Woo hoo! Herman’s raspy exclamation cut through the drizzle and announced the hook up of another Lake Creek salmon. Bev and I were finally in Alaska on the wilderness float trip that we had spent so many hours and days dreaming of and prepping for. Lake Chelatna, the source of Lake Creek, is just forty-five […]
(With apologies to Robert Frost) My black, mesh picking bag is hanging by the door, Mushroom scented now My Nikon sits upon the window sill, Its memory card with hardly room for more. The mushrooms are still out there for the deer but I’m done picking morels for this year. For I have have had
After Morel Picking Read More »
I am a terrible gardener. The time that it takes to plan and plant a garden and then nurture the young plants to maturity by fighting the very forces of evolution (face it, the fittest plants in any garden are the weeds) is time I would rather spend fishing. Don’t get me wrong; I am
Of Morels and Bower Birds Read More »
You know the kind of day when everything is just right? The air is dry and clear and it’s warm, but with just enough breeze to keep it from feeling hot. The birds are trilling in the treetops and the chipmunks scamper in the leaves. Mother Nature smiles, closes her eyes and softly hums a
Mother Nature Flips Us The Bird Read More »
“Throw in a couple good fly rods and I’ll trade you boats.” The jovial voice boomed across the gravel parking area of the Big Hole River access site where Bev and I were pulling off our waders. I turned toward the boat launch and saw the rather frumpy looking owner of a well worn inflatable
Snapshots of Montana Read More »
It is the Saturday before Christmas and I am walking in the woods behind our house. Friday’s snow has melted and then frozen into a thin layer of ice that breaks with every step. I crunch my way up to the little clearing where Bev and I always look for animal tracks in the sand.
Bev and I were fishing Black Moshannon Creek a few miles below the lake. The stream there is small,and flows through mature forest of oak and hemlock, the branches of which, often present a considerable obstacle when trying to cast a fly. Bev was having a bit of trouble getting her fly in just the
There are many ways to die in Yellowstone National Park. There is even a book on the subject sold in all the gift shops. Falling off of things – like cliffs (and railings put there to keep you from falling off cliffs) and into things – like boiling hot water are some of the more
I once caught October and held it wriggling in my hand before it swam away. Smaller than one might expect – only fourteen inches long – yet, there it was. The trout’s flank – a shining field of goldenrod backlit by the setting sun. Deep, olive-green hemlock forests shot through with somber browns of oak
To the mild (I hope) annoyance of several people with whom I have fished, I have a hard time calling it quits. When I was a boy and fishing at the lake with Dad there would at some point come the inevitable announcement “come on Allan its time to go home.” I always followed this
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