I got skunked, just to get that out of the way. Timing a springtime pike bite is hard enough when you currently live five hours from the spot and will only get one morning because you’re not actually there to fish. It becomes even more technical (fly shop lingo for “probably not worth your time”) …
These colder months are no reason to stop exploring. Here’s what I’ve been up to as the season begins to slow.
One of the best parts of any all-consuming passion is getting to know people who share the same interests, but I’ll throw my very biased opinion in the ring for fishing relationships being some of the best.
There was an unspoken agreement, unprotested by either of us and confirmed by Jack’s lay into the throttle: We were going for it.
The air temperatures were measuring in the single digits, and in the back of my mind I knew this was the coldest weather I’d ever fished in.
Small interactions and discoveries on painfully slow days are the kinds of things that remind you to stay locked in as an angler.
I prepared to revamp my hunt for some local bass. There was just one mission in the salt I had to complete first.
The clouds lifted as we walked up to the first pond, and the brightened shallows of the mud flat before us were suddenly alive with dozens of waking dark shapes.
There’s an endless supply of rivers and coastline around this place, an inspirational mess of water to pick apart. Sounds like a fun project to me.
Anglers and trout are both masters of efficiency, and have an uncanny skill to survive and thrive on as little as possible.