The Great Sun Protection Dilemma: A Comedy of Errors

Every summer, I find myself standing in the sunscreen aisle of the local drugstore, paralyzed by indecision. There are more SPF numbers than there are winning lottery combinations. SPF 15? SPF 30? SPF 50? I’m pretty sure I saw SPF 1000 once, which I assume is intended for vampires attempting a beach vacation. Then there’s UPF clothing, which promises to shield me from the sun while making me look like a beekeeper in witness protection.

The experts say sun damage is serious business. My dermatologist practically faints if I mention “just a quick walk outside” without protection. Reactive skin care is expensive—ask me how I know. I’ve had three skin cancers carved off my scalp and face. The scars make me look like I lost a knife fight with a very polite chef. So yes, I take sun protection seriously… even if my methods are slightly ridiculous.

The easiest solution? Avoid the sun entirely. Simple! Just live like a nocturnal raccoon. Unfortunately, society refuses to accommodate my vampire lifestyle. Outdoor events still occur before sunset. Early morning and late evening activities are best—good advice from the wise old fly tier who also apparently moonlights as my life coach. The sun between 9 a.m. and 6 p.m. is an angry ball of fire, and I approach it with the respect it deserves: slathered in zinc, wearing sunglasses that make me look like a discount superhero.

Let’s talk fashion. Baseball caps? Useless. Wide-brim hats? Essential. I own at least six that have all faded to the color of despair, which probably means they’ve retired from active duty. I keep them anyway because throwing them out feels like admitting defeat. Meanwhile, UPF clothing degrades with sunlight, sweat, and washing. So eventually I’m just cosplaying as a sun-safe adventurer while secretly wearing rags that offer the UV protection of tissue paper.

And of course, there’s the nose and ears—prime real estate for the sun’s mischief. Zinc is my war paint. I apply it generously, which leaves me looking like an off-brand lifeguard who got lost on the way to the beach. But hey, I’d rather look like a decorative garden gnome than give my dermatologist another souvenir to remove.

In conclusion: The sun is both friend and foe. It gives us vitamin D and crippling anxiety. My strategy is simple: cover everything, embrace early mornings and late evenings, and accept that I will never look cool in a wide-brimmed hat. But I will keep my ears, thank you very much.

THE RULES

I’ve come to a groundbreaking conclusion about humanity, one that will surely earn me a Nobel Prize in Sociology, or at least a free latte: there are exactly two types of people in this world.

Type A: The Rule Followers. These are the proud, clipboard-carrying souls who read every instruction manual from cover to cover before so much as opening the toolbox. If IKEA made a 400-page novel about their bookshelf, they’d read it twice, annotate the margins, and probably host a book club to discuss Chapter 7: “Proper Use of the Allen Wrench.” Type A folks lay out every screw, washer, and tiny wooden dowel in neat little rows, like they’re preparing for a military inspection. They are the human embodiment of, “measure twice, cut once.”

Then there’s Type B: The Rebels. They look at instructions the way cats look at vacuum cleaners—with suspicion and mild disdain. Why would they read a manual when they have instincts? Directions are for the weak, and besides, how hard could “assemble crib” really be? These are the people who will proudly build the thing backwards, discover they have 47 leftover screws, and call it “modern art.”

Within Type B lies a very special subset: The Improvisational Engineers. These are the folks who assemble first, panic later. They muddle through like confident toddlers with a new puzzle, and when the final product wobbles like a baby giraffe on roller skates, they declare it “good enough.” If it collapses—say, hypothetically, a crib in which an actual baby had been intended to nap—they immediately blame the manufacturer. After all, it couldn’t possibly be user error. 

The world, my friends, is divided cleanly down this line. Type A versus Type B. Manuals versus mayhem. And if you’re wondering which type you are, ask yourself one simple question: Did you read this essay’s instructions first?

Teaching an Old Dog New Tricks

I’ve always believed that learning is a lifelong journey. The end of formal education marks the beginning of genuine learning, which can only be achieved through life experiences. Embracing new things, events, ideas, and interactions with others fosters growth. Resting on past achievements invites disaster, resistance to new ideas, and even disagreement can lead to understanding if we accept them. While we don’t have to agree with everything, accepting different viewpoints, even if they seem repugnant, is crucial for real growth.

Changing someone else’s opinion and mindset is a waste of time and can only create animosity. Toxic individuals who react rather than act proactively should be avoided, not shunned. Surprisingly, common ground exists, even if it’s thin.

Learning a new hobby or skill should be a top priority. It’s not like tying flies; it’s an opportunity for growth and exploration. Try something new! Build a fly rod, learn to braid leaders, identify local flora and fauna (including their Latin binomials), go hiking, and keep a journal documenting your experiences, sights seen, and small discoveries. Life is a vast and ever-changing journey, much like the weather. It experiences seasons of brightness and storms, offering moments of calm and periods of upheaval. Just as weather patterns shift unpredictably, life presents a diverse array of experiences that shape our existence.

The sunny days in life are moments of joy, success, and fulfillment. These are the times when everything feels aligned, and the world seems full of hope and light. We cherish these days because they remind us of the beauty that life can offer. They inspire us to dream, take risks, and embrace the opportunities that come our way.

Life, like the natural cycle of storms and rain, brings its own set of hardships and challenges. These moments of loss, disappointment, and struggle may be difficult, but they are essential for personal growth. Just as rain nourishes the earth, challenges strengthen our character. Without these storms, we would not truly appreciate the sunny days.

Life also has its seasons—spring, summer, autumn, and winter. Each season offers unique lessons. Spring encourages us to plant seeds of ambition, while summer pushes us to thrive and build. Autumn reminds us to let go and embrace change, and winter provides us with the space to pause and prepare for renewal.

Ultimately, life, like the weather, is a constant cycle of transformation. By embracing its unpredictability, we can live fully. By accepting the storms and savoring the sunshine, we can navigate our days with gratitude and resilience, knowing that each moment—bright or dark—contributes to the beauty of the entire journey. 

 

The Lost Kayak of Lower Saint Regis

As a kid, water terrified me. My dad would haul me past the breakers, insisting I float on my back like a blissful otter. I sank like a paranoid rock. Summer camp didn’t help—sure, the watermelon and bug juice were great, but compulsory swimming felt like a slow-motion nightmare. 

Fast-forward to college. I needed PE credit, and my gym instructor—cheerful in that gym teacher sort of way—announced a canoeing class. After we were paired off, I ended up with Art, a lanky kid with a blond afro. Late to the line, we were handed a sleek two-man kayak. Gliding across the lake felt amazing…until Mr. Gym shouted, “Time to swamp your boats!”

Art hissed, “Don’t swamp this thing—it can’t float!” But rules were rules. We flipped, scrambled back in, and got a barked, “DO IT AGAIN, THIS TIME WITH WATER!” The kayak went down like a stone. 

The next week, the National Guard appeared with sonar, scanning the lake like they were hunting Soviet subs. The kayak and Art both vanished—he dropped out, presumably before the bill arrived. I passed the class, though my grade never recovered. Neither did that kayak.

The next week, the National Guard showed up in a helicopter and dropped sonar into the lake, carefully probing the bottom like they were searching for a Russian submarine. This happened multiple times that summer. Probably incorporated into a training exercise. Mr. Gym gave us a passing grade, but not a great grade. We had another class with him, and he stuck with volleyball, basketball, and never mentioned that kayak. Our grade never improved, but I got the credits I needed. Poor Art dropped out after that summer, never to be seen or heard of again. I don’t know if they made him pay for the boat or if Mr. Gym had his pay garnished. He disappeared the following semester, like that, kayak never to be seen again.

The Pond

At the water’s edge, a weathered sign reads “No Fishing,” accompanied by a stark warning: “ALLIGATORS.” This warning alone deters most people, except for the young, reckless, or foolish. Day after day, I find myself irresistibly drawn to this scene, gazing out over the tranquil waters, captivated by the mysteries concealed beneath their surface.

The glassy reflection shatters as rings break, sparking my curiosity. Are they the work of dragonflies or damselflies, gracefully skimming the surface? Perhaps fish, curious and unseen, are the culprits? Occasionally, heads rise and dip again—turtles, I assume—while the unmistakable snout of an alligator glides silently from one shaded resting place to another.

Life flourishes at the water’s edge. A family of ducks cautiously navigates between tangled hiding spots, while sandhill cranes make their way along the shallows, their piercing calls echoing through the air. In the reeds, a lone heron patiently waits, poised and still, ready to seize fish, snake, or anything else that promises a meal. Here, danger and beauty coexist in perfect stillness, a wild ballet that unfolds regardless of whether anyone is observing.

I’ve spent many a sunrise gazing at that pond. It wasn’t exactly what I envisioned for my retirement, especially the no-fishing rule. However, I’ve learned to find joy in what I have. I spent many years exploring salt marshes and camping on the shores of trout ponds. I do miss those experiences, but I’ve come to appreciate the present moment and the beauty that surrounds me. 

America’s Love Affair with… Buying Stuff We Don’t Need

America’s greatest love story isn’t between Romeo and Juliet—it’s between us and our shopping carts. From the moment we can hum a jingle, we’re recruited into the cult of “limited-time offers.” I still remember that Camel cigarette ad proudly declaring, “I’d walk a mile for a Camel.” I couldn’t walk a block without my mom dragging me into a store for a “can’t miss sale” on decorative throw pillows we didn’t need.

Fast-forward to the internet era, and we’ve evolved from innocent TV jingle victims to professional click-happy shopaholics. I once clicked an ad for a “smart banana peeler” at 3 a.m.—and bought it. Why? Because the ad told me I deserved the life-changing experience of peeling fruit like a high-tech ninja.

Our national pastime isn’t baseball; it’s panic-buying stuff we swear is an “investment.” The cherry on top? We fund our spree with credit cards, then refinance our houses to pay off those cards, and then somehow end up buying more stuff to celebrate paying off those cards. It’s like a hamster wheel powered by impulse buys and two-day shipping.

We aren’t hooked on drugs—we’re addicted to the dopamine hit of a package arriving. And as long as there’s a “limited edition glow-in-the-dark garden gnome” out there, America’s love affair with buying things we don’t need will remain stronger than ever.

An Epic Warning of Our Future

Firstly, we are all going to die someday—yes, even you, Gary. And if we’re not careful, that day might come sooner than later. Picture this: you’re stepping into a peaceful river, enjoying nature, and then—whoops—you discover your legs have filed for early retirement over a hidden ledge. Or maybe you’re gazing lovingly at your phone while driving, swiping through cat videos, and poof, gone! Nature has no chill. The moral? Common sense isn’t optional—it’s a survival subscription you can’t cancel.

Secondly, those trout we love are packing their tiny fish suitcases. We need to throw politics into the compost bin and actually commit to real conservation. The guy in the air-conditioned ivory tower sipping an iced latte doesn’t get it, but climate change is auditioning to be the planet’s new landlord. Denying it won’t save your fishing trips—or your grandkids’ summers. Sure, maybe you’ll dodge the apocalypse, but your grandchildren might be grilling algae instead of trout.

Thirdly, clean renewable energy isn’t just a “nice-to-have.” Wind and solar are free, which is the kind of math I like. But we’re not talking about powering a Bitcoin mining dungeon or an AI server that writes bad poetry. This is about keeping the lights on and your EV humming. And yes, you can stop fretting about charging stations—most of us drive less than 40 miles a day. Home charging is cheaper than dropping $5 a gallon at the pump. With minimal planning, your biggest road trip stress will go back to its rightful place: deciding which gas station has the best snacks.

Fourth and finally, AI is here, and it’s basically the intern of your dreams—except it never calls in sick or eats your leftovers. Let AI handle the mundane stuff so you can spend more time fishing, hiking, or just staring meaningfully at trees like a woodland philosopher. Life is short. Get outside, soak up some sunlight, and remember: you can’t catch trout through a Zoom meeting.

The End—Now go touch grass!

Quality over quantity: Is it worth paying more for better?

I remember when I used to grab the cheapest stuff I could find, thinking I was saving money. One year, I got a pair of wading boots and waders that seemed like a steal. But, within a month, the soles started peeling off, and I was wading around in wet pants and socks. I brushed it off and bought another cheap pair, only to have the same problem over and over.

This wasn’t just about waders. My budget fly line broke apart and tore in a few weeks, and the bargain rain jacket I bought got me soaked after the first rain. That cheap rod snapped on the third cast. Even though I told myself I was being smart, I realized I was constantly replacing the same items.

Finally, I decided to change my approach. I saved up for a good rain jacket. It felt strong and comfy, and I really looked forward to wearing it. Years later, that jacket is still in my closet, while all the cheap ones have disappeared.

This experience taught me a simple but lasting lesson: buying cheap often means paying more in the long run. Investing in quality saves me time, money, and frustration—so now I always choose quality over quantity.

Oops! Maybe I need to take my own advice! My leaf blower is a cheap battery device. After all, I just need it to blow off the lanai and garage floor. So, the rechargeable battery died, stopped charging. I couldn’t find a replacement anywhere. So, I ordered another cheap blower. Maybe I should spend a few bucks more and get a better one. The work it does might be small, but it’s really important. 

Why It Sometimes Matters, Even If Only for You

There are moments in life that may appear insignificant to others, yet hold profound significance for you alone. Sharing them might seem trivial, and the world may dismiss them, but these experiences are the threads that weave your unique personal narrative.

Memories of childhood, lessons learned from mistakes, or victories that went unnoticed by others matter because they shape who you are today. Even if the world has moved on, recalling the day you overcame a fear or the time a simple gesture changed your perspective reinforces your own growth and development.

Sometimes, it matters simply because it reminds you that your life is yours to cherish. Even if no one else recognizes their value, these moments are the silent foundations of your journey, providing a sense of purpose and fulfillment.

Living in the Tidal Zone

My life has been intricately intertwined with the tides. From a young age, time was measured by the rhythmic ebb and flow of the ocean. The tides dictated my days, from the first light of dawn to the quiet embrace of dusk. In the tidal zone, life is a constant dance of adaptation, as creatures find their place in the ever-shifting balance between land and sea. Barnacles cling stubbornly to rocks, while crabs scuttle into pools that form and vanish with the changing tides. I’ve learned to decipher the language of water, to sense the subtle shifts in current and salt, and to understand that patience and resilience are the keys to thriving in this in-between world.

Every low tide unveiled hidden treasures—shells, seaweed, and the fleeting shadows of fish darting across shallow pools. High tide, on the other hand, carried a sense of mystery, as if the ocean was reclaiming its secrets. Living in the tidal zone means embracing both change and constancy, finding a home in the place where the sea and the earth endlessly negotiate their boundary.

The changing tides dictated my fishing trips. Sometimes, I had to fight the tides, battling them both to get my catch. It was a funny thing—no matter which direction I headed, the wind, the tide’s companion, conspired to work against me. My arms would ache as I reached deeper into the water, trying to generate more power in each stroke. I’d sit there, stoically murmuring to myself, “STROKE, STROKE, STROKE!” trying to keep my canoe on course despite the wind’s relentless push. It was a fool’s errand at times, trying to paddle my old canoe snugly seated in the stern seat as the wind pushed the bow around like a piece of paper being blown down a street. I once lost my hat to a gust of wind, last seen heading downstream to Philadelphia from the upper reaches of the West Branch. 

Another foolish endeavor was attempting to fly fish from a kayak. Casting anything in the slightest breeze was comical. A fish would rise, and the wind would propel you yards away. Most of my success came from trolling a couple of weighted streamers or a couple of nymphs, letting the wind push the canoe along. The key was getting the flies down. Fishing at dusk was the best time, and bringing a headlamp was a lifesaver. Time on a pack country trout pond has a way of slipping by. The dusk and afterglow in twilight are deceiving. Look around, and suddenly it’s night, and the only way I could tell was the bats had replaced the swallows and mayflies. 

A new YouTube video is almost completed: "The Pond" @tomfishing66

Have You Ever Wondered Why?

 Names are given to rivers, lakes, mountains and bugs! Take the humble hellbender, what did it do to get such a name, and the humble and graceful mayfly. The answer seems simple, but other than mountains, rivers and lakes plants and bugs are often mistakenly called by their common names. The real names are a set of binomial based on latin or latinized words. The binomial usually refer to a trait, color, or pattern often associated with them. Mountains, lakes and river often are named after the last person who thinks they were the first to lay eyes on it. Often the aboriginal names are tossed to the wayside. So this being the Month of May, enjoy the mayflies or whatever they're called. Cinco de mayo, you'll.

Passages

His fingers, worn from years of use, twitch as he mends and retrieves. He works the fly over and over, just like yesterday and the day before. Fishing has become a job, a place to report every morning, punching in and out day after day. Has it lost its magic? Grumbling and calling it a day, he takes that familiar walk back to the car and drives home.

Magic lost! Seems like a job? Watching him pass by, I could see the tired expression of a man who has grown old too soon. Thinking that could be me one day, I thought about my own routine. I fish every day, the same river, the same pool, the same fly. Was I a burnout doing the one thing I loved to do? My life revolved around fishing, making flies, and the realization that I missed so many birthdays, graduations, concerts, get-togethers. To my family, I was a stranger.

Over the years, I used to take long breaks from fishing. Careers, children, new homes, new pets, and job transfers meant the nearest trout stream was far away. I survived, and when the opportunity arose, I turned fishing into an epic adventure. Not that I needed to go to Patagonia or Alaska; sometimes, the best fishing is where you are.

Evolution of a Fly Fisher

Man was never meant to live on bread alone—and anyone who’s spent time staring into moving water knows that truth settles in deeper than most scripture. Work fills the day, sure, but it’s the quiet pursuits that give it meaning. For some, that anchor comes in the form of a river bend, a cast line, and the faint hope of something unseen rising from below.

Fishing didn’t begin as poetry. It started simple. A hand line off a worn dock. A cane pole, a length of cord, a bobber, and a worm borrowed from the garden. Nothing refined—just patience, and the slow education of stillness. Hours slipped by watching that bobber hesitate against the surface, each small movement carrying the promise of life beneath. Every missed strike taught restraint. Every success felt earned.

As a younger man, I developed a healthy fixation on trout. Not so much the catching of them—that comes and goes—but the figuring. The fly rod only made matters worse, turning a mild curiosity into a full-blown appetite for doing things the hard way, on purpose.

The perfect trout pond I’d read about years ago finally became real. I paddled it, let the line drift, and landed a rainbow worth remembering. The quiet of that pond at dawn, the long, forgiving sunsets settling over the water, and the air thick with mayflies—it all felt less like a place I’d found and more like one I’d finally arrived at.

Fishing, at its core, has always been a conversation between hunger and ingenuity. Early man shaped hooks from bone and twisted lines from vine, driven by necessity. Over time, those crude tools evolved alongside us. Canoes carved from fallen trees carried anglers farther from shore. Fire and stone gave way to refinement, and survival slowly made room for something else—curiosity, even reverence.

As the burden of survival eased, so too did the urgency behind the cast. Fishing became less about feeding the body and more about feeding something quieter, harder to name. The fish remained elusive, but the pursuit itself grew into ritual. What was once necessity became intention.

And somewhere along that long arc—from bone hooks to feathered flies—a different kind of fisherman emerged. Not one chasing meals, but moments.

Fish or Cut Bait (Heaven Prohibit)

Is this an adage or an idiom? More like, don’t catch fish and go tie more flies. In a few days, the season will open up in the great north (north of here), and thousands of hopeful candidates will rush to the waters in a relentless pursuit of stocked trout. Yes, those misaligned refugees from a hatchery and without a home in their native waters to fall back on. Mostly near natives like the trusty brown trout or the west coast refugees like the sleek rainbow. The true natives are holed up in small pockets spread thin across the Appalachian Mountains, Adirondacks, Green or White Mountains up into New England and the Maritimes of eastern Canada.

Please note I’ve labeled brown trout as a near native, based on my theory that sometime ago, sea-run browns did populate our rivers like their distant cousin, the Atlantic salmon. They go together like ham and eggs. Browns follow salmon upstream to feed on the abundant eggs and fry that eventually emerge. Why they disappeared is anyone’s guess, but logic suggests that overfishing by European settlers decimated the populations of all salmonoids in the New World.

So, on opening day, some will plod along, chasing the elusive stockies, and spend the next few days racking up the numbers and bragging to all who are in earshot, “You shoulda been there! It was like knocking off cans at a shooting gallery!” or some similar adage or idiom.

Little Sailboats

Sitting at the vise, he felt that familiar itch. He envisioned March browns, Hendricksons, Tan caddis, drakes, and spinners. With a debarred hook in the vise, mental notes and the order of operations flowed from memories of thousands of previous flies and patterns. Never consulting a reference manual, he tied on the perfect hue of thread, took a half dozen barbules of wood duck, a pinch of dubbing of the right color, and began to create magic. Now, two hackles measured and tied in. The wings, made from the same wood duck tips, were even and carefully centered over the thorax and tied in. He ensured there was no excess thread to bulk up the body and that the eye was not crowded. With care, he placed the hackle tips in his pliers and spun them behind and in front of the eye. A few wraps of thread and three turns of the whip completed the creation. Finally, he snipped off excess materials and prepared another one for the box.

Mayflies duns, sitting in the film, float leisurely as they need time to dry their wings. They are both beautiful and vulnerable. Little sailboats come to mind, their journey from egg to adult nearing its climax when hungry trout sip them as they drift by. What appears to be wholesale slaughter is simply the rhythm of life. A few escape, perform the mating dance at dusk, and lay eggs for the next generation. This ritual has been unbroken for thousands of years. Little sailboats amuse me like many others before me and many more after I am gone. It’s a beautiful reminder of the circle of life.

Opening Day

I woke up in the chilly, early morning, my eyes landing on an old calendar with just one day circled in red. I brewed a mug of hot coffee and sat at the kitchen table, lost in thought. Had I cleaned my line? Would those old waders hold up another season? And would I have enough gas to make it there and back? I grabbed a sandwich I’d made the night before and gave everything a final check, then it was time to go. My old wagon had seen better days, and it burned oil and squeaked as it headed down the road. Surely, he wouldn’t sneak up on them!

The trail to the river was long and, in the darkness, it seemed endless. Now, be careful, it was a treacherous place for a fall. Ruin my day! Damn, I had left my glasses in the car, but the river called to him. Step by step, plodding along in my old waders, I tried not to catch the rod tip on an errant tree limb. Be careful there. Vest full of fly boxes, filled over the years, and tools jangled on their keepers.

It was a cold morning, typical of early spring. Why so early? The trout wouldn’t wake up until 10 or 11. Still standing at the edge of the tree line,  peering into the water, hoping to catch a glimpse of a riser and at least one fish that was awake.

My first cast of the season, he swung a wet fly weighted to run deep, bumping just above the bottom, waiting for that telltale tug. They say the tug is the drug that all fishermen seek—a high unsurpassed by any other. Methodically, I worked the pool down and across, short and long, taking a step downstream and repeating the process over and over, waiting for the tug.

Resisting the urge to pile on more casts,  took a rest and  enjoying the early morning light. Birds sang, and deer ran through the woods behind them. Suddenly, that tug…

Awaken that Inner Spirit

Time and tide are relentless, and we can only step into the same river once. Death and taxes are inevitable, as we all know or should have heard. It’s easy to preach from my comfortable chair, as I won’t have to shovel any snow today. Instead, I’ll spend the day watching videos about my favorite subject. Those glorious days of our youth, when we would shovel our way to some walking money, are long gone. It’s time to hire someone to do the work. If you have to use the snowblower and take your time, no rush. Missing work? You’ll miss a lot more than work if you have to shovel. Hey, spring will be here soon enough, so relax and enjoy the season. Meanwhile, I sit here under layers of zinc, enjoying a beautiful Florida day. 

The Elegance of Angling

 The sepia-toned photographs of the turn of the century depict anglers dressed casually, reflecting the early 20th century. They wore collared starched white shirts, tweed jackets, or corduroy, paired with riding breeches and hobnailed footwear. This era predates synthetic waders, and wet wading or casting from the banks was the norm. Anglers didn’t rush; they sat on the riverbank, enjoying cucumber sandwiches and sipping hot tea while watching for rising fish. Wet flies were the preferred choice, swung in rhythm through the current. When hatches began, dry flies were tied on, but only after careful examination of the hatch. Bamboo rods, silk lines, and horsehair tippets were the epitome of fly fishing. I believe we’ve lost the art of fly fishing in our pursuit of quantity over quality or the desire for trophies. No catch and release was practiced, as these photographs captured the essence of a successful day on the river. Today, we face a similar challenge: an overabundance of fishermen, overly simplistic techniques, and the fish becoming mere commodities rather than beautiful creatures.

How many anglers dress up for a day on the river? Most of us, with coffee in hand and bleary eyes, crawl behind the wheel and head down the road, heading to our secret spot. We tug on our waders and lace up the boots, but then we turn around after a minute, thinking, “Did we lock up our car?” Racing back in fear that all our goodies have disappeared, we hope it’s not true. We find everything is fine, except we left our fly boxes on the front seat. Panic ensues as we race to that secret spot, hoping no one else is there.

The secret spot, renowned among anglers for its long-standing reputation and popularity, has witnessed a decline in exploration. The honey hole, a cherished fishing destination from spring stocking until the end of the season, has become a short walk away for most anglers. During my recent visit, I stumbled upon a hidden gem that many would overlook. Surprisingly, I caught a few fish there, which was quite satisfying.

We quickly slip into the flow and make a few sloppy casts, either snagging a branch or catching the bottom. Either way, a fly is lost in the first few seconds. Now, panic is in full swing as fish start to steadily rise just out of reach. We pick out a good fly and immediately drop it, watching agape as it sinks out of sight. The rest of the session is as bad. Soon, company arrives. They look calm and refreshed, seemingly knowledgeable that there was no rush. They took the time to clean up, comb what little hair is left, put on some clean clothes, and eat breakfast early, no need to gulp down coffee as they drive. Their arrival was timed to the morning hatch, and they didn’t waste time or unproductive casting. They caught their fill.

I followed the angler back to the cars and watched as he systematically put his gear away. He changed his boots into a pair of brogans and carefully slipped into a sports coat, adjusting the knot of his tie. He commented that he’d be back for the evening hatch after work. I sat on the tailgate of my pickup truck, my hat hair standing as testimony to my lack of preparation. That was me a few years ago, getting in an hour of fishing and spending my day earning a living.

Standing on a Mountain Pass and looking South

High on a mountain pass outside Tucson, the saguaro cacti were thick for miles. How can anyone survive there? I imagined the hundreds of skeletons hidden in the landscape and the thousands of mice living off those bones. It’s crazy!The inhospitable landscape appears lifeless. However, I know better; with some rain, it will come alive. The sight of cactus stretching into Mexico makes many arguments seem trivial and spiteful.

The Sonoran Desert extends further west, the Mojave Desert to the north and west, and the Great Basin to the north, extending into Utah, Nevada, New Mexico, and Colorado. I’ve visited all of them, but I enjoyed the Mojave the most, with the Joshua trees standing out like giant figures. I missed the tarantula mating season on that visit; I imagined tens of thousands of those arachnids running down the park roads. Creepy, but cool.

In the Sonoran Desert, I went looking for rattlesnakes, but they’re reclusive and only found paloverde trees, creosote trees, and wild blooms in bloom from recent rains. 

The Mojave showed me what flash floods mean when water surged down the arroyo formed by dry creek beds outside the airport in Palm Springs. Amongst the green of the fairways pockmarked in the desert landscape, resorts with happy tourist basking in the desert winter splashing in the pools and hitting some golf balls with abandon. 

Creatures large and mostly small living by the sunbaked locals and tourist. Oblivious to each other, one looking for some warm and recreation, while the other is just trying to survive. Everything is in bloom with a recent rainfall and at the resorts, irrigation heads peek out of the ground wasting that most precious of all, water. Golfers on course, the spa is doing box office business for those seeking health and renewal. A yoga class is in full swing folks getting those kinks out in bodies long since stiff and achey. And I taking it all in sitting neck high in a heated pool.  Nature is awe-inspiring.

Loss of Quality

Recent news stories have been flooding my inbox about the decline of flagship outdoor brands. Orvis is closing a significant number of stores, REI is reducing member benefits, LLBean is changing its marketing strategies, Dick’s is closing stores and going bankrupt, and the latest addition to this mess is Eddie Bauer’s bankruptcy.

The decline of these brands is attributed to increased costs due to tariffs and venture capitalists buying and selling assets to maximize profits. Orvis, a family business, admitted that tariffs have severely impacted them. The sad news has affected Simms, which was bought by an investor group and immediately outsourced the manufacture of its waders from the US, resulting in poor quality. Perhaps the decline in the quality of our favorite products is a sign of the decline in our country’s economic status.

However, one brand stands out: Patagonia. Yvon Chouinard is uncompromising and stands for what we all believe in—preservation of public lands, clean air, and free-flowing wild rivers. Patagonia now reinvests in preservation rather than profit for profit’s sake. It’s time for us to stand up for what truly matters.

Let the wild river flow clean and dam free!

Lines to Leader Attachments

Getting the leader onto the end of your fly line involves some intricate procedures. Various tools, techniques, and tried-and-true methods exist. The oldest method is the nail knot, which effectively captures the fly line with a complex maneuver. The leader is wrapped around the fly line, and a tool or common nail is used to leave an opening to finish the knot. Once cinched and finished, it forms a usable attachment. However, this method has its drawbacks. The leader needs to be removed due to wear and tear, and the end of the fly line is cut, revealing the limitations of this approach.

Another method is to weld a permanent loop onto the fly line using a stout piece of leader material, typically 8-12 inches long. The end of the leader is formed into a perfect loop. Since most premade leaders come with a loop on the butt end, a loop-to-loop connection can be made. Flexible loop connectors, resembling Chinese fingers, are used to place over the line. These devices are fed over the line to capture it, and a small piece of heat shrink is used to keep the connector in place. Caution is advised when using an open flame; a hair dryer is a better alternative. As with all types of connectors, regular visual inspections are necessary, and if in doubt, replacement is recommended. 

A few essential knots every angler should know are the nail knot, double surgeon knot, blood knot, Davy knot, improved clinch, and perfection loop. While you don’t need to master every knot, it’s crucial to learn the ones you use daily. Practice until you can tie them even in the dark and blindfolded. Remember, conditions are never perfect, so take your time and don’t rush. After every fish, always test the knot used to attach your fly.

Ice On My Guides

Winter has undoubtedly arrived in all the lower 48 states. Even in Florida, known for its sunshine and stubbornness, the weather has turned cold. One of my neighbors yelled through his hurricane glass window, exclaiming, “You’re crazy! I’m not going out there!” Walking my dogs during bad weather is a mission statement, and someone has to do it! So, I’ve been elected to brave the cold, dark mornings. I don my down parka, wool hat, and Gore-Tex gloves to face the freezing temperatures of the Florida winter. It’s definitely not for the faint of heart.

This brings me back to a time in my silviculture class (not civics) when ninety of us brave souls embarked on a snowshoeing adventure onto a small frozen pond. The ice began to tilt due to the unbalanced weight of our group. We were instructed not to go near the inlet or outlet (I bet you didn’t know ponds had such things) and instead, walk to a safe edge up a small hill to observe some trees growing in a bog. The tips of my ears froze that day, and they still ache now. 

Later that year, after the ice began to recede, I caught some beautiful brook trout. I constantly knocked the ice off my guides, knowing that if I waited for a warmer day, the thrill of standing in the cold and casting to areas of open water teeming with hungry trout would be lost.

In the northern country, the term “ice out” is used to describe the sudden urge to go fishing in the cold early spring days. People could be heard having hushed conversations about which pond was shedding its ice, as if it were a state secret. Knowledge was quietly shared in low voices, but soon the secret was out, and next thing you know, city folk showed up and ruined the party.

One part of the ice out is the spring turnover, a term used to describe the winds that cause the pond, which had been heavily stratified over the winter, to break up. This breaks up the layers, allowing oxygen to be spread evenly throughout the water column. This brings much joy to both the trout and the fishermen.

No Quit in This Old Dog

Little is known about truly important matters. Truth often disguises itself as opinion supported by limited facts. Facts are subjective and can vary from person to person. I’ve come to realize that only a few things truly matter. However, it’s important to remember that what may be important to me might not be your cup of tea. As I’ve been writing this blog for over a decade, I do so as an outlet for myself. If you find something valuable, even if it’s just a passing amusement, that’s fine by me. I have a small audience and don’t actively seek to reach a wider audience. At one point, early in its history, I did reach a few countries worldwide My goals were limited and I have exceeded them by a mile.

The year of fallen colleagues concluded in early December with the passing of a friend and fellow arborist. I last saw him at a meeting in Clearwater a couple of years ago. Although he was still energetic, he appeared older and seemed slower. He continued to live his best life, traveling the world, rowing his shell across Seneca Lake, and cultivating a large garden that yielded an abundant harvest. The circumstances surrounding his passing remain unknown to me, but I will miss seeing his posts from exotic locations or his meals made with his homegrown produce.

Recently, I read that our genetics determine our lifespan, implying that whatever we do will not extend it. However, I firmly reject this concept. After all, we are the captains of our own ships, and we chart our own courses. Therefore, never give up!