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A couple of Decembers ago, during an unstructured and very unfishy few days in Scandinavia, I stopped in at a local fly shop. The owner was Swedish—a fact that does little more than provide the context...

What truly gave me chills was the snap I’d heard as we’d gone down—the give of something that wasn’t supposed to go. 

As I gather my line from around the rocks, clean off my deceiver, and start casting into the deep again, I have the feeling that the stop would have been worth it regardless. 

There’s an allure to the things we cannot have, one that I’ve found can sour quickly when fishing is involved.