Photo by Sam Larson
When I pull into a parking spot, when I finally see the stretch of river that speaks to me, I tend to lose my calm. The tailgate opens, my gear tumbles out, and I’m lost in trying to do three things at once, to get my waders on, pack my gear, and string my rod.
Read More
Photo by Sam Larson
The first conversations before rigging up are a spell, something to conjure up a best-case scenario. We want dry fly fishing. We’d accept swinging wets. We’ll nymph if that’s what the day offers, but we won’t go home and brag about it.
Read More
Photo by Sam Larson
My summers are littered with the trips that I don’t take, all the adventures that never came off or made it out of the planning stages.
Read More
Sam fails to catch any fish on the Arkansas tailwater and is mocked by ducks
Photo by Jeffrey Stutsman
It’s the ass-end of January, and I longingly remember the sequences I use to tie blood knots, davey knots, and surgeons knots, but when I look down at my hands, dry and cracked from the cold winter air, they feel useless and palsied. They feel old.
Read More