Will climbed up the mountain path and out of the canyon. He walked through the back door and into the old sunroom to sit at his grandfather’s wooden desk. He paused in thought and then put pencil to paper.

When he’d finished, he looked up through the sunroom glass toward the fading orange October daylight. Will walked to the porch and felt the cool stone under his feet as he scanned the landscape of his life.

The rooster crowed before dawn . . .

Continue reading I’ve lived, and I’ve left some good things here . . . that is enough at Troutbitten.

Hundreds of times Aiden has snagged the bottom, pulled the rod back, and either asked me if that was a fish or has told me flatly, "I think that was a fish."  This time, he finally experienced the certainty that a couple of good head shakes from a trout will give you . . .

Continue reading Aiden’s First Brown Trout at Troutbitten.

Will climbed up the mountain path and out of the canyon. He walked through the back door and into the old sunroom to sit at his grandfather’s wooden desk. He paused in thought and then put pencil to paper.

When he’d finished, he looked up through the sunroom glass toward the fading orange October daylight. Will walked to the porch and felt the cool stone under his feet as he scanned the landscape of his life.

The rooster crowed before dawn . . .

Continue reading I’ve lived, and I’ve left some good things here . . . that is enough at Troutbitten.

My story, Thirty-Inch Liars, is over at Hatch Magazine today. Here are a few excerpts….. — — — — — — — — — — … I once read through a publication that printed, “Thirty-inch wild trout are common in this stretch of water.” Now, I don’t care what river in the continental United States you […]

Continue reading Thirty-Inch Liars at Troutbitten.

The sky seemed as though it may fall to the ground with the weight of so many stars. With no city lights on the horizon, no clouds, and no trees or mountains blocking the beauty, I saw the big sky undressed for the first time in my life.

. . . I sat on the roof for a while, then laid back, lying flat with my arms stretched out to the sides, using my body as an extra receiver to take in what my insufficient eyes might miss . . .

Continue reading The Ladder and the Sky at Troutbitten.

My Dad and I have often visited a campsite in the same remote spot atop a state forest mountain for almost fifteen years now. The spring trip is a four or five day event focused on fishing for wild brown trout in the limestone waters at the bottom of the mountain, and through the years we’ve […]

Continue reading Spring Camp With Two Boys | 2016 at Troutbitten.

My story, The Kid, is over at Hatch Magazine today.  Here are a couple excerpts… — — — — — — — — — — … The kid was ten years old and small for his age, but his legs were strong and he waded without fear. He fished hard. We shared a passion and a singular focus, […]

Continue reading The Kid at Troutbitten.

It was constructed by four muscular hands over two days and with one purpose -- to float. Built to the specs of intricate line drawings printed on rough paper, the boat came to match the blueprints ordered from an ad in the back of a Popular Science magazine.

The builders used it for two seasons, and then it sat. The boat collected rain and bred microscopic life, providing food for mosquitoes and midge larva which hatched in their own time and fed the swallows nesting in the rafters of a nearby farmhouse turned post-war residence.

Year after year the boat sat, unused, lonely and forgotten.

Then it was sold -- bartered actually -- for enough groceries to fill one large brown bag. The hands of a builder passed ownership to the hands of a fisherman, having his own purposes for a boat . . .

Continue reading The Boat at Troutbitten.

Not many fish allow you to break off a fly on the hookset while they still take another fly just five minutes and three drifts later. It takes a special kind of stupid for that to happen.

Pat spread the mustard lightly this time. And the joy of all children, April fishermen, spinnies and hobbyists was firmly hooked.

Continue reading Admiration at Troutbitten.

And then . . . the line . . . broke. Silence filled the valley when echoes of his exasperation finished the chorus.

The fisherman's hands were wet and shaking as he doubled over. He surrendered to the surface fog and knelt from the heavy punch to his gut.

Continue reading This is the End at Troutbitten.