I really dig being a Giants fan right now.
If there's one thing that I can never predict, it's the weather.
Two dollars bought me a polar shrimp that was sawed beyond recognition by the teeth of Alaskan cutthroat and Dolly Varden.
Every so often I've gotten onto a good pattern where boat docks seem to be holding the better fish.
"I'm enjoying my baby girl."
Often I see fishermen point at an area or spot and say, "It looks good over there!"
Anyone that has driven the Chico-to-Red Bluff section of Highway 99 is aware of the asphalt's multiple personalities.
Two close friends of mine recently lost their father due to an unexpected illness.
I'm sorry about not having a column in last month's paper. I had rotator-cuff surgery for the second time, on the same shoulder … after injuring it again.
It occurred to me just before I fell asleep that the sugar pine that stabbed at the speckled night above me would, if hollowed out, make a perfect mailing tube for shipping submarines.
Every once in a while I run into people who talk about eating their catch.
Depending on what kind of hunting you examine, hunting can be either a rich man's sport or a poor man's sport.
I've never shot a caribou, or moose for that matter, though I have had a moose burger with caribou chili in Talkeetna, which is reason enough to head back.
Over the past several years, I have developed a couple educational programs for presentation to the general public.
This past weekend, a close friend and I decided to enter a local tournament instead of just going out and fishing for the day.
I first became addicted to archeology in the summer of 1948. I was a youngster camping along the headwaters of the Mokelumne River with my parents. One morning I knelt down to clear away some rocks on the ground so that I could play marbles, when one of the rocks caught my eye. Upon closer examination, I discovered that my "rock" was really an Indian arrowhead made of shiny black obsidian! I was hooked on archeology from that point on. Collecting arrowheads became a family obsession. We eventually assembled a pretty significant collection of artifacts in our Indian Room.
Like a lot of those reading this, I used to take every fish home to be cooked up for dinner. After a while, I got tired of having to clean fish after a long day of fishing so I just threw them back. Once I started tournament fishing, I'd always throw them back in hopes of catching them again during a tournament.
We anglers are a fortunate bunch. We belong to a brotherhood and sisterhood of helpful gregarious souls who are almost always willing to chat with a stranger and share local fishing information. The past week, I've found myself out in Salt Lake City, accompanying my wife at a genealogy conference. Usually my trips to the Salt Lake area are in warmer weather without snow on the ground. On an ordinary trip, I'll end up fishing the either Provo River or the Green River for a couple days, but this trip I figured it would be too cold and ...
Fishing in the winter is tough.