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Summer, or whatever you want to call the cool uncool monsoon season we just experienced, is almost done.
In my home, and I suspect in yours too, we have a prohibition against waste, a sense that a fish killed then poorly cooked, or allowed to spoil, is a fish that has died in vain. Wasting a fish that has such an important role to play in the river environment is more than a shame, it’s a sin.
I resumed reading David Schindler’s article, The Boiling Point, while waiting for a my turn to urinate in a small jar after having some of my blood sucked out of an artery in my arm.
I was in the medical lab, sent there by the doctor as part of my yearly physical, when I realized I’d forgotten to bring some reading material
It’s Sunday. There are white gauze curtains in the draws and ravines nearest the mountain tops.
Jim calls to ask if I’ve heard that there are plans to log Baxter’s. I tell him I haven’t, that I’m shocked, and that this kind of BS has just got to stop.
On the way back from Smithers last week, Karen and I decided to pay a visit to the Clay homestead in the Kispiox Valley.
One of the reasons I don’t buy fishing magazines anymore is because they are full of fishing porn, the most ubiquitous form being the infamous Grip and Grin, those tedious portraits of fishermen flashing their teeth as they hoist an exhausted fish aloft.
A couple arrives home. They enter through the front door. As they…
Some winters are like a winter cold that catches you on the blind side, knocks you down for a few days then seems to go, leaving a slight malaise to remember it by.
Karen and I were out for some exercise and to see how…
T he more closely Harold watched Faye fish the Cottonwoods Run, the more convinced he became of the deliberation and design in Ira’s craft. Every movement was precise and rooted in necessity. Thin and bent and accurate, Faye looked like a giant wading bird prowling the margin of the stream.
Harold rapped on the screen door. A raspy voice came from inside.
The glowing red letters on the digital clock read 6:15. Harold had seen a lot of changes in his eighty-one years, and this was a good one. He didn’t need the tick of an old alarm clock to mark the passage of time. There were more pleasant reminders: the change of the colours in the Kispiox Valley was one, the return of the steelhead another.