I've just sat down at my local library to write about some of our recent fishing trips and I encountered a problem I've had all year, writer's block. I've tried exercises varying from free writing to forcing myself into 1000 words to switching up where I write. Needless to say, not much of it has worked. They say (who are they anyway?) that this condition can last a few weeks to a few years. I'd like to think I'm still in a curable stage and can recover without too much treatment. I put a bit of effort into some technical 'how-to' writing, but what can I teach you that you don't already know? I'm stuck with the metaphorical gibberish.
Read moreGoing Home
I can hear Jacob in the corner packing his things. I've been getting together our last bit of laundry to clean before we shove it in backpacks. At four am, tomorrow morning, we make our way home.
As always, we never get enough time here and it's always heartbreaking to head home. I guess maybe that means something when you're always sad to go home.
Our final adventure here was to the same place as our first. I think it's safe to say this little creek is so very special, to both of us.
Read moreSitting On A Rock
The weather report called for afternoon thunderstorms, so a full day, high-country trip was out of the question. Heading north was out of the question. There had been one too many mudslides and we didn’t want to be stuck somewhere for hours. We threw out different directions and rivers for a while until we settled on a spot. We’d gone last year, been skunked, I wasn’t expecting much. I figured ‘hey, at least I get to be outside.’
Read more#stockers
In Delayed Harvest water (stocked) Jacob will out fish me just about every single time. I suppose that it has something to do with his job and my hate for farmed fish.
Either way, I'm ok with it. But, it sure does make my life a little easier when they throw in some pretty ones.
Read moreQuality of Excuses
My fishing career began like most others, dunking worms. Just a couple of years old, with pigtails and bangs, pink spinning rod, and a squirming creature at the end of a hook. My grandfather was a proud spinner fisherman, never picked up a fly rod and never wanted to. He got me out on the water; he was the reason I developed a fascination with fish. But, my tender child heart soon turned from fascination to complete horror. Not only was I to rip worms in half, but then we were hooking a fishing for our sick human pleasure? Um, no thank you. At the time, as far as I was concerned, my fishing career ended at the young age of four.
Read moreMonday Motivation
And, here's the thing about nature, it's always there to welcome us home with open arms.
So, here's a little Monday motivation for you, to remind you that the mountains are still there and so are the fish.
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