A bloated, dead cow bobbed by, accentuating that the river meant business. The river had begun its annual cleansing ritual.

I’m a mediocre to slightly above average angler who’s typically more interested in the places I’m in and the people I share them with than the fish count.

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?

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.

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

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?

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

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.

Home late from the river I grabbed a bottle of Ranch dressing and almost poured it over ice cream, thinking it was chocolate sauce. Either was a poor substitute for dinner.