There often comes a point in life where one must say, “It’s time to fish or cut bait!” Not being a bait fisherman I long ago cut out the bait, but recently I redecided it’s time to fish.
If you’re a cutthroat trout enthusiast, you know the stories of extinct cutthroat trout that really weren’t extinct. In stories almost too hard to believe, we’re told of the tenacity individuals displayed in moving trout from point A to points B, C and beyond. Anders Halverson records such stories surrounding the rainbow trout in his […]
The chutzpah of the fish led to an interesting day reflecting on the Native American act of touching the enemy without being harmed.
Spring is a temptress, toying with the hearts of anglers. It’s enough to bring on the blues. (In word and music.)
The ezine version of Cutthroat Stalker is hitting the virtual stands today. Get your free copy and give me feedback (please).
Sumi-e is the Japanese art of ink painting stemming from Zen thought. There is much to learn from thoughtful sumi-e artists that can be applied to many things, including an approach to fly fishing.
The wood rod was deep amber with burgundy wraps. A three piece rod, its ferrules mottled with a metallic rime that flaked away beneath my fingernail. The deep forest-green backing was like a heavy cotton thread.
As we drive the dark road east, I look up where stars dot a narrow path through the morning. I feel the press of hundreds of feet of sheer canyon walls more than see them. Ahead of us the dawn unwinds its hours, slowly unveiling the skyline—a jagged, ancient silhouette stretching for miles.
It is said that the autumn of our life is a slow and steady slip into winter, synonymous with the time when animals hibernate and plants die. Some might think of it as more of a homesickness, not a geographical homesickness, but a chronological one—a time for reflection, for looking back at what was. Autumn is a matter of perspective—of seeing our current time as just that, current.
The end of summer seems to sneak up with startling abruptness in the mountains. Sagey greys and dusky rabbitbrush topped with yellow sprigs of late summer flowers, surrounded by grasses browned in the summer heat. Fine dust matting leaves. A tired respiration seems to heave up from the canyons in hot blasts—last gasps. Bellowing itself for the soon-to-be colors plashed about its flanks like so many embers of red, braided fingers of yellow and orange. A few summer holdouts paint the hillsides early.
In the long shadows of early light I hike toward the ridge at eight thousand feet, shotgun over the right shoulder. An eleven month hiatus slows my senses—and I forget to look, really look. I’m merely hiking with a weapon, not stalking. My nerves are deadened from the nearly year-long break, spent mostly stalking cutthroat, which is nothing like this sort of stalking.
Hotspotting. Spilling the beans. Blabbing your big, fat mouth. Kiss and tell. No matter what you call it, mentioning online where you’re fishing can raise some grizzled hackles and get you kicked out of the brotherhood of the angle. Me, I’m a teller about 95% of the time.
We often think of home as a place of origin or place we currently live. But in this post I’m referring to one’s homewater as that place in which one finds refuge; a place where one is secure or happy.
Where are the “minorities” in fly fishing?
Tired of the “super-size me” mentality of fishing? When stalking native trout, the size of the fish is generally not the main criterion for choosing which species or location to fish. In fact, size is often low on the list. Read 10 reasons to fish for natives.