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?

Fear of the Great Unknown

 Ever get that sinking feeling? Like the universe just whispered, “What can possibly go wrong now?” It’s that eerie, foreboding vibe, the kind that makes you glance over your shoulder and wonder if today’s the day you meet your doom—or worse, forget your lunch.

For me, that feeling struck hardest one crisp morning on the river. I’d tied on a fly that was, let’s say, “experimental.” It looked less like something a fish would eat and more like something a 5-year-old glued together at craft camp. Feathers sticking out at odd angles, a color scheme only a parrot could love—it was a masterpiece of chaos.

But hey, I thought, trust the fly, right? That’s what the pros say. I cast it out with all the confidence of someone who just double-knotted their shoes for the first time. And then I waited.

Nothing.

The foreboding grew. Maybe the fish were laughing at me down there. Maybe I’d invented the first fly designed to repel trout. I stared at my line, muttering to myself like a lunatic. “What kind of self-respecting trout would eat this? Should I pack it up and take up knitting?”

And then it happened. The line zipped tight, and my rod bent in a way that said, “Oh yeah, buddy, you’re in for it now.” My heart leapt. I was on! The battle was on! I fought that fish like it had insulted my mother, grinning like a fool the whole time.

When I finally reeled it in, there it was: a gorgeous rainbow trout, gleaming in the sunlight. It stared at me with what I can only describe as pure disappointment, as if to say, This? This is what fooled me?

But I didn’t care. I trusted the fly, and it worked. The sense of foreboding vanished, replaced by the joy of victory and a fish tale I’d be telling for years.

So, what’s the moral? Fear of the unknown can hold you back—or it can make the reward that much sweeter when you take the leap. Sometimes, the fly doesn’t have to be perfect; you just have to trust it. And if it works, well, the fish don’t care how ridiculous it looks.

So next time you feel that dread creeping in, remember: trust your fly. Or at least tie on something colorful enough to distract the fish—and yourself—from the fear of the unknown.

How does that land? Too absurd, or the right mix of humor and wisdom?

The Direction I Have Chosen for Myself

There’s a reason I’ve always believed words are dangerous—maybe it’s because I once saw a man try to explain to his wife why the vacuum she wanted was “too expensive.” He misused one word, and, well, let’s just say I still hear faint echoes of his apology every time I pass their house.

Words are like fishhooks. Use them right, and you catch dinner. Use them wrong, and you’re tangled up in a line that leaves you flailing like a trout. That’s why I’ve decided to approach my river advocacy the same way a bear approaches a salmon run—carefully and with a clear plan.

You see, some folks like to dive into debates about climate change or environmental policies with all the grace of a moose belly-flopping into a creek. But not me. I know the real key to change isn’t screaming until your voice cracks; it’s about wise use of words. (And not misplacing them, like the man with the vacuum.)

But here’s the real kicker: most people just bury their heads in the sand. It’s like they think if they can’t see the rising water levels, they won’t get wet. Meanwhile, I’m out here trying to convince everyone to put on a life jacket before the river turns into beachfront property.

Now, I’m not saying we all need to grab pitchforks and storm the nearest dam. What I’m saying is, if we all act—whether individually or together—we’ve got a chance to save the streams, the fish, and maybe even our sense of humor. So, next time you’re about to scroll past that post about clean water or climate action, think about this: don’t let your words (or lack of them) leave you swimming upstream.

Because trust me, it’s better to choose your words wisely than to end up like the guy who called his wife’s vacuum “unnecessary.” He’s still on the couch, wondering what exactly went wrong.

What do you think?

The Lure of That Far Away River

Local vs. Destination Fly Fishing Trips: Where Should You Cast Your Line?

Fly fishing offers anglers the chance to connect with nature, test their skills, and chase the thrill of the catch. For many, the allure of exotic destinations—those postcard-perfect waters thousands of miles away—can be hard to resist. Who wouldn’t dream of casting a line into a stream teeming with giant trout, far removed from the routines of home? Yet, as tempting as these far-flung adventures may seem, local and regional waters hold their own unique charm, often under-appreciated by those who live nearby.

The Allure of Destination Fly Fishing

Exotic fishing destinations are often painted as the ultimate angler’s paradise. Whether it’s chasing steelhead in Alaska, massive brown trout in Patagonia, or bonefish on the flats of the Bahamas, these trips promise adventure and the possibility of record-breaking catches. They offer anglers a chance to step into a world where the fish are big, the landscapes breathtaking, and the memories unforgettable.

But these trips come with a cost—financially and otherwise. Beyond flights, guides, and gear, there’s the reality that these waters may only be visited once, leaving little time to truly understand their rhythms and quirks. For those who live locally, however, these exotic streams may already be their backyard. What’s a bucket-list destination for one is an everyday outing for another.

Rediscovering Local Waters

Closer to home, local and regional streams often go unnoticed by anglers dreaming of distant adventures. Yet, these waters are no less valuable. Many fishermen from other parts of the world view them as a “trout mecca,” eager to experience what locals may take for granted.

Local streams provide an opportunity to refine techniques, learn seasonal patterns, and gain an intimate knowledge of the water. There’s also a sense of pride and connection that comes from being a steward of one’s home waters. While these spots may not boast the largest fish or the highest catch rates, they offer a different kind of reward—familiarity, accessibility, and a chance to fish more frequently.

Striking a Balance

The truth is, fly fishing isn’t an either/or decision. Destination trips offer excitement and challenge, while local waters provide consistency and depth of experience. Anglers might do well to appreciate the treasures in their own backyard, even as they plan trips to explore new horizons.

Ultimately, the grass—or in this case, the stream—may seem greener from afar. But for those who take the time to look, beauty, challenge, and adventure can often be found just a short drive from home.

Speaking of Secret Flies or Code Words

 There’s a moment in every angler’s life when you’re struggling on the water, and you turn to the guy downstream who’s catching fish after fish. You swallow your pride, sidle up, and ask the question every fly fisher has uttered in desperation: “What are you using?”

It’s a vulnerable question, really. You’re not just asking for advice; you’re admitting defeat. And then, with a knowing grin, the guy looks at you and says the two most infuriating words in fly fishing: “Oh, just the usual.”

What does that even mean? Is it code? Is it a fly shop conspiracy? Is The Usual the name of an actual fly, and if so, why haven’t I heard of it?

At first, I thought it was just their way of brushing me off. Maybe “the usual” was secret angler lingo for “I’m not telling you squat, newbie.” But then I started noticing a pattern: every seasoned angler, in every state, on every stream, seems to use this same mysterious “usual.”

One time, I pressed further. “What’s ‘the usual’?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

“Oh, you know,” they said, tying on another fly with the speed and precision of a magician. “A little of this, a little of that.”

Helpful. Thanks.

In a fit of frustration, I decided to turn the tables. The next time someone asked me what I was using, I grinned and said, “Just the usual.” I felt powerful, like I’d joined an exclusive club. Of course, I hadn’t caught a single fish that day, so my “usual” was apparently a dud.

For those not in the know, The Usual is a simple yet brilliant dry fly tied with snowshoe hare’s foot fur. It’s famous for its buoyancy, versatility, and uncanny ability to imitate a variety of hatches. It’s a go-to for many anglers, which is probably why it earned such a casual, almost dismissive name.

But here’s where the humor really hits: when someone answers “The Usual,” they’re being both perfectly honest and cryptically vague at the same time. It’s like they’re handing you a puzzle and the answer simultaneously. You don’t know if they’re saying, “Oh, it’s just my usual favorite fly,” or if they mean, “Hey, it’s literally The Usual.”

So when you’re left standing there, wondering if you’ve just been snubbed or given a secret tip, the truth is… both could be true!

The moral of the story? When someone says, “The Usual,” just smile and tie one on. Because if it’s The Usual, you’re probably about to catch a fish. And if it’s just their way of saying “I’m not telling you,” you’ve got nothing to lose by giving it a shot anyway!

The Fly Shop Fiasco: A Tale of New Streams, Secret Flies, and Self-Discovery

There’s something both exhilarating and intimidating about fishing a stream you’ve never fished before. The anticipation builds as you pore over maps, scout access points, and read up on hatch charts like you’re cramming for a final exam. But no amount of research can replace boots on the ground—or in the water, for that matter.

And so, like many before me, I made the obligatory pilgrimage to the local fly shop. Inside, the walls were adorned with rods, reels, and an overwhelming array of flies, each one screaming, “I’m the secret weapon you need!” A whiteboard in the corner displayed the latest hatch information, scribbled in erasable marker as if to say, “This might change, but for now, trust us.”

I studied the board like it was ancient scripture and, like a good angler, dutifully loaded up on a selection of their “must-have” flies. While checking out, I struck up a conversation with a guide, hoping for a nugget of wisdom. He leaned in, lowered his voice, and pointed to a particular fly. “This one’s been killer all week,” he said, as if sharing a classified secret. Hook, line, and sinker—I bought it.

Armed with my newly acquired intel and magical flies, I wandered down to the water’s edge. The first steps into an unfamiliar stream always feel tentative, like meeting a new dance partner. Would she be graceful? Unforgiving? Or perhaps both?

And then, the casting began. Oh, the casting. The next four hours were a blur of fly changes, tangled tippet, and second-guessing every decision I’d made up to that point. The secret flies? Worthless. The “killer” pattern? Apparently, the fish hadn’t gotten the memo.

After hours of fruitless effort, I retreated to the bank for a snack and a moment of self-pity. As I sat there, staring at my fly box, a thought crossed my mind: Why not try one of my own flies? It was a simple pattern, one I’d tied myself, and while it didn’t look as polished as the shop’s flies, it had always brought me luck.

With renewed determination, I crept up to the next pool, tied on my scrappy little creation, and cast. The drift was perfect, the fly bobbing along like it belonged. And then—bam! Fish on! The fight was glorious, the kind of moment that makes you forget every frustration that came before it.

The Moral of the Story

Fly shops are wonderful places, and their flies are undoubtedly effective—sometimes. Guides are skilled professionals, but let’s face it, they’re not about to hand over all their secrets. At the end of the day, though, the real magic lies in trusting your own skills, instincts, and yes, even your own flies.

Because sometimes, the fish don’t care how much you spent or how many tips you got. They just want what they want—and maybe, just maybe, it’s already in your fly box.

Planning the Ultimate Fly Fishing Trip

We all have that dream—standing knee-deep in crystal-clear waters, surrounded by towering peaks or endless meadows, casting into a world-class fly fishing destination. Whether it’s the roaring rivers of Montana, the remote wilds of Patagonia, or the chalk streams of England, the dream itself is intoxicating. But turning it into reality takes more than just a credit card and a few vacation days.

Start by defining what makes the trip special. Is it the iconic waters, the challenge of landing a trophy fish, or simply the adventure of being  somewhere remote and wild? Once you have a vision in mind, research destinations that match. Montana offers legendary trout streams like the Madison and Yellowstone Rivers. Patagonia is famous for its enormous sea-run brown trout, while Iceland boasts pristine rivers teeming with salmon.

Timing is everything. Different fisheries peak at different times of the year. Are you dreaming of the famous salmonfly hatch in the Rockies or the thrill of catching Atlantic salmon during their migration? Look into the best seasons for your chosen destination, taking into account weather conditions and water levels. Planning ahead is essential, as peak fishing often coincides with high demand for guides and lodging.

Budgeting is a key part of making the dream a reality. Factor in the cost of flights, lodging, guide services, equipment rentals, licenses, and meals. Don’t forget hidden expenses like transportation to remote areas, tipping guides, or shipping gear. If traveling internationally, account for currency exchanges and entry fees.

Whether you’re bringing your own gear or renting, preparation is crucial. Make sure your equipment matches the species and conditions you’ll encounter. Traveling anglers often invest in protective rod cases to avoid damage during transit. For international travel, research restrictions on transporting fishing gear and flies—some destinations have strict regulations.

Hiring a local guide can be a game-changer. They bring expertise, knowledge of the waters, and insight into current conditions. Many guides offer everything from day trips to multi-day excursions. Their experience often leads to better success and a richer understanding of the local fishery.

While fishing might be the focus, consider incorporating non-fishing activities into your trip. Exploring local culture, hiking, or simply relaxing can make the experience even more rewarding, especially for any companions who aren’t anglers.

Flexibility is key. Weather can be unpredictable, flights might be delayed, and even the best-prepared plans can change. Keep an open mind, and focus on enjoying the journey rather than obsessing over results. The best stories often come from the unexpected moments—sometimes the ones that didn’t go as planned.

Finally, document the adventure. A waterproof camera or a smartphone in a durable case is perfect for capturing stunning landscapes, fish, and memories with friends. Keeping a journal of your experiences can also add a layer of nostalgia to the trip, allowing you to relive the moments long after you’ve returned home.

A dream fly fishing trip is about more than landing the biggest fish—it’s about connecting with nature, exploring new landscapes, and creating memories that will last a lifetime. Take the first step toward turning that dream into reality, and let the adventure begin.

A New Years Day Dream

Back in the day, about ten years ago, I used to go fly fishing in our local stream, the Carmans. It was a spring creek—no rocks to worry about, just smooth, slippery mud that made walking feel like a bad idea on a good day. Getting there early was a must. If you didn’t, you were stuck with the “leftovers” — the spots no one else wanted because they were either too shallow, too weedy, or just plain cursed by the fishing gods.

I remember the first time I showed up at dawn, feeling like the early bird who was about to catch the worm. I was all set: new rod, fresh flies, and a thermos full of coffee. I took a step into the water, and whoosh—I immediately lost my balance, sending a perfect splash all the way to the other side. I’m pretty sure I startled every fish within a mile radius. But, hey, at least the coffee stayed in the thermos. That’s something, right?

Anyway, once I got my footing, I’d stand there like a statue for hours, trying to look all serious and professional. Meanwhile, the fish were probably laughing at me from below, picking up the bugs I wasn’t casting. Every now and then, I’d feel that familiar tug on the line and think, “This is it! This is my moment!” But no—turns out, it was just some weeds. Fish, 1; me, 0.

Eventually, after what felt like a lifetime of standing still, I’d catch a fish. But it was always the smallest one, the one you couldn’t even brag about. You’d try to act proud, but it was basically just a minnow with a complex. I’d release it with a “Good luck, little buddy!” and then spend the next hour making jokes to myself about how it probably went back to tell the others, “You won’t believe the idiot I just outsmarted.”

Even on those trips where the fish weren’t biting, there was something about the place that kept me coming back. Maybe it was the peace of the creek, or maybe it was just my stubbornness to outwit a fish that was clearly way smarter than I was. Either way, I always left the Carmans with a smile—often from sheer embarrassment, but a smile nonetheless.