The world of fly fishing has come a long way. The tweed and wicker creel, old white guy image represents vintage advertisements more than present reality. Paul, while white, a guy, and older, never really fit the prototype for the angling catalog model. Truth be told, he had never owned a wicker creel. Two of …
He had ducked under the chain link fence so many times in his mind that doing it for real felt normal. Trespassing wasn’t something he normally fantasized about. However this particular temptation was too hard to resist. The map showed that on the private stretch the river cut deep into the valley. Upstream was always …
Paul’s name was not Paul. The name on his driver’s license was Apollo. His parents, particularly his mother, were living more like Andy Warhol than Andy Griffith around the time of his birth. There was a lot of experimentation in their life. And seeing as they weren’t particularly engrossed in Greek or Roman mythology, Paul …
This is part 5 of the story. Read the beginning of River Apollo here. Paul had stepped out onto his slate front porch and closed the door behind him as Gerry talked to him about the potential habitat improvement. Practically, it was to keep the bugs out. At a deeper level, Paul was subconsciously moving …
Today you’re seeing part 4 of a series. Read the beginning of River Apollo here. Paul wasn’t an off the rack kind of guy. His rocky past and idyllic present were each a few standard deviations away from the middle of society’s bell curve. He knew this. He was thankful for this – even for …
Read part I of River Apollo here. Only once had Paul encountered a bear on the little creek that ran in front of his property. It was years ago and well upstream from his house. The gentle valley that the stream flows through intensifies ever so slightly; enough that things feel close and tight in …
Paul awoke to the pink-orange of sunshine on his eyelids. He had fallen asleep on the bank. The gnarled willow tree protected him from the late afternoon sun, but a bare patch in the branches allowed the light to penetrate to where he lay. Just below the branches and just above the horizon. The day …
An unparalleled optimism accompanies the evening hours on the night before fishing. Psychologically speaking, one could say that all the potentially negative thoughts become obscure behind the grand promise of a morning filled with trout. Regardless of the previous day’s events, this optimism burrows itself into the brain with an intensity that creates a sense …
Much has been written about the uncomfortable state of a kind of overindulging that results from inebriation. The college comedy film genre relies on this trope. I’m not ashamed to say, nor do I boast in the fact that I have no experience with this situation. However I can’t imagine that the disagreeable sensation that …
“That fish is happy.” I looked over at Doug with the kind of puzzled expression that one would make if the definition of a recently heard word was elusive. But I knew what fish were. And I knew what happy was. I just couldn’t wrap my mind around how these two terms had any relation …
