With seven days in a week, fishing fifty-two times a year should be easy. But it’s not. We fritter away hours, squander days, and unwittingly populate our past with fishless week after fishless week. Father Time is a heartless scoundrel who steals with impunity, and we carelessly neglect to lock our doors. For those of us residing above the 45th parallel, the situation intensifies when our rivers vanish below an impenetrable floor of ice and snow for months at a time. And if we get little solace from chugging shots of Red Bull and Jagermeister while dangling a frozen line through an eight-inch hole in the ice, then we’re left with two options to cope with the endless winter. Brood and pout, or migrate south for the season.

Read the full story in Hatch Magazine.

0 Comments

Leave a Reply

Avatar placeholder