
New Year’s Eve had a very specific look for me throughout my teenage years: going to bed around 8:00pm, in a tent, on a frozen field.
Although there are a lot of things that one can do on that ever-so-significant midnight moment, my choice was to usually do what was most significant to me. And that was fish. My best friend and I would drive up to Southcentral Pennsylvania from Northern Virginia and proceed to confuse some campsite proprietor.
“You two want to sleep out there? For just the night? In a tent?”
Certainly there were questions of liability running through their heads. Scenarios of teenage mischief and/or inquiries as to exactly why they let two young men freeze to death probably gave them pause as they took our money and assigned us one of the many (all) vacant campsites.
Some mischief did happen. There was the year when we had to “borrow” firewood from a local citizen, as everything in the forest was covered in ice so thick so as to render it immovable. In a similar vein, one year we woke up in the wee hours of the morning to bright flames just outside the tent wall. Apparently our dousing wasn’t sufficient, and the wetted fire had rekindled itself midway through the night.













Fishermen – and especially fly fishermen – are creatures of habit. One only needs to visit the Henry’s Fork two years in a row at the commencement of the salmon fly hatch to see the same anglers from the year before, in the same spots, maybe or maybe not catching the same fish.