The Last Breath

I always thought clean air and clean water were a birthright. My delusional dream of the great outdoors. Back in the days of leaded gasoline, the problems were just below the surface. The needs of industrial America were slowly tearing at that dream. Today, that dream is slowly turning into a nightmare.

I used to hike these hills with my father. Back then, the trees were thick, the rivers clear, and the air crisp. He’d shake his head at the smokestacks on the horizon and say, “They’ll take everything if we let them.”

Turns out, we let them.

The companies swore they’d changed. Cleaner fuels, better regulations, sustainability reports full of glossy pictures of blue skies and happy children. But it was all a shell game. They planted a few trees while clear-cutting forests overseas. They scrubbed their smokestacks while dumping waste into rivers. They bought out scientists, buried studies, lobbied for loopholes. And we kept buying their lies, right up until the air was too thick to breathe.

Now, I step outside and taste metal on my tongue. The sun struggles through a layer of haze, its light filtered by decades of unchecked ambition. A commercial blares from a passing electric bus, boasting about “a greener future.” I cough into my sleeve and keep walking past the latest refinery “expansion project.”

They tell us they’re fixing it. They always say that. Meanwhile, their profits soar, their CEOs collect bonuses, and their waste keeps piling up. The world didn’t have to end this way. But when the choice was between the planet and the bottom line, we all know which one they chose.

The great outdoors? It was never theirs to sell. But they sold it anyway.

And now, we’re the ones paying the price. 

The Fool’s Quest: A Fly Fisher’s Tale

Peering into the murky waters, I knew I was on a fool’s quest. But some quests are worth the folly. I had been cooped up too long, and desperation for some outdoor adventure had pushed me out the door. So, with my fly rod in one hand and a box of carefully selected flies in the other, I headed to a local fishing hotspot.

Now, “hotspot” is a term that should always be taken with a grain of salt. To some, it means an area teeming with fish, a surefire place to land a catch. To others—myself included—it just means a place where hopeful anglers gather to tell stories, soak up the scenery, and occasionally throw a line in the water.

As I rigged up my rod, I could feel the weight of the stares. There were two types of fishermen present: the seasoned locals, who had long since given up on any illusions of privacy, and the newcomers to Florida, who were still getting used to fishing in a state where nearly everything in the water has teeth. They all watched with varying levels of amusement and confusion as I tied on my fly.

Then came the confrontation on the floating dock. An “expert” emerged, his presence announced by the unmistakable twang of a Midwestern drawl. Arms crossed, he took a long, skeptical look at my setup before offering his expert opinion.

“I’ve never seen anyone catch fish with that thing,” he said, nodding toward my fly rod like I had just pulled out a fencing foil instead of fishing gear.

I smiled, waiting for the inevitable follow-up. He did not disappoint.

“I got an extra pole here if you want,” he added, as if rescuing me from my own ignorance.

Ah, the sweet sting of unsolicited advice. I’ve learned that in the world of fishing, there’s always someone eager to correct you—especially if you don’t have a cooler full of fish to prove them wrong. I could have explained that I wasn’t out here to fill a freezer. I could have tried to enlighten him on the artistry of fly fishing, the rhythm of the cast, the satisfaction of placing a fly exactly where you want it.

But I knew it wouldn’t matter. To him, fishing was a numbers game. The only measure of success was what you dragged onto the dock. A day spent fishing without a catch was, in his mind, a wasted effort.

I just smiled, nodded, and declined his offer. He didn’t get it, and that was fine. Some people never will. Because for me, fishing has never been just about the catching. It’s about the pursuit, the stillness, the quiet thrill of watching the line dance on the water. It’s about stepping away from the noise of life and embracing the simple pleasure of waiting.

So I stood there, casting into the murky water, knowing full well that the fish might win today. And honestly, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Snuck Out to .....

I haven't fished since late winter 2021, sadly so, the best laid plans can go astray. Blame the red tide, my inherent fear of alligators and the high UV index. So today on a whim I packed some of the basics and went casting. No really, fishing involves more planning and investigation. My neighbor likes to go to his secret spot and do some crittering.  Crittering as defined by Doug is anything other than fly fishing for a salmonid, crittering involves live  dare I say it BAIT.

I have to admit I was out of place with my 6 Wt 8 footer, and streamer taper line. Lucky for me the tide was wrong and the sun was in full UV blazing. So after a few fish less cast, I departed.

Part 2 of this saga later this week 

This has Been Stuck in my Craw for Sometime!

The Decline of Expertise and the Rise of Know-It-Alls

When I was younger, research was an adventure. If I had an assignment, I’d trek through the dense jungles of the encyclopedia, navigate the treacherous peaks of the dictionary, and—if I was feeling particularly daring—consult an actual expert, like a teacher or librarian. It was hard work, but at least I knew I wasn’t basing my essay on the wild theories of some guy named BigJim78 on Twitter.

Today, research consists of typing a question into Google, clicking the first link (which may or may not be an ad), and—if one is feeling especially academic—watching a two-minute TikTok summarizing the topic. Who needs experts when you have influencers explaining quantum physics in 30 seconds, usually while dancing?

The problem isn’t just that people are getting their facts wrong; it’s that they’re so sure they’re right. A person who spent ten years getting a Ph.D. in epidemiology will cautiously say, “The data suggests…” while Gary from Facebook—whose last formal education was a mandatory high school health class—will confidently declare, “Nah, that’s all fake.” And somehow, Gary wins the argument.

It’s not just science. History is now rewritten daily by people who skimmed a meme and suddenly believe they know the real story. “Actually, the pyramids were built by aliens.” Sure, Bob. And I suppose Napoleon was just a really enthusiastic cosplayer.

The decline of expertise has consequences. We now live in a world where people would rather trust a YouTube deep dive than an actual scientist, where every conversation has a self-proclaimed expert, and where asking, “Are you sure about that?” is considered an act of war.

So, what’s the solution? Maybe we start small—like remembering that just because something has a lot of likes doesn’t make it true. Or that knowing a little about something doesn’t mean knowing everything. And most importantly, let’s agree that when it comes to life-and-death matters, we should probably listen to the people with actual degrees, not the guy who thinks Wikipedia is “too biased.”

And now I spit that out, back to fishing!

In a Heartbeat!

Life can change in an instant. One moment, everything feels stable and predictable, and the next, chaos takes over. A sudden change can feel like a storm, and if not handled properly, it can break even the strongest of spirits. Anxiety seeps in like a slow poison, eroding peace of mind and chipping away at good health. Stress takes its toll on the body and soul, leaving exhaustion and unease in its wake.

But nature offers a remedy—fly fishing. The rhythmic dance of casting a line, the gentle flow of the river, and the serene beauty of the outdoors all work together to calm the restless mind. The focus required to tie a fly, to read the water, and to patiently wait for the perfect strike draws attention away from worry and toward the present moment. Plus, let’s be honest, nothing makes you forget your problems faster than watching your buddy fall into the river while trying to show off his “perfect cast.”

Taking time for self-care is not a luxury; it is a necessity. Stepping away from the rush of life, resting, fishing, and allowing oneself to recharge is an act of preservation. And if you don’t catch anything? Well, at least you have a great excuse for why dinner is just a bag of chips. The burdens of today will not last forever. As the old saying goes, “This too will pass.” And in the meantime, the river keeps flowing, offering a place of solace—and maybe even a fish—for those who seek it.

Dedicated to those we left behind at the river

Tight lines ya'll !

Superfine

 The Return of the Orvis Superfine Graphite – A Love Letter to Small Streams

For those who know, they know. The Orvis Superfine Graphite isn’t just a fly rod—it’s a time machine. A whisper of nostalgia wrapped in modern performance. And now, it’s back, ready to dance delicately across the waters of small, technical streams once more.

Designed for precision and grace, the Superfine Graphite isn’t about brute force or casting for the horizon. It’s about finesse. It’s for the angler who understands that in the world of spring creeks, subtlety is king. That a perfect drift and a featherlight touch can mean the difference between a wary trout rising or vanishing into the depths.

This rod isn’t for the impatient. It’s for the purist, the one who appreciates the art of fly fishing as much as the catch itself. Whether you’re chasing wild browns in a hidden meadow stream or fooling finicky brookies in a shaded riffle, the Superfine Graphite is your trusted companion.

So, to those who wade quietly, who tie on 6X tippet with reverence, who live for the thrill of a perfectly placed dry fly—welcome back to what you’ve been missing. The Orvis Superfine Graphite has returned. The fish have been waiting.

On a Sad Note

Farewell, Dear Brother

Sometimes, things happen for a reason. Other times, life shifts in an instant, testing our strength in ways we never expected. Today, I lost my brother—my lifelong friend, my constant. The weight of this loss is heavy, but in its midst, I’ve witnessed something powerful: the quiet force of compassion.

Grief has a way of revealing the best in people. In the moments when words fail, kindness steps in. A hand on the shoulder, a shared silence, an unspoken understanding—these small acts become lifelines. I’ve seen how, in sadness, people instinctively lift one another, offering strength even when they themselves are broken.

True leadership isn’t about control or authority; it’s about showing up—with empathy, with grace, with love. It’s about putting aside our own pain, if only for a moment, to hold space for someone else. Today, I saw that in the faces of friends and family. I felt it in the embraces that lingered just a little longer, in the quiet reassurances that we will carry on, together.

So, farewell, dear brother. Your journey has ended, but the love and lessons you shared remain. In your memory, I will choose compassion. I will choose to lead with heart. And I will carry forward, knowing that the greatest strength we have is in the way we care for one another.

Rest well. You are deeply missed.

Left the river on Valentine’s Day 

Gear Care Simplified

Taking care of your gear is a key part of fly fishing, and in a recent video, the other Tom—Tom Rosenbauer of Orvis fame—showed a simple way to clean and store fly line. No need to strip it all off the reel or use some elaborate setup. Just clean it while it’s still on the reel and store it as is.

We’ve come a long way from the days of silk lines, which required careful drying and treatment after every use. Modern fly lines are low-maintenance, but a quick cleaning keeps them performing their best. A little care now means smoother casts and longer-lasting gear down the road.

Click to watch Tom explain on this clip from The New Fly Fisher

https://youtu.be/4CvAnGBUqHM?si=-OSHYcJJM30QS0x1

Why We Fight (Fish)

The morning tide moves slow, a glassy surface broken only by the occasional ripple of feeding fish. Redfish tail in the shallows, their copper backs flashing in the early light. Further out, bluefish slash through bait schools, the chaos of their hunt unmistakable.

A fly angler knows the challenge ahead. For redfish, it’s about patience—moving slow, keeping low, presenting the fly with precision. One bad cast, one heavy footstep, and they’re gone, ghosting into deeper water. But when it’s right—when the fly lands softly, when the fish turns, follows, then inhales—it’s pure magic.

Bluefish, though, are another story. There’s no subtlety, no finesse. They hit like they mean it, like the ocean itself is running through their veins. The first run is a jolt, a reminder that these fish don’t just fight—they punish. And if you weren’t ready with a steel leader? Well, that’s just another fly lost to those razor teeth.

Two fish, two battles, one undeniable truth: saltwater fly fishing isn’t just about the catch. It’s about the hunt, the anticipation, and the moment where everything comes together—or falls apart in the blink of an eye. Either way, you keep casting.

Dappled Sunlight on a Sunday Morning

 My favorite stretch of the Carmans is seemingly devoid of fish. Wading downstream from Ivan's tree to Amy's bend in the early morning is a visual delight. Sounds of the water as I wade and songbirds fill the air. A river fully alive and devoid of other fisherman. 

https://youtu.be/puhHwEkw3N8?si=UcRG0zhb1kqXA1jP

That Perfect Moment

The river moves at its own pace, indifferent to your presence, yet welcoming in a way that feels almost sacred. You stand knee-deep in the cool water, casting and recasting, watching the line unfurl in smooth arcs before settling on the surface. Each cast is a lesson in patience, in precision, in letting go.

It’s not about the fish. It never really was.

It’s about the rhythm, the way the water speaks in whispers and ripples, the way the world narrows down to this moment—just you, the river, and the fly dancing on the current. It’s about the feel of the rod in your hand, the steady pull of the water against your legs, the silence that isn’t really silence at all.

Life is like this, too. You show up, you put in the effort, but you don’t always get the result you expect. Sometimes, it’s not about the catch; it’s about standing in the stream, feeling the pulse of something older than time, and knowing you are exactly where you need to be.

Revitalizing Your Passion for Fly Fishing and the Outdoors

We all hit that wall—the one where motivation fades, and even the things we once loved seem like a chore. Work, responsibilities, and the general wear and tear of life creep in, sapping the energy we once had for adventure. The excuses pile up: the weather isn’t right, the gear needs tuning, there’s just not enough time. Before we know it, days turn into weeks, and we find ourselves longing for the passion we once had.

But deep down, we know we’re not ready to hang it up. That easy chair and television might be comfortable, but they can’t replace the thrill of a rising trout, the crisp morning air, or the rhythmic dance of a well-placed cast. The good news? That fire is still there—it just needs a little stoking.

Rekindling the Spark

The first step in reigniting your love for fly fishing and the outdoors is simple: just get out there. It doesn’t have to be a full-blown expedition. Start small. A walk along a familiar riverbank, a few casts at a local pond, or even just organizing your gear can help spark that old excitement.

Sometimes, we fall into ruts because we’ve become too focused on results—landing the biggest fish, perfecting our technique, or having the “perfect” day on the water. Instead, shift your mindset. Fly fishing has always been about more than just catching fish. It’s about the feel of the water against your waders, the quiet moments between casts, and the connection to something bigger than yourself.

Change It Up

One of the best ways to shake off the doldrums is to break your routine. Fish a new stretch of river, try a different technique, or even explore an entirely new type of fishing. If you’ve always stuck to trout, maybe it’s time to chase bass or panfish on the fly. If you’ve been fishing solo, consider bringing along a friend or even a beginner—sometimes, seeing the sport through fresh eyes can reignite your own passion.

Exploring new locations can also be a game-changer. Even if it’s just an hour’s drive away, a new environment can reignite the thrill of discovery. The anticipation of exploring an unfamiliar stream or lake often brings back the excitement that first drew us to the sport.

Reconnect with the Community

Fly fishing isn’t just an individual pursuit—it’s a shared passion. If your enthusiasm is fading, reconnecting with like-minded people can make all the difference. Join a local fly-fishing club, attend a tying night, or hit the river with a group. The camaraderie, shared stories, and encouragement can be just what you need to rekindle your motivation.

Social media and online forums can also serve as a source of inspiration. Seeing others out on the water, sharing their experiences and successes, can remind you of why you fell in love with the sport in the first place.

Remember Why You Started

Think back to the first time you picked up a fly rod. What drew you in? Was it the challenge? The beauty of the surroundings? The sense of peace that came with standing in the water? Reconnecting with those early emotions can help pull you out of your slump.

Take a moment to reflect on your best days on the water—not just the ones where you caught the most fish, but the ones where everything just felt right. Those moments are still out there waiting for you.

Just Go

Ultimately, the best way to reignite your passion for fly fishing and the outdoors is to simply go. Stop overthinking it. Don’t wait for the “perfect” time or conditions. Grab your rod, step outside, and let nature do the rest.

Because once you’re back on the water, feeling the pull of a fish on the line or watching the sun dip below the horizon, you’ll remember exactly why you started—and why you’ll never stop.

The Art of Stealth on the River

Stealth on the river isn’t about secrecy—it’s about patience, awareness, and restraint. It’s the difference between spooking a wary trout and coaxing it into a take. Too many anglers charge into the water, eager to cast, but true success begins long before the first loop of line unfurls.

Approach the stream as if you’re part of it. Move slowly, deliberately. Watch the water before you ever think of stepping in. Are the bugs hatching? Can you see subtle dimples of trout sipping just beneath the surface? Listen—sometimes a rise is more easily heard than seen.

Resist the urge to cast right away. Instead, observe. Take in the rhythm of the river, the way the currents weave, the pockets where fish might hold. Let your first action be thought, not movement.

When you spot a riser, don’t rush in. Stay low, move with care. Start from a distance and work the water methodically. Every step, every cast should have a purpose. This isn’t a race, and there’s no prize for speed—only the quiet satisfaction of doing it right.

That splashy rise will spike your adrenaline, no doubt. But before you react, pause. Take a deep breath. Close your eyes if you need to. Visualize the perfect approach, the drift, the take. Let anticipation settle into focus. Then, when the moment is right, make your cast—smooth, precise, and intentional.

Stealth isn’t just about avoiding detection. It’s about discipline, presence, and the deep connection between angler and river. Master that, and the trout will come.

The Promise of Rising Trout and the Days are Getting Longer

John exhaled, watching his breath swirl in the cold morning air as he chipped away at the ice on his windshield. Another morning, another layer of frost, another two months of winter ahead. The snowbanks lining his driveway stood high, and the dull gray sky above promised more to come. It had been a long winter already, and he was tired of shoveling, tired of the cold, tired of waiting.

But next week was Groundhog Day.

He smirked at the thought. Some people put their faith in that little rodent, hoping for an early spring. John, though, had his own way of measuring time—he was counting the days until the trout would rise.

He could picture it already. The ice on the river breaking apart, the water running free again. The first warm days of March, when the sun felt strong enough to bring the river back to life. He imagined standing at the edge of the stream, rod in hand, watching for the telltale ripple of a trout breaking the surface.

The thought warmed him more than the car’s heater ever could. Soon, the air would carry the scent of damp earth instead of frozen stillness. The trees would bud, and the insects would return, drawing the trout up from the depths, hungry and waiting.

John finished scraping the windshield and slid into the driver’s seat, his mind still on the water. Winter wasn’t done yet, but it wouldn’t last forever. The promise of rising trout was out there, just beyond the ice and snow.

And that was enough to get him through.

Is Anybody Home? Or Did Y’all Just Move Without Telling Me?

I’ve been writing this blog for over a decade now, and I recently had a startling realization—I might be the only one reading it. If that’s the case, well… so what? At least I know my audience is loyal.

Still, in a moment of wild optimism, I put out a call for volunteers to take over the blog and the YouTube channel. Now, before you get too excited, the channel boasts a grand total of three videos—an empire in the making, clearly. As for the chapter newsletter? Let’s just say it’s been in a medically induced coma for a while.

So my question is: is anybody home? Or have you all collectively decided that keeping up with this stuff is like checking voicemail—technically possible, but not happening?

I get it. I moved 1,200 miles away, and now my main source of news is the monthly website update. And let me tell you, that thing is as fresh as a three-day-old bagel. I half expect to read breaking news about the invention of the lightbulb.

What’s going on? COVID has left the building! The world is back to normal, yet somehow, the newsletter, the blog, and the channel are all stuck in 2020. Have we just agreed that updating things is overrated? Are we all pretending we’re too busy while secretly binge-watching old sitcoms?

If you’re out there, drop me a sign. A comment, an email, even a smoke signal. Otherwise, I’ll just keep writing to my most dedicated reader—myself.

What do you think?