A Fish 12 Months in the Catching

About five kilometers north of where you’re staying, you’ll see a large rock that looks like a house. People have painted a door and a window on it. There’s even a satellite dish. Stop there. Fish downriver. Don’t go upriver. The water is only three inches deep for a mile. Ask me how I know…

The man from the fly shop’s words played over and over in my head as I drove to my destination. The landmark was unmistakable. Just as he described, it sat on the side of the road, slowly modified over the years by locals. I remember passing the rock on my last trip out here (more on that in a bit).

I pulled over and got out of my car. I grabbed my rod and flies from the trunk, climbed down the bank and waded the river to get into position.

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Summer of Small Streams

It’s been a strange summer here.

One of those summers where plans were put in place, routes were mapped out and then everything changed. This happened to me a few times this summer, first when a new boat wandered into my life, then when I signed up for a course for my professional life and again when everything went from flood mode to fire mode.

The unfortunate result was that I barely managed to get out fishing much at all.

The fortunate result was that the fishing I did do was that much better as a result.

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