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Stories
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Written by Michael Stevenson
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Monday, 29 December 2008 15:37 |
Here it was, the last Saturday in September and George was again getting ready to meet Sam for the day, fishing Simpson's Creek for wild brook trout. "How do these darn traditions start anyway?" he thought. "Sam and I have fished Simpson's Creek every year on the last Saturday in September for 15 years, and never caught a fish over 9", but we still turn up regular as clockwork".
George knew Sam would arrive ahead of him, he always did. He gave a little snort thinking about the number of times he had heard Sam say "You gotta get up early to fool the big ones". But George liked a leisurely breakfast with Mary, his wife, and he knew those wild brookies didn't care what time he showed up, they would still be hungry.
"Thinking about fishing already?" Mary's voice interrupted his reminiscing.
"Have I got a sign on my forehead?" George smiled. Mary knew him too well sometimes, that was one of the things he loved about her.
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Last Updated ( Monday, 29 December 2008 15:40 )
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A Change of Seasons in Virginia |
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Stories
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Written by Greg Holland
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Wednesday, 26 November 2008 14:56 |
 From my childhood, I remember the changes from summer to fall and then from fall to winter. Maybe it’s just my faded memory, but those changes always seemed to happen just as you’d expect; they had a predictable rhythm. The leaves on the trees turned the same colors at about the same time. School was in session and you were finally adjusted to new teachers and schedules. Football season was in full swing, whether it was playing YMCA flag football or rooting for the Hilltoppers down at Sullivan Field.
When I was even younger, it really started the day the Sears Christmas catalog arrived in the mailbox. Sometime near the beginning of August, I began a daily trek down the driveway to look in the mailbox to see if it had arrived. For a couple of years, my companion on these driveway trips was our cat Spike. Sometimes he followed me, playfully darting back and forth on some adventure like a dog would do (he thought he was a dog, making him history's coolest cat), while at other times he’d rub on my legs and purr, tripping me all the way to the street. |
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Last Updated ( Monday, 29 December 2008 15:40 )
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Stories
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Written by Michael Stevenson
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Tuesday, 07 October 2008 09:57 |
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The minute George saw the river, his blood pressure and heart rate went up. The Thomas River was a freestone stream fed by the mountain snows and spring rains. There had been a fresh about a week ago and, while the river was still dropping, this morning it was clear and flowing just a bit above normal. The run was the sort to haunt the dreams of every fly fisher from Bangor to LA. The main current was hard against the far bank with a wide fan of water bubbling down into the eye. George just knew there was a big fish in there under that rippling surface. It was perfect. Everything was so right George 'knew' it was going to be one of those rare great days no one really believes you when you tell them about it. As he rigged up, George chuckled thinking how he felt like a little kid and then thought how great it was after all these years of fishing he could still feel like a little kid. He couldn't remember tying on a fly but the next thing knew his first drift was gliding through the feeding lane. The drift lasted only three feet when there was a terrific hit and a massive fish took off down the river. Suddenly his rod was flying out of his hand. With a shout he lunged and fell..... |
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Last Updated ( Friday, 17 October 2008 08:19 )
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Stories
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Written by Len Harris
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Thursday, 21 August 2008 11:28 |
 I really need to give some history to this story before I get to the actual story. Two springs ago we had a huge flood in the southwest part of Wisconsin. Most of the streams were dramatically effected by this flood. Many streams were widened and others had holes where there were never any.
The water finally receded and I decided to go look at my streams to see if any of them were fishable. Most of the bigger streams were still chocolate milk. I decided to take a look at a couple of my brookie streams. I remembered one stream in particular that I had been fishing with a friend at a huge beaver dam. The beaver dam was still intact.
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Last Updated ( Thursday, 21 August 2008 11:50 )
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Stories
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Written by Bob White
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Friday, 18 July 2008 15:53 |
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Hope is a waking dream
Aristotle
 Ten-year-old Jake preferred to sleep on the back porch, which overlooked the South Branch. From his place there he could hear, but not see the river as it wound it's way around the tight bend below the cabin, through the W.A. Hole, and past the Oxbow Club, where it eventually joined the Main Branch just above Connor's Flats.
He liked to lay in the dark, listen to the water, and remember the fish he'd caught. Each one was a triumph and it's memory a treasure. He was afraid to forget even one of them because it might be lost forever. He hoarded these memories by reliving each catch; where he had stood, and cast a certain fly. He recalled where the fish had come from, and run to, and in the end, how the trout always seemed like a jewel in his hands.
The very first had been a small brook trout, in perfect proportion to the boy, and he knew that he'd never forget how it felt when he let it slip back into the water, or the wonderfully clean and wild scent it left on his hands.
Today's image is a little jewel of an oil painting. "" show's Jakes first fish just seconds before it's release. |
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Last Updated ( Wednesday, 26 November 2008 15:41 )
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