School is in session and cooler weather is on the horizon.
Kyle Harman is the type of player that will go find the tee he used when practicing his drives at the range, even though he bought a bag of 100 for $4.99. Just because he has a scholarship to play college golf, doesn't mean he is above such a thing as recycling tees.
Several years ago I took a friend out fishing on the Delta.
Plenty of people have inquired as to how I am maintaining buoyancy after returning from Alaska, to which I have responded something to the effect of, "I am okay with it."
Fishing, for me, is primarily a solitary pursuit.
Surrounded by conversations of whales, sailing, the Panama Canal and authentic Scottish whiskey, I spend the last moments in the Alaskan time zone reading.
Trout are coldwater fish.
In the rush to join Ryan, Josh, Eli and Nate, I frantically threw two bottles of water into my pack that was already stuffed under the bungee hold on the front of the kayak.
This past weekend, the tournament fishing world received a serious black eye, as an angler accused of stuffing lead weights down the throats of his catch was disqualified.
During vacations there are usually moments or locations that provide inside jokes and stories that only make true sense to those that were there, or have been there at one time or another.
Last weekend, I was able to get out with my family for a night of camping.
Largemouth on a flyrod can truly be a heart stopping experience, and is actually the primary reason I bought a home within walking distance of the Stanislaus River.
Howard Walcott plucked the ball from an opponent and took off down court.
A friend of mine sent me a picture of his recent purchase of baits.
For the past 31 years I have been fortunate enough to write my outdoor column Tight Lines as a weekly column. It began innocently enough one spring day in 1979 when I stopped by The Tracy Press to grab lunch with my buddy Steve Wampler and the Press Sports Editor Tom Mauldin.
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.