“I have a confession to make,” my wife said. “I always imagined that Texas was ugly. But this is really beautiful.”
These are three very different books to read if you like fish, and also if you are interested in fishing, ecology and culture.
For years I have been hoping for — and advocating for — year-round fishing in Vermont. Now I have my wish.
Delight is an important and oft under-appreciated experience. Delight can even be described as a virtue, in the sense that it is something we can practice, and not merely a feeling we have.
Near the start of the J.R.R. Tolkien’s three-volume novel “The Lord of the Rings,” the hero Frodo Baggins makes a statement with profound philosophical, moral and environmental implications.
It was almost 30 years ago, during the winter of 1992-1993, that I began the adventure of pulling a child behind through the woods on snow while cross-country skiing.
The temperature is in the low teens. My chainsaw hums smoothly. The machine likes this temperature. I stand in six inches of snow next to a huge old maple that got toppled by a strong wind a few weeks ago.
The ice on the lake is about four inches thick — just thick enough to be considered safe for ice fishing, but still thin enough that it proves quicker to chop holes with an ax than to drill them with my hand auger. I’m awake, dressed, and out on the lake … (read more)
My wife and I bought our seasons passes for the Rikert Nordic Center today. In truth, it was more of a step of hope than one based on the present reality.
The idea of wilderness survival is certainly appealing to me, mostly because wilderness itself is appealing.
“Any luck?” It’s a common question one hears when fishing. I’m sure I’ve asked it as often as I’ve heard it.
I don’t remember the exact year when I first drilled holes in the ice and set up tip-ups, beginning a longstanding tradition of ice fishing in Maine the first few days of every new year.
We parked the Jeep on the edge of the old unmaintained Class VI road running through the town forest.
The chill air bit into our hands and cheeks as we reached the far shore of the lake and turned the canoe into the wind. “Let’s be careful,” my wife said.
At the annual gathering of the Outdoor Writers Association of America, I signed up for fly fishing on the Clyde River, a tributary of the transnational Lake Memphremagog.