As soon O’Kelley and I turned into Bennett Spring State Park, we were in a foreign land. We had gone to the park with great hopes, having heard accounts of the place’s beauty, tales of strong trout jumping from the spring river at well-cast dry flies, and of the relaxing…
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My Uncle Phil is the world’s worst fisherman. His fishing is nearly always a production closer to moving into a new house or conquering a continent than taking in a breeze. He carries three or four rods of differing lengths and two heavy tackle boxes. After he’s baited, strung, checked,…
Leave a CommentIt might be a tough weekend, I thought. O’Kelley and I were good together. Each of us knew what the other was capable of, what each of us needed to get out of the woods. Inviting someone else into that could make everything different, screw up the rhythms we’d established,…
Leave a CommentWilliams the Australian looked like a kid—skinny and playful. He looked a lot younger than he was. He possessed a heavy Aussie accent and bull-like determination. We stood at a crook in the trail that led up the side of a rocky mountain-ish hill. He was happy, intrigued by the…
Leave a CommentFor the next few days, I am publishing some very short, memoir-ish travel tales that have been swimming around my files for years. They aren’t necessarily about trout fishing though our hero goes trout fishing in them. Together, they form an odd, little book. I hope you like them. This…
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