Articles With the Tag . . . Whiskey Drinker

Trophy Hunting: Meet Jercules

. . .I’ve gone through a couple phases of trophy hunting, but I’m always careful to return to my roots before the obsession overtakes me. I don’t want to lose my enjoyment for the simple things on the water: the friendships, the forests, the mountains, the mysteries and the way thick, cool moss on limestone feels like a sofa cushion for a mid-stream lunch. Those are the good things that are available every time I put on my waders, even though the big fish usually aren’t.

While going in and out of these phases of trophy hunting for wild browns, I’ve learned that I was looking for big trout in the wrong places. I had to seek out new rivers. And sometimes, I simply had to find new places on my old rivers. Point is, I learned that trophy hunters need a target. It’s not enough to go to the same places and fish the same ways as you always have. You have to learn where the big fish are, go there, and put on your patience pants — because Whiskeys don’t come easily . . .

Spaces

I push the clutch, cut the engine, and slowly coast the last fifty yards through the dim yellow of my parking lights, easing the truck through road dust that has circled up from behind me—now traveling faster than its cause—and carried by a November breeze that will...

Muddy Meathead

. . . Things started to happen. I moved two really nice trout — the kind of fish that makes you yell four-letter words as the opportunity vanishes — and I picked up a couple average sized browns. I went over to visit with Dad, and I plopped a few casts next to the bank across from him. He was at the top of the river-left side of the island. I walked across to the far side and waded through the high water by myself, into position to fish a place that’s a little special to the Troutbitten guys. I moved a small fish, then chucked the next cast as close to the water-logged tree stump as I dared.  Strip … drift … strip, strip … drift … strip … BAM!

Momentum carried him to the top of the brown water, and I saw the fish I’ve been waiting for. He swam hard to the tree stump, but with strong 2X I changed his mind. These are the moments fishermen live for. It was the culmination of a new streamer pattern, a new rig that Burke showed me, and relentless hope against forceful, muddy water . . .

Home-Stream Fish of the Year

My home-water is not full of big fish.  Burke likes to call it fishing for midgets.  Is that politically incorrect? OK then; it's usually a matter of fishing for little fish.  However, this evening we caught a larger one -- easily my fish of the year on this water....
Spaces

Spaces

I push the clutch, cut the engine, and slowly coast the last fifty yards through the dim yellow of my parking lights, easing the truck through road dust that has circled up from behind me—now traveling faster than its cause—and carried by a November breeze that will...

Muddy Meathead

Muddy Meathead

We slipped our way down the muddy trail in a controlled stumble, just on the edge of going ass-over-teacups into the drink at the end of the line.  The line was a well worn path Dad and I have been down many times before, leading to the top end of a favorite island on...

Home-Stream Fish of the Year

Home-Stream Fish of the Year

My home-water is not full of big fish.  Burke likes to call it fishing for midgets.  Is that politically incorrect? OK then; it's usually a matter of fishing for little fish.  However, this evening we caught a larger one -- easily my fish of the year on this water....

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