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Rusty Flybox: Home

We’ve all realized a lot of things over the past few months. There are a good chance that some of these revelations have been in the realm of civics. Almost certainly, we’ve realized how good we have had things. To be able to pick up and fly anywhere in the world to go fishing was only a matter of time and money. Recently, neither of those made a difference – even for many who simply wanted to fish their home water.

Our current situation merits discussion. But that ability to travel and recreate, both near and far, was a privilege secured by others who came before us. On Memorial Day, that might be the facet of the conversation that deserves the most attention.

Today, I’ve got three articles that celebrate the joy of fishing at home:

  • Fishing in your home town, decades later
  • Rediscovering rivers you had forgotten
  • Misadventures from shoehorning fishing in

Click on the thumbnail or title below to head to each post.

From Casting Across, have a great Memorial Day.

You Can Go (Fish) Home Again

The familiarity of the scene was incredibly strong. After not fishing at the pond for over 15 years, a lot came rushing back to me. I was aware of the smells, the contours of the bank, and the ominous impediments to my back cast. But with a child swinging a popper around, there isn’t much opportunity for whimsical reminiscence.

I had him on a big bluegill within a few minutes. I double hauled his little four-weight out there as far as I could and got a good hookset on this fish so he could stay occupied for a while. But it was a lot more than either of us had bargained for.  Read more…

Fly Fishing & the Back Roads of Memory

I had a plan for where I was going to spend the afternoon. Later, speeding down the highway I made another impulsive decision and passed by the exit I should have taken. I was going to head to a spot I hadn’t been to in nearly a decade.

I arrived and had the quarter-mile stretch all to myself. It was a shock, seeing as it was the weekend. Immediately, there was a familiarity in the scents, sights, and feeling of the creek. Walking to the bank I spotted a nice brook trout right off the bat. I watched it flit about in the current for a few minutes, and then I saw a few larger fish further out. Two rainbows, about 16-18 inches apiece, were bumping each other in the faster water. Read more…

Fly Fishing with Family: a 3 Act Play

He sees something shimmering on the ocean floor. Kicks at it with his foot, but it seems to be stuck between two rocks. Is it a piece of sea glass? undetonated munition?  PBR can? It doesn’t come free. Kicks harder. It doesn’t move. He rears back to really give it the business when a wave hits. Water pushes him precisely when his right leg is at its apex, leaving him off balance and leaning backwards. Each rock he steps on seems to be sloping away from him. After ten comical steps, he falls on his posterior. The cold, May sea water rushes in. He’s soaked on one half of his body. To the toes. Stands up, looks around, sees his wife giving him the thumbs up. Read more…

All of Casting Across
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