I’ve moved home.

The grey morning after the last day of deer season, 2009, that I left Duluth for lower Michigan was a lifetime ago, by my reckoning, the four and a half actual years overfilled with new jobs, new friends, my marriage and several others, and four addresses. But finally, this spring my wife and I moved home.

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On Traveling

Rosy of cheek and toothy of grin, the three Yankees burst through the automatic doors of the Super Wal-Mart in McMinnville, Tennessee. River water that had parking-lot flash-frozen on their waders melted again in the relative warmth of the store and their Vibram soles squeaked offensively on the tile.

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Night School

After a month and a half of intense and diverse fly fishing it feels like a lifetime ago that I was sitting at my tying bench anxiously waiting for the rivers to open. But that doesn’t mean the anxiety is gone. Michigan Junes are so full of important hatches and active fish that I am terrified I’ll miss a critical week or evening or hatch or rise or fish because I managed my time wrong. I feel actual physical anxiety over this for the first part of the month.

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Anticipation

Living in the North means waiting for spring. The winter has its charm, with its silent woods and clean whiteness; but at some point it reaches its annual apogee and begins to decline, through thaws and melts and mud and gasping blizzards. We notice this turn with our noses. Frozen air does not carry scent well and it’s the first smell of earth and water that recalls our ancient memory of spring. At that point we stop enduring winter and begin waiting for spring.

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On really good writing

“…when you’re all done reading it, you wish the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it.”
Holden Caulfield

I’m not sure a phone call is always appropriate, but I understand what he’s saying. We all crave just a few more words from Maclean and Hemingway, yet we know that in truth it’s the unanswered questions in their stories that leave room for us: missing sequences in a DNA helix, for us to splice in just enough of ourselves to allow the story to really mean something.

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