotent.

As befits a guest, he is treated to his choice of victuals and prefers sixteen gauge fives or sixes, not too spicy, and never steel; it causes heartburn in old barrels, you know.

It may not be in the regular rotation, but it does hold a place of honor.

Moving slowly between junipers and into some large cottonwoods. It wasn’t long before I spotted three does grazing. Fifteen minutes later I was within 75 yards and in position for a comfortable shot.