“A Fish Named Dave,” Hatch Magazine, November 2024
What makes one fish stubbornly reject a fly another will eagerly take, I’d ask at 3 a.m., hoping ten more revolutions of the ceiling fan would release insomnia’s grip on my consciousness. This quest to answer a patently unanswerable question had transformed me—an otherwise capable man—into a neurotic ninny.
“Stages,” Hatch Magazine, October 2024
How, I wonder, can something as wary as a brook trout display such color on its body? The pale yellow freckles against the brownish-green hue of their skin fashion a sort of camouflage. But—to all the predators in the river—the gleaming red blotches encircled by brilliant blue halos seem to scream, “Hey, look at me!” Not getting eaten, though, is only part of the evolutionary game. The other part is finding the best mate, and—like the lavish tails on a peacock or a five-hundred-dollar Stefano Ricci silk tie—those spots might also say, “Look at me. I’ve got the right stuff.” The spawning season has a way of bringing out the garish in all of us.
“We Said We Were Going Fishing and We Did,” Hatch Magazine, October 2024
With more than twenty books on the topic, John Gierach was one of the most successful fishing writers of all time, and one of the country’s best known fly anglers. He wrote with a folksy everyman voice, sometimes masking the exceptional craftsmanship of his prose. Void of sentimentality and self-indulgence, his stories served as a user’s manual for a life well-lived.
“The Paradox of Choice,” Hatch Magazine, September 2024
When I was in college in the early eighties, the only decisions students made about their coffee was how much cream and sugar—if any—to pour into the imperishable foam cup. Buyer’s remorse was as unlikely as forgetting to rewind your VHS tape, seeing something other than a music video on MTV, or knowing the correct lyrics for the chorus in Manfred Mann’s “Blinded by the Light.” But today, students line up like cattle, staring down verbose menu boards demanding a choice between steamers, lattes, americanos, cappuccinos, macchiatos, mochas, espressos, and happuccinos. “Damn it, I knew I should have gotten the Iced Brown Sugar Oat Milk Shaken Espresso instead of this Pumpkin Spice crap,” is something no one said when Michael Jackson ruled the radio, and every coed wanted to look like Farrah Fawcett.
“Uniquely Portable Magic,” Hatch Magazine, August 2024
I’ve read John Voelker’s books more times than Yogi Berra is said to have said something he didn’t say. I’ve internalized the yarns to the point I often tell the stories as though they’ve happened to me. And in some manner, I suppose they have. I might not read from either book during this trip, but both are first editions, and they are most responsible for the sweet smell of vanilla emanating from the box. Testament of a Fisherman—the prelude in Trout Magic—is the type of prose a person might have chiseled onto their gravestone. With 207 words that start with I fish because I love to, and end with I suspect that so many of the concerns of men are equally unimportant—and not nearly so much fun, Voelker made answering the “Why do we fish?” question as difficult for any writer who came after him as Patsy Cline made singing “Crazy” for any singer who came after her.
“Those Are the Gods I Turn To,” The Upland Almanac, Volume 27, No. 3, Summer 2024
I’m not exclaiming, “Veni, vidi, vici!” like Julius Caesar after the Battle of Zela, and I know better than to turn my confidence knob to eleven, but I feel pretty good for the next half-hour or so. I cast the same fly the same way in similar water, but when no more fish cooperate in the pool below Dick’s Riffle, I walk the bank downstream to look for rings or snouts or any other signs of fish. “Even a blind hen finds a grain of corn,” my mom used to say, and I’m starting to feel the urge to cluck. Luck is a fickle mistress who teases, taunts, and turns on you faster than a beagle when you try to clean its ears.
“Smoke on the Water,” The FlyFish Journal, Issue 15.3, Spring 2024
As he sat on the rock and waited, the steady upstream wind delivered the earthy, slightly sweet, herbal, and woody aroma of the hippie’s smoke to my nose. At the top of each hour, with a regularity you could set your watch to, I’d get a whiff of something different—a rich and skunky fragrance that used to be more common at Grateful Dead concerts than settings like this. When the mayflies finally emerged, he hooked and landed four nice fish beneath that unwavering trail of smoke, always with the understated grace I’d now come to associate with him.
“Skunked,” MidCurrent, June 2024
Like sex in the kitchen, vegetable smoothies, New Year’s resolutions, New Coke, stainless steel cars, and balloon loans, some things make perfect sense the first time you hear about them. But in practice, they leave you shouting, “Who in the hell is the marketing genius who came up with this idea?” Thoreau is famously misquoted as warning that many of us go fishing all our lives without knowing it’s not the fish we are after. This popular conjecture is more true than false, but you don’t find many anglers—including the enlightened ones—casting hookless flies. To paraphrase the old Harvard professor Theodore Levitt, you don’t buy a drill because you want a drill. You buy a drill because you want a hole.
“Redemption,” Hatch Magazine, May 2024
The redemption I’m after is nothing like John Newton sought when he wrote “Amazing Grace,” or Oskar Schindler when he saved twelve hundred Jews, or even my friend Bill who once broke into a rival fraternity house to steal food from their freezer, then biked back later that night to break in again and return the steelhead because, as he put it, “Stealing another man’s fish is like stealing his soul.” No, I only want to tip the kid who drove a twenty-six-mile round trip to give back my credit card on my first night in Montana.
“Fly Fishing is Always a Numbers Game,” Hatch Magazine, May 2024
With the season’s opening, anglers who struggled to subtract line 24 from line 33 on their 1040 form just a few weeks ago will surprisingly channel their inner Pythagoras and become wizards in a relatively modern branch of mathematics called angleratorics. In this branch, each inch of a trout’s length translates to a new unit called the ench. Similar to the way degrees in Celcius convert to Fahrenheit, inches convert to enches by the formula:
ench = inch x 1.2 + 2
If, for example, an angler catches an eight-inch brook trout, this formula expands the fish to eleven-point-six enches, which they’ll round to twelve.
“Fly Fishing with a Worm,” Hatch Magazine, April 2024
I wasn’t sure if or when I’d fish my worms that year, but after a hard rain a few days before the trout season opener, a legion of small earthworms scattered across my driveway. “Hey, Archimedes,” I said to myself, “your San Juan worms might be the perfect match for this hatch.”
“I’ve Been There,” Hatch Magazine, March 2024
When I reach the dam, a flotilla of drift boats lines up for the launch. The guides prepare their vessels for departure, checking and rechecking to ensure they have all the rods, reels, and flies they’ll need for the day. The clients fidget the way we do when our job is to stand around and watch someone else do the work. For many of us, it’s the most awkward part of hiring a guide. We know they neither want nor need our help, but we can’t escape feeling we should do something. Unable to help, we stand around like misplaced props on a movie set.
“Spring Creek,” Hatch Magazine, February 2024
Earnest Hemingway said every writer should strive to write one true sentence, and Harlan Howard famously described good country music as three chords and the truth. But what is this thing we call “truth?” By its definition, fiction is a lie, though some of the greatest truths ever told are accounts of things that never happened. Nick Lyons fished Spring Creek over several summers. That’s as true as a mother’s love. But the truth in his writing has little to do with the factual accounts of his time at Farago, Second Bend, or the Nursery. The truth is what he thought and felt in those places.
“Connecticut angler there yesterday should have been there today,” Hatch Magazine, January 2024
Imagine if everyone could rediscover the feeling of believing in Santa Claus. I believe we are talking about that kind of change.
“The Sound of Thunder,” Hatch Magazine, January 2024
This was my fourth day on the road and my fourth of listening to nothing but Jimmy Buffett’s latest release, Barometer Soup. Bill Clinton was President, Selena was murdered in the spring, Timothy McVeigh and Terry Nichols blew up a building and killed 168 people in Oklahoma, Superman fell off his horse and was paralyzed from the neck down, Windows 95 was the hottest operating system on the planet, and I was a day from starting my fourth year of teaching at Michigan Tech. And in about two months, O. J. Simpson would be found not guilty of murdering his ex-wife and a restaurant waiter.
“Cutting Back,” Hatch Magazine, January 2024
For the most part, I haven’t completely lost my mind. I don’t yet own a combination wading staff/fish finder, nor do I wear a pair of waders with built-in temperature control, GPS, a hundred-megabit wifi hotspot, and Bluetooth connectivity. I did have a pair of sunglasses with a built-in sonar bug finder on my Christmas wish list, but my wife said I should wait until they incorporate array-based Doppler processing with CDMA pulse compression. First-generation adopters are rubes, she says.
“Time,” Hatch Magazine, December 2023
When we’re young, we don’t worry about sliding down a steep bank and hearing our fibula or tibia snap, crackle, and pop like a Ponderosa pine branch in a roaring campfire. But when Father Time decides to blur our view of hook eyes, whispy tippets, and tiny tufts of fur and feathers floating any farther away than two or three rod-lengths, he also gifts us the optical acuity to see skin tags, ear hairs, and every possible way we might trip, slip, or otherwise tumble ass over teakettle and straight into three weeks of traction.
“Four Things All Anglers Should Be Thankful for in 2023,” Hatch Magazine, November 2023
I’m thankful to the fish for inspiring so many people and groups to fight for the health and well-being of the waters that support their existence. As the grayling showed us nearly a century ago, if we lose this fight, we lose it all.
“A Tale of Two Tims,” Hatch Magazine, September 2023
February Tim has no beef with April Tim, May Tim, June Tim, or even July Tim. Those Tims understand how the fishing season in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula is as precious and fleeting as a brown drake’s dance at dusk. But August Tim’s complacency fills February Tim with the frustration a mother feels when her teenage son sleeps past noon on their Bahama vacation. As February Tim likes to say, sloth is the sin of folks who navigate the world with speed-limit I.Q.s, and though he’s not sure how a person’s intelligence recedes like the tide over just a few months, he’s thinking of August Tim when he says it.
“On a Misson to Build the World’s Most Accurate Fly Rod: A Look Inside the Orvis Rod Shop,” Hatch Magazine, September 2023
Surely, accuracy is dictated more by the caster than the rod. Give world champion Maxine McCormick a $40 Ozark Trail outfit, put a thousand-dollar rod from any of the big brands in my hand, and she’ll make me look like a penguin trying to throw darts. But Shawn and his team at Orvis say the rod plays an integral part in the accuracy equation, and they’ve crafted a compelling argument—along with an ingenious testing methodology—to showcase its inherent ability.
“Marginal Water for Trout,” Hatch Magazine, July 2023
“Where can I catch a big trout?”
I sometimes field this query from fishing friends who seemingly mistake me for someone smart enough to know and dumb enough to tell. Our subsequent dialogue generally transpires like a scene from All the President’s Men:
“Follow the money.”
“What do you mean? Where?”
“Oh, I can’t tell you that.”
“But you could tell me that.”
“No, I have to do this my way. You tell me what you know, and I’ll confirm. I’ll keep you in the right direction if I can, but that’s all. Just … follow the money.”
“Don’t Be Afraid of the Dark,” Hatch Magazine, June 2023
When I’m alone, though, I’m pretty sure the song of a whippoorwill is a signal from one meth addict to another. “Whip-poor-will, whip-poor-will” actually means, “Now is the time to rush the fisherman, hit him over the head with a tire iron, take his gear and sell it for cash to buy antifreeze, white gas, and acetone.” Because my mind works this way, I should avoid being alone in the dark. But I can’t—I’m a dry-fly fisherman in Michigan.
“Chasing Geese,” Hatch Magazine, June 2023
When square-jawed actors like Brad Pitt or Johnny Depp tell the costar they know a guy, the plot usually entails a homicide or felony. So when my friend Doug leans in and whispers, “I know a guy,” I should sprint for the nearest exit. But Doug’s jaw isn’t uncommonly square, and he has no reason to believe I need to lift some diamonds or dispose of a body. I figure Doug’s guy has something to do with fishing.
“Everything in Between,” Hatch Magazine, May 2023
But in between is neither a time nor place for worry. It’s the time to smell woodsmoke and wintergreen, pine sap and eucalyptus, damp earth, death, decay, rotten wood, and the coming rain. It’s the place to watch tadpoles, minnows, ducklings, kits, pups, cubs, and hatchlings see their first stroke of light on a wash of black. It’s the place for you to find some light too.
“It Looked Like He Knew What He Was Doing,” Hatch Magazine, April 2023
I have a friend who casts a fly for neither distance nor accuracy nor stealth. Aside from those limitations, he’s a splendid fisherman.
“The Greenhorn,” Hatch Magazine, March 2023
In a rushed act of desperate deceit, I hooked the fly to one of the rod’s guides, tightened the line around the reel, and walked casually downstream, toward the man and away from My Spot. Fortunately, I hadn’t begun to fish in what I—and only I—know is the best spot on the river.
“Going Driftless,” Hatch Magazine, December 2022
The entrance to the hallway is locked, and when I struggle to unlock it, two heavily tattooed guys eating soup straight from a can let me in. They are friendly, but if this were Texas instead of Wisconsin, I’d worry that Llewelyn Moss had stashed a stolen satchel of money in the motel’s air duct, and later tonight, Anton Chigurh would blow out the door’s cylinder lock and kill me.
“The Trout Will Let You Know,” Hatch Magazine, September 2022
Roberts’ fly has a deer-hair body tied with yellow thread to imitate a light-colored mayfly. Borchers’ has a turkey-quill body tied with black or brown thread to imitate a dark-colored mayfly. With those two flies in small, medium, and large sizes, you can fool most of the trout most of the time. But not all of the trout all of the time, because—after all—you are still fishing.
“Sincerity,” Hatch Magazine, September 2022
Those of us who relentlessly pursue large trout with a dry fly are hopeless addicts. If we weren’t, we’d take up easy chores like curing cancer, ending world poverty, or explaining how long forever is.
“It’s About Time,” Hatch Magazine, August 2022
With seven days in a week, fishing fifty-two times a year should be easy. But it’s not. We fritter away hours, squander days, and unwittingly populate our past with fishless week after fishless week. Father Time is a heartless scoundrel who steals with impunity, and we carelessly neglect to lock our doors.
“Secrets,” Hatch Magazine, April 2022
The Latin word for witness is testis, which—according to ancient lore—arose because male Romans testifying in court were required to place one hand over their “jewels” as they swore to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Thanks to the sensible evolution of modern law, this threat has since weakened to the more moderate pains and penalties of perjury. But even that is too much for most of us to tolerate, so we fishermen swear no oaths.
“How to Catch the Biggest Brook Trout of Your Life, Again,” Hatch Magazine, March 2022
I drove by a van with no windows along the way—the sort of vehicle some people might call a molester van—and the two bearded men beside the van appeared to be burying a body. When I finally made it to Dave’s camp and said something about the van, he and the boys seemed to know who the guys were. When I told them about the body, they laughed and said the men were likely burying a deer carcass, but, either way, it was probably a good thing that I didn’t stop.
“How to Catch the Biggest Brook Trout of Your Life,” Hatch Magazine, March 2022
I don’t usually write how-to essays. My way of doing something might not be the best for everyone, so I worry about feeling bad when someone points out a better way. The other day, though, I caught the biggest brook trout of my life.
“Growing Older But Not Up,” Hatch Magazine, February 2022
I suppose old guys like Jerry and me can hold off the inevitable by throttling innocent hipsters or trading our fedoras and vests for trucker hats and backpacks. But, eventually, we’ll have to concede that ten, twenty, or thirty more years have gotten behind us. The gray hairs, receding hairlines, and aching knees are awkward—and obvious—reminders of your evolution from whomever it was that you once thought you were into that old guy across the river.
“The Musky Maxims,” Hatch Magazine, February 2022
During my first night at Legacy Lodge in Winter, Wisconsin, an oracle appeared in my dreams. “You will catch one musky—and only one musky—sometime over the next three days, but the day and time will be a surprise.”
“Small Stream Sisu,” Hatch Magazine, January 2022
The “why” of the U.P. can be hard to explain. I’ve often searched for the right words to describe the bond that Yooper’s feel with their home, and my search always comes back to one Finnish word: sisu.