A Few of My Favorite Posts

It's been interesting watching my writing change over the years. Here's a few of my favorites, new to old. I'd like to think that together they represent what Mike's Gone Fishin' has been all about, but I'll leave that to you to decide. I certainly hope that you enjoy them as much as I have.

Click on the post title to read the entire piece.

Red Lights, Night Eyes, Four-AM Brews
The cramp hit about six in the morning, left hamstring seizing every time I bent my knee in the slightest, which was a real pisser as I’d only been in bed for a little more than an hour. Maybe that four-AM beer hadn’t been such a good idea after all.

La Comunidad de Pescadores
I clear customs with a minimum of fuss, though, por supuesto, of course, I’m “randomly selected” for a more thorough checkout. But the inspección de a mano of my camera gear and big rolling duffle is quick, efficient, and performed with good humor; more than I can say for the preceding thirty-six hours of air travel hell. What’s an extra five minutes when you’re already a day late?

Throwin' Chickens
The Fish of Ten-Thousand Casts, my ass. Darrin stuck one in two. Boated his first musky on the second pitch. While on the cell phone with his wife. With a trout set. No big deal.

This shit’s easy.

He slips quietly into the water and gazes upstream. None of the nervous energy that permeates the opening moments of a typical outing is visible in his carriage... It's been hard times.

Jason and the shuttle guy leaned against the truck and spoke in low tones, both staring at the brilliant green, yellow, and red blobs that moved across Jason’s iPhone screen as Chris and I pulled on our raingear and began to rummage through our tackle. It didn’t look good.

Laguna Sunrise
There’s movement in the bunk above me. Austin. Five-thirty already? Seems I’ve just put my head down. I thumb the illumination button on my watch to be sure. The battery's low and, for weeks now, rather than being lit, the display simply fades away. I know this, but thumb it anyway, with predictable results.

We Went Awalkin'
We went awalkin’, Sammy and I, up the ridge, along the narrow gravel road that passes our woods, across the ridgeline, and through the tunnel of redbuds, so robust and full in the spring yet now so gaunt and naked with the approach of our winter. We went awalkin', Sammy and I.

His vet would be pissed.

Dog Days
The summer swelters are here.
Days that make me want to burrow
deep into the earth, praying hard
for the wet blessing of a rain drop.

Airborne, my light blue heron Sharkskin disappeared into the thick, falling snow; slate grey strand invisible against the backdrop of heavy, leaden skies and white-coated tree branches. Without visual cues, the other senses are enjoined – feeling the flex of the rod, hearing the textured line whisper through iced stainless steel guides, sensing the gentle rhythms of the slow, steady tick-ticking metronome that is the cast.

There's magic in the first snow...

Tippet Tantrum
I hate 6X tippet. It’s difficult to see, a pain in the ass to tie, and impossible to avoid wind-knoting within the first half-dozen false casts. 7X? Forget about it. Spider-webbery...

The Dead Drift
The big brown moved slightly as my elk hair caddis rode the swift currents towards it’s holding place. The trout lay suspended in the soft pillow of water eddying in front of a mid-stream boulder, ready to eat...

The Silence of a Solitary Fly Fisherman
Silence. Crisp, wintery silence.  No, not exactly silence. Something better. Silence gently wrapped around the soothing white noise of an icy, tumbling mountain stream. Silence overlaid by the soft swish of a fly rod, the hushed whisper of line sliding through guides, the occasional rasp of a reel feeding a hungry cast...

Arkansas River Ambrosia - Colorado Style
A time honored, traditional recipe. Good for both body and soul.
1 medium sized Colorado freestone river
2 lifelong friends, aged and generously salt-and-peppered
2 large boxes of hoppers, humpies, and assorted terrestrials
1 flask of Kentucky’s finest...

The Fish
The boy in the grainy, sepia-hued 8mm home movie can’t be more than four, maybe five years old. Frayed dungarees, flannel shirt, crew cut, freckles, ears and teeth he'd have to grow into. But you don’t catch these details right away because your focus is first drawn to the fish.