From my vantage point on this boulder, the swallows fly in and out of their homes above me with food for their young. A pair of bald eagles is working on their nest. And, the river in front of me looks incredibly fishy. Across the water, my home on wheels is parked. Covered in frozen mud from tailgate to headlights. As I take in the moment, my fingers run through the overgrown scruff on my face. I smell the sweet scent of the trout I just caught. A delicious aroma all anglers know well.

I’m here with intention. I’ll be starting a new chapter soon, one initiated by a new job, but one that signifies so much more than just an addition to my resume. This trip to the North Platte is much more than just a fishing trip. It’s an opportunity to do some soul-searching. To set my priorities for this next chapter. And to decompress as I move on to something new.

Intention is a core principle for me. When I have moments to re-prioritize and consider the bigger picture, I jump into it with eagerness. New year’s resolutions never really motivated me, but a new job, a new home, or a new lesson learned. These are all things that inspire me to dig deep.

During my meditation, I was assaulted by the speed of life. I feel like it was just yesterday that I started at TU, and here I am moving on. Two years gone in a flash. Yes, the good things always go too quickly, but I wish I had taken more time to appreciate them at the moment. I guess now is that time. I’m proud of what I accomplished.

Despite my pride, the imposter syndrome I’ve been fighting all my life seeps in and tries to poison my thoughts. Am I actually good enough for what’s ahead? I do my best to fight it off, but all that replaces it is more nerves. These nerves are fueled by a fierce desire to succeed. To win. To work hard. To prove my worth. All of which I know I am more than capable of.

I’ve got a history with the North Platte, making it the perfect place for reflection. The first time I ever stepped into this river, I was a freshman in college. I had just met my friend Anthony, who would turn out to be one of my lifelong best buds. In early February, we piled into his old 4Runner and drove up for a weekend of camping and fishing. I was cold to say the least, but also mesmerized by the remoteness. It was my first time in Wyoming, and I was hooked.

The following years after that, when Anthony and I started running the show at the CU Boulder fly fishing club, we took an annual club trip to the area. They were beyond memorable experiences with 50+ college kids piling into a rental house for a weekend of fishing and general college debauchery. I’m proud to say that no one ever got hurt and we never broke anything… minus a few fly rods.

These trips, the people that went on them, and the memories they created have etched this river into my blood. I yearn for the North Platte in the years I cannot go, and when I’m there, it feels like a magnificent release of emotions. Now, standing in the same river with intention at the forefront of my mind, things feel remarkably different. I’m solo, but not alone.

During this trip, the weather was looking hot and sunny for the first two days. Not ideal for the kind of fishing I enjoy — throwing streamers. Streamers are flies that imitate small baitfish, and the trout love to eat them when the weather is nasty. Thankfully, by the second night, there were clouds on the horizon. As I crawled into my truck for the evening, I did my best to manifest some snotty weather, and boy did I succeed.

I woke up to the pitter-patter of rain on the truck topper and instantly smiled. Like a kid on Christmas morning, I rolled out of bed. A cold breakfast of granola, and I was ready to get fishing.

The first three hours were miserable. My hands were frozen, and the fish weren’t hungry. I drug myself back to the truck to warm up. After all my effort that morning, I deserved a treat, so I broke out the fish whistle for a few moments.

Feeling motivated, I tied on a new fly and got back to work. I had been camped at this place I named Swallow Bank for the past few nights and despite fishing it profusely, had failed to get a bite. So, I tried something new. I waded across the river and climbed up high on the hillside for a better vantage point. Sure enough, I saw a nice deep hole behind a rock. From my original point of view, it didn’t look like much, but from this side of the river, it was clear that the fish lived there.

I scrambled back down to the river and started my cast just above the rock. When the fly made it past the white water, it stopped. I sighed. Sadly, I had hung up on the bottom. I pulled against it from a few different angles, unable to get it off.

Then, the rock started swimming away. Shit! This was no rock. As the fish started to run, I let out a hysteric laugh. Of course, after all my meticulous effort, this is how I hook a fish…

After the laugh, I collected myself and realized that this was actually a pretty big fish. The fight was enthralling with lots of acrobatics from me and the fish, a few curse words on my end (and maybe some from the fish?) and finally, a successful net job.

When the fish hit the net I was elated. With no one in sight, I let out a yelp of pure joy.

Pure satisfaction. I was proud. Proud of the work I had put in to catch that fish. Proud of taking the trip between jobs. And proud of setting the intention for this experience.

After a clean release I climbed on top of that boulder and took in the environment around me. The fish had disappeared into the depths of that hole. The river permanently etched into who I am. Swallow Bank towering above me.

All of it felt so perfectly placed. I thought about going home right then. That thought quickly passed. I took a deep breath and made my way back to the river. To keep pressing on. And to keep telling that imposter syndrome to pound sand.

Recently, I had two drastically different experiences at concerts. They both speak volumes to the current live music culture, what we have accepted about that culture, and what might actually be possible.

The first was in Aspen, at a legendary venue known as Belly Up. Many of the greats have performed here, and this particular evening was no different as Zeds Dead had sold out the room. Possibly the most well-known DJ duo to come out of Canada, they’re EDM legends, playing everything from the biggest festival stages to high-end venues like Belly Up.

Exactly a week later, I was in Denver at a local venue. Behind the decks were Tinzo + Jojo, a brother-sister DJ duo from New York City. Compared to Zeds Dead, they’re still very much an up-and-coming act, but in all honesty, they put on a way better party. The reason why really comes down to intention. Tinzo and Jojo have a dedicated philosophy for their events. Taken directly from their tour website:

They want to create space for something simple and honest. No phones. No pressure. Just love on the dance floor. A reminder that music still connects us, even when everything else feels divided. Bring your rave kandi. Extended sets every night just as they like to do it.

1. Come for the music.

2. Be open to unfamiliar music and sounds.

3. Respect one another.

4. Face each other instead of the DJ.

5. No phones allowed on the dance floor.

6. Dress to express yourself.

7. Dance your heart out.

I’ve now seen Tinzo and Jojo twice, once in Seattle, once in Denver, and it’s clear to me that setting out this philosophy does something magical to the whole experience.

At Zeds Dead, I can give an example of nearly every single one of those rules being broken. To keep it light, I’ll focus on the one I think is the most important: No Phones on the Dance Floor.

If you’ve been to a concert since the advent of the iPhone, it’s obvious the impact it’s had. At any given moment, someone has their phone out and is recording what’s happening in front of them. I understand this, and by no means am I saying that I’ve never recorded a video at a concert. We want to capture the moment. We want to share that moment with our friends who couldn’t be there. I get it. Simultaneously, it has gone too far. One video, maybe two, but for Christ’s sake, that’s enough. It’s high time we started living in the moment, being more present while at the concert, and less concerned about sharing it on social media.

At Zeds Dead, I was shocked by two phone experiences. The first lasted all night, because the guy in front of me recorded the entire set. I shit you not, from the minute they walked onto the stage until they played their last song, his phone was in the air taking a video. He witnessed the entire concert through his phone. Not dancing, not interacting with the people around him, just recording.

About halfway through the evening, while Mr. Vlogger did his thing, I noticed something over my left shoulder. A phone had appeared, just six inches away from my face. I let out a sigh and turned to see who was recording. When I looked, the girl with the phone sensed my annoyance and turned the camera directly to my face. I mean, pointing at me, recording a video of me... In the spirit of non-violence, I chose not to throw her phone across the room. Had it been one of my Y chromosome-sharing brethren, I may have made a different choice. I gave her a “wtf are you doing” look. Her friend reached in and removed the phone while saying, “I’m sooo sorry, she’s just reaaally fucked upppp” in a distinctly Aspen accent. That was the end of my evening in that spot. I moved to a new area and was able to enjoy the rest of the show without being recorded. However, despite not having phones shoved in my face, I was still well aware of their presence, and it seeped into everything I did. I danced differently. I was more self-conscious about my outfit. I was more concerned with the people around me being judgmental. The entire time, I just kept thinking about a video of me, having fun at a concert, being myself, and carrying on in what I perceived to be a “safe space,” making its way onto the internet — a very not safe space.

At Tinzo and Jojo, I didn’t have any of those thoughts because of their philosophy, and that one rule, No Phones on the Dancefloor. The dance floor exists for people to be themselves, to dance however they want, to wear what they want, to close their eyes and feel the music, to be radically different than what society expects of us. The dance floor is a sacred space, and we ought to treat it like that.

There was a moment that naturally replicated itself in Seattle and Denver when dancing to Tinzo and Jojo that speaks to this sacred and safe space—a conga line. At both concerts, a group of people started moving through the crowd together, and sure enough, as they danced, more people piled on. It felt like a full-on New Orleans second line, and as I looked around, every single person had a smile on their face.

In case you’re curious what it’s like to attend a Tinzo and Jojo show, it is your lucky day. They’ve got a few of their shows on YouTube for your viewing and listening pleasure. You will see people from every walk of life enjoying their time together without judgment and without the risk of ending up in someone’s ego-fueled video. These recordings exist because Tinzo and Jojo choose to share their work, not because a stranger decided to make concertgoers a piece of content.

Peace. Love. Unity. Respect. This is what live music could be. What it takes is intention on the part of those putting on the event and the dedication of those attending to sign on to the philosophy. The culture around live music is tenuous in many different ways, and there is substantial room for improvement. I’d say putting the Tinzo and Jojo philosophy on the doors of our concert venues might be a good place to start.

Since its inception, fly fishing has moved at a different pace than the world around it. For many, the idea of fishing without catching is horribly unexciting. But for some, there is value in standing in the river and not catching fish. In those moments, a slightly foolish optimism takes hold. The pursuit alone becomes meaningful, and for those it captures, the lessons of fishing with a fly rod extend beyond the river. Some of these anglers become true believers, and a few become champions.

In our modern era, fly fishing has a new champion in David Coggins. Like many before him, David is a storyteller. What makes him special is that he champions the tradition that makes fly fishing such a unique outdoor pursuit.

The first written work on the topic of fishing appears around 100 CE with Oppian’s Halieutica, a didactic poem about fish, how to catch them, and the philosophy of the pursuit. While this poem might be a far cry from David Coggins, The Optimist, or The Believer, the connective tissue is a tradition that focuses on contemplation and education.

In our modern era, it can feel as if this tradition of storytelling has been replaced by short-form content, hero shots, and a distinct lack of education or on-the-river contemplation. When the pace is sped up, and all you see is a grip-n-grin, the part of the story that makes it feel relevant to the angler is lost.

In contrast, the tradition of fly fishing involves moving at the pace of nature. The key to a good drift while nymphing is to move at the speed of the current. The key to a good streamer strip is to move the fly the way a baitfish moves. The key to fishing well is to observe before you tie on a fly, make a cast, or step in the river. In that sense, fly fishing has always been methodical, quiet, and reflective.

Our champion, Mr. Coggins, describes the tradition of fly fishing as:

An elegant equation—a certain difficult way to try to catch a trout. It was never supposed to be easy, it was supposed to be hard or sporting. Those elements have attracted certain types of people for a long time. While the world has evolved and moved away from that sense of slowness, fly fishing is even more attractive to the more traditionally minded angler.

While fly fishing continues to attract those “traditionally minded anglers,” many other aspects of the sport haven’t changed much. The cast is nearly the same. Fish still live underwater. And many of the bugs that existed at the beginning of the sport can still be found. Some of the things that have changed are for the better. The gear has improved; we can now target nearly every species under the sun with a fly rod. And, thankfully, the sport is no longer an activity solely for wealthy landowners.

At the same time, something ominous has changed within the sport—its pace. As David says in The Believer, “Fly fishing, in its best form, will always be slower, and thank goodness it will never be efficient.” Key phrase there, “in its best form.” With one look through #flyfishing on Instagram, I’m inclined to think that the best form is slipping away. One post with the hashtag is a fifteen-second video with five million views. It shows an angler making a single cast in front of a school of trout, catching the largest of the bunch, and landing it with ease. It fails to show the hike to the alpine lake, the multitude of blind casts, the dozen different flies they tried, or the hundreds of hours spent fishing without catching. Suddenly, the #flyfishing video has nothing to do with fly fishing and everything to do with instant gratification and social media clout. David Coggins is the antidote.

Our champion is a storyteller of all types—fishing, travel, fashion, drinking—he has written about them all. Born and raised in Minnesota, he’s got a kind heart and a seriously fishy mindset. This upper Midwest personality shows up in everything he writes. Comparing writers to one another is a dangerous move, but in the spirit of risk-taking, I’ll say that Coggins’ style feels like a combination of the vivid storytelling of Tom McGuane and the cultural competency of Joan Didion. For example, here is an excerpt from The Optimist in which David describes the guide he was fishing with in England:

Tony is standing on the side of the road. From a distance, I think I’m having a vision, he looks like a cross between Tom Stoppard and Jimmy Page. This is a good sign since Tom Stoppard is my hero and ideal fishing partner (something he practices well), and English rock royalty often adopt the sport as they spend their silver years in grand estates like bloodline royalty. Tony has immense wavy pepper-and-salt hair and a broad, welcoming smile. He’s expertly rolling a cigarette, and has the face and voice of a man who’s done that many times a day, for many years.

Whether it be the song playing on the radio or the nicotine delivery device a guide was using, David includes all the details. It’s this descriptive tone and cultural connection that not only transports the reader to the place where David is fishing but also inspires us to get on the water and honor the tradition of the sport. If you enjoy that type of writing, his Substack, The Contender, is a good place to start.

The Contender

Travel / Style / Fishing / Design / Etc.

By David Coggins

To be a champion of fly fishing tradition, David does a few things very well. First and foremost, he respects the fish. In The Believer, Coggins dedicates a paragraph to his experience after the fish hits the net:

I’m always struck by the beauty of fish, but especially trout. When they’re in the net, I look at their eye, fierce and black, staring past me, and I feel cut with shame. This fish provided a thrill by behaving naturally. I don’t linger. I rarely take photos, I try not to take the fish out of the water.

If you look through the internet, you will be hard-pressed to find a picture of David holding a fish. There is no doubt that Coggins can catch fish, but his writing feels no need to showboat. Instead, he writes with a self-awareness that invites the reader to be a part of the experience as opposed to alienating us.

Beyond that, David promotes the tradition of fly fishing by writing about it honestly. Wills Donaldson of Flylords put it wonderfully, “Coggins is unique because he is willing to write a story that says, ‘We didn’t catch any fish, it sucked, and it was my fault.’” This, ladies and gentlemen, is refreshing for the modern-day fish story. David writes about everything in between the desire to go fish a certain place and arriving back home after the journey. Whether it be the smell of the air as you step off the plane in a foreign country, or the crowd in the bar, you drank your sadness away after getting skunked. David includes it in the story—along with some self-deprecating humor that we anglers love. When asked why he includes all these elements, David explains that:

Fishing can be defined rather narrowly—trying to get a trout to take a fly and then fighting the fish. But I prefer to take a wider lens. There are so many wonderful associated elements to the sport: stopping in the fly shop on the way to the water, putting your rods together the morning before you head out, where you eat on the road, the guides you meet—all of that. When you fish a lot, you start to love these parts of the sport too.

Finally, and potentially most important, David champions the tradition of fly fishing by continuing to educate and encourage us to be contemplative while we’re on the water. David makes it clear that technical education, such as what size tippet to use, is not his goal. Instead, he drops truth bombs like, “Be on time, stay positive, avoid trees, keep your fly in the water.” Great advice for how to act when on a group float trip.

Even better, David uses his cultural competence to teach us how to be contemplative on the water. He is well versed in the world of art, fashion, and literature, yet fly fishing is no different than any of those things; in fact, for David, fly fishing is a part of a full life, just like a good espresso and a well-fitting Oxford Shirt. It’s this humble awareness of these topics that allows David to lead by example and show us how someone familiar with culture thinks about the human experience while fly fishing. As he has said before, “A slow day fly fishing makes a philosopher out of you.”

This piece originally appeared in the Spring 2026 issue of TROUT magazine. A huge thank you to and for allowing me to share it with the readers of Kudos.

I’ll add a few more adverbs and say that King of Fish by David R. Montgomery is an absolutely fascinating and desperately important book.

However, keep in mind that I’m biased. I feel a divine connection to salmon and enjoy reading nonfiction, which makes me this book’s ideal reader. That being said, I think The Economist is right, this book should be read by all. And in my mind, it can be read and enjoyed by all.

My relationship with salmon began when I started spending summers in Bristol Bay, Alaska. Prior to that, salmon was a delicious source of protein that I preferred grilled. Now, salmon are deeply connected to who I am. You may roll your eyes, but this connection feels as true to me as my name itself or the dwindling blond hair on my head.

Therefore, when I saw King of Fish sitting on a friend’s coffee table, I knew I had to read it. By the fifth page, I was convinced that I liked it.

Every author needs to help the reader understand the stakes. With this single sentence, Montgomery does just that. In the places they exist, salmon are the Jenga block holding up the entire ecosystem. People rely on them. Culture is shaped by them. And every single living creature reacts to them. Remove salmon, and the entire system crumbles.

There are a lot of reasons why this book is great: it is well written, it is relevant, it leaves no stone unturned, the argument is supported by massive amounts of data, Ray Troll did the artwork… the list is endless. The “what I don’t like” column is pretty short, but I’ll say that some will find it a bit dense. If that’s you, I’m pretty sure there is an audiobook version.

King of Fish argues that salmon have a powerful history and that their ability to survive is now uniquely tied to our choices. Before the era of modern man, salmon survived through geological changes, ice ages, and massive climate catastrophes. Since our arrival, the population of salmon has been decimated by the 4 H’s (habitat, hatcheries, hydropower, and harvest).

Montgomery explains that man has pushed wild salmon to near extinction in Europe and the Northeast of North America. If nothing is done, that same fate will be brought upon the Pacific Northwest. King of Fish presents us with a set of actions that can be taken to prevent the extinction of Pacific Northwest salmon. I hope we take them.

Why should you read it, and why should you care about salmon?

Remember learning about the buffalo? Close your eyes and imagine the Great Plains shaking under your feet as thousands of these animals charge across the continent. How does it make you feel that this no longer happens, and probably never will again?

Salmon are headed for the same fate, complete eradication from their natural environment. Before the 4 H’s began their destruction, thousands, sometimes millions of salmon returned to their natal rivers to spawn each year. Nowadays, most of the fish are genetically repugnant and stuck in farms or spat out by hatcheries.

If avoiding the fate of the buffalo isn’t enough, there is a patriotic reason as well—salmon are core to the history of the US of A. If you read King of Fish, you’ll learn that during the Revolutionary War, the Brits had established a blockade at sea to prevent any incoming ships. Strapped for food, the colonists and Washington’s army relied on the native Atlantic salmon to fill their bellies.

Unlike the buffalo, we have a chance to prevent the extinction of salmon. Reading King of Fish might be the first step in the right direction. If you do read it, I’d love to hear what you think.

I’ll include a snippet below, but to read the whole thing, you’ll have to grab a copy! You can do so at the link below.

get your copy here!

Grab a copy to keep reading!

Revelry Collection Volume 002

After a long week, I was eager to sit in a duck blind—even if it was pouring rain. I hopped out of the truck, threw on my bags, and grabbed the glass door on my truck topper to close it. It was having a hard time staying shut, so I applied a bit of extra force to convince it to stay latched. It turned out that a little bit was too much. The topper shattered, and my hand went through the glass.

Another unfortunate event in a series of unfortunate events. I looked at the sky for someone to blame, but found no one. Earlier that week, I had spent nearly $4,000 on unforeseen repairs on my truck. Seven days from then, I would be driving across the country with all my personal possessions. Now, I had shattered the back door on my moving truck, boat hauler, and grocery getter. Life had kicked me in the nuts and then decided to add on a stubbed toe for good measure.

As the blood dripped off my hand, I debated what to do next. Go hunt? Go home? Hit the bar? It didn’t take long to decide that hunting was the right choice.

I collected what glass I could and put it into the back of the truck before starting to walk out to the blind. After trudging through mud and cattails, I set out my decoys at my favorite hunting spot. I breathed a sigh of relief to finally have landed where I wanted to be—a duck blind.

The first ten minutes were eerily quiet. Nothing was moving, and the air felt still. However, I sensed something. Almost like the world felt a little bad with how things had been going for me. Maybe life had some empathy for my misery.

That feeling became reality when the air suddenly filled with the peeping noises of green-winged teal as they darted through my decoy spread. Startled, I shot at two birds and missed them both. Thankfully, there was another group right behind them who were unfazed by the shotgun blast. In one of the best shots I’ve ever made, I killed my first teal as it sped high above my decoys.

Teal are fast, erratic flyers, and delicious. A prized possession within the duck hunting world, and I was thrilled to have harvested my first. I already knew I would be plucking the bird and cooking it whole.

Minutes later, a group of twenty-some mallards flew by. With just one quack from my duck call, they decided to drop their landing gear. After another great shot, I had another duck in the bag. Before I could jump out of the blind to collect my green-headed prize, more ducks were coming into the decoys. My heart raced as I shot another drake mallard and my third duck of the day.

When I collected the two birds, the thought crossed my mind that if this action keeps up, I might just kill a limit… I quickly put the silly idea out of my head to prevent bad luck from getting in the way.

Every now and then, when fishing or hunting, there are days when everything works out perfectly, and the fish or animals are eager to participate. This was one of those days. Within forty-five minutes of putting out the decoys, I had six ducks in my possession. I just needed one more to get my limit.

As I sat in the blind, my heart still racing, the silence became heavy. On those days when everything is firing, just a few minutes without action will make you question it all. Is it over? Are the fish done biting? Did the birds stop flying? What did I do wrong?

Just as those thoughts crossed my mind, I heard the easily recognizable “who - wee - whooo” of a widgeon. Sure enough, two of them flew into the decoys. With one more shot, I killed my limit.

The sun was still shining, it was a warm and humid Washington evening, and the smile on my face was larger than life. I called my dad and told him what happened. He was thrilled.

When life gets a bit shitty, it also becomes exciting. The craziness of highs and lows all jammed within a short time frame makes for a truly exciting human experience.

The days leading up to my move were exciting to say the least, but despite a few rain clouds hanging over my head, it was capped off with a very successful duck hunt. As I walked out of the marsh that day, I returned my gaze to the sky and realized I had the ducks to thank, and still no one to blame.

Both farmers lived in a town that had been in a drought throughout the growing season.

Both farmers prayed to God profusely to send them rain.

One farmer prepared his crops for the rain.

The other did not; he only prayed.

When the rain finally arrived, the farmer who was prepared rejoiced as the water fell over his crops.

The farmer who was not prepared scrambled to get his seeds in the ground, but his fields flooded before he could finish, and the season was a waste.

The moral of the story is simple: dam the river above your house, and in the case of a drought, you have a consistent water supply. Or, get your fields ready.

Recently, I had my fields prepared, and the rain started falling.

Since I started duck hunting, I’ve been told by multiple people that scouting is the most important aspect of a successful hunt. This was clear during my first solo hunt back in October, when I arrived at the spot and learned that the pond I planned to hunt was bone dry. The rainy season had yet to begin, and I felt foolish as I googled whether ducks could even land on dry land. Now, I’ve learned my lesson and do my best to get out and familiarize myself with the area before arriving the morning of the hunt.

On the Tuesday of Thanksgiving week, I flew out of the office after wrapping up my work early. Upon arrival at the spot, I felt some positivity when a group of mallards flew in and landed in the flooded field. As I walked out to explore the various blinds, I saw another group coming in to land, and behind them, another one! Soon enough, the sky was full. In an instant, the mission changed from scouting to hunting. I rushed back to the truck and grabbed my decoys.

The weather was perfect. Ducks like it when it’s shitty, and boy, it was shitty. The wind blew at 10-15 mph out of the Northeast, a steady drizzle pelted me, and the temperature hovered just 5 degrees above freezing. The be bold, start cold mentality would have been helpful here because I built up a serious sweat while hauling decoys and gear through a half mile of mud en route to the blind. Within 15 minutes of settling in, all that sweat and rain had soaked me, and my body was shaking.

This blind sits in 2 feet of water, which means I am also sitting in 2 feet of water. I soon realized that any chance I had of being warm was ruined. Nonetheless, my mind was occupied.

The action in the sky had not stopped, and the birds continued to fly. With each group, I did my best to entice them to land with a few quacks from my duck call. After being rejected more times than I’d care to admit, a duck finally committed. Before I knew it, he had plopped down just on the edge of my decoys.

I stood to shoot, he jumped in the air, and I missed. Then, I missed again. And then, I missed a third time. Rough shooting, Tex. I felt like a buffoon, to put it nicely. After some internal review, I decided it might be time to “lock in,” as my fellow Gen Z’ers say.

With a thirst for revenge, I reloaded and got ready for the next opportunity. It came sooner than expected when a large group flew in from my left side.

WHAM! I swung and shot the first duck in the group without hesitation. He instantly folded and dropped into the water in front of me. He still had a bit of life in him, so like a fishing boat off the coast of Venezuela, I blasted him one more time. If I were a better hunter, I probably could’ve killed at least one more of the group.

Launching out of the blind, I went to collect the bird. A beautiful drake mallard, the first I had ever shot.

The rest of the day was more of the same. A lot of misses and a few really good shots. I finished the day with three ducks, frozen fingers, and a smile the size of Texas.

My intention had not been to hunt when I set out after work. My intention had been to scout, to prepare my fields for another day. Maybe it was a reward from the powers that be, maybe it was pure luck. I’m inclined to think it was a little of both.

Either way, it can’t hurt to be ready, because as Seneca supposedly said,

“Luck is when preparation meets opportunity.”

Gumbo is one of my favorite meals, and it has been for a long time. When visiting my Louisiana grandmother as a kid, it was always on my list of requested dinners. In the last few years, I’ve taken a new approach when visiting and have tried to learn how Mimi makes a gumbo, hoping that I can carry on the tradition of this great meal. In an era of frozen dinners and DoorDash, family recipes are falling through the cracks. It’s a real shame. I think that it’s worth the effort to learn these recipes so we can carry on the legacy of those who fed us over the years.

The history of gumbo is hotly debated and powerfully connected to the history of the region it comes from. While not getting too deep in the weeds, I’ll do my best to provide a summary.

Southern Louisiana is a melting pot of West African, French, German, and Spanish immigrants. Additionally, there are the indigenous folks who resided here before settlers and slaves arrived. Gumbo is a product of this unique cultural combination. While scholars dispute the origin of the dish’s name, the majority attribute it to the word gombo, which means okra in a few different West African languages. Okra was a staple ingredient in the dish in its early days, thanks to its ability to act as a thickener and the plant’s affinity for the Louisiana climate.

The dish itself is thought to be a take on bouillabaisse, a French fish soup. The detractions from traditional bouillabaisse may come from collaborations between early French settlers and Native Americans, who knew how to eat the edible plants of the area.

Next, a combination of Spanish fishermen hauling in large catches from the Gulf of Mexico and German sausage makers bringing their craft to the region added to the “everything but the kitchen sink” style of gumbo. Pile on a few hundred years of iterations, and we are left in 2025 with the modern-day gumbo. In every house between Morgan City and Lafayette, you will find a different recipe and different rules. Some add okra, others hate it. Some use filé, others don’t. Some add seafood, others don’t! You get the point.

My gumbo is chicken and sausage. One day I may try other varieties, but for now this is what I like. And, it’s what I grew up with. Food has the ability to be fuel for our souls and bodies. When I make gumbo, I’m eager for some soul food. Something that connects me to a tradition much larger than myself. Chicken and sausage does that for me. You pick what works best for you!

Below is my best attempt at conveying how I make gumbo. I’ll be curious to hear from those of you who give it a try. If you run into any issues, just call me, considering most of you have my phone number. I hope you enjoy!

Chicken and Sausage Gumbo

Step 1: Before you can even consider starting your gumbo, you need to do some prep work. Begin by making or acquiring a stock of your choosing. I like chicken stock. Pro tip: get a rotisserie chicken, debone what you can, then place the entire carcass in a pot, cover it with water, and boil it until all the meat comes off. Add the meat to your meat pile and discard the bones. Save the stock and allow it to cool off. If you don’t go this route, you can use store-bought chicken stock.

Step 2: Prepare your Holy Trinity. The trinity, as it is called in Cajun cooking, is finely chopped celery, green bell pepper, and onion. For our gumbo, we are using one and a half celery stalks, one average-sized green bell pepper, and one medium onion. Adjust this as the size of your gumbo changes. Chop these up and set them to the side. I use a Cuisinart and I’ll never go back to chopping.

Step 3: Brown your sausage in a cast-iron pot. This pot will be the same one that you make your roux in. Slice your sausage into ¼ inch chunks. For this recipe, I like one and a half links of sausage. I use andouille for the spice, but you can use any smoked sausage. Get the ones that are horseshoes. Hillsdale Farm makes some varieties that you can find at most grocery stores. To brown, get your pan hot and add your sausage chunks. Don’t overload the pan; you want a nice crisp on each piece. Once you’ve done this, remove the sausage and set it to the side.

Step 4: Now, the fun begins. We’ve laid the groundwork for a successful gumbo, but it’s time to make the key ingredient, a roux. In your cast-iron pot, add ¾ cup of high-smoke-point, neutral oil. Lard is what the original Cajuns would have used, now a a days you can use vegetable, peanut, or grapeseed. Then, add ¾ cup of white flour. Using a wooden spoon/spatula, stir this mixture over a medium/low heat. It’s important to note that when you start this step, you are committing to standing in front of your stove for thirty minutes to an hour. Barring the death of a close relative, you cannot leave this roux.

As you stand there, stir, stir, stir, stir, and guess what, stir. Hey! Just don’t stop stirring. Your goal is to heat and stir this roux and take it from the color of white flour to a deep peanut butter brown. If you stop stirring, you will burn the roux and have to start over. The darker the roux, the more flavor you add. At the same time, as the roux gets darker, it will get darker more rapidly. Which, I think this is the scientific definition of acceleration? The last fifteen minutes of making a roux can be incredibly exciting, like the fourth quarter of a close game.

A brief side note: Making a roux is the hardest thing I have ever done in cooking. Not only does it take time, but it takes a divine understanding of what you are looking for. Most of my early roux’s were too light and failed to add the quintessential gumbo flavor. Take your time and know that the first few will not turn out the way you want, and that’s okay.

Step 5: Once the roux is dark to your liking, it’s time to stop the cooking. This is when all that preparation matters. In order to stop the cooking, you add your trinity all at once. This will steam and sizzle an incredible amount. DO NOT STOP STIRRING. You are still in the danger zone and must keep everything moving. I stir for another ~10 minutes and really let the trinity sweat to release its flavor onto the roux.

Now, if you’ve been paying attention, you’ll notice that we have yet to add any salt, pepper, or spices. That is intentional. Your true seasoning from a gumbo comes from the roux and the trinity. That being said, we’re finally ready to add a bit of seasoning. With my gumbo, I use one thing: Tony Chachere’s. Begin with a light sprinkle across the top. I’m not sure how much, maybe half a teaspoon. Not much, though, we are going to slowly layer seasoning throughout the cooking process.

Step 6: Next, begin slowly adding your stock. The slower you add it, the better the flavor profile and the thicker the end product is. Nothing should be done fast when making gumbo. Take your time adding half to one cup of stock at a time and continuing to stir. Add enough stock to achieve the level of consistency you want; you can always add more later. I’d shoot for something slightly thinner than gravy.

This is another point to maybe add some more Tony’s. You can also start to taste here. The key when tasting is to understand that you’re not yet looking for a finished product. It should taste like the roux and the various elements, but they’ve yet to all come together. Avoid applying heavy seasoning.

Step 7: Add your meat! Dump all that delicious browned sausage and chopped chicken into the pot and stir it up. Fold everything together and bring it to a light simmer. You may want to add some more stock if it’s looking a bit thick. Taste and season again (if needed.)

Step 8: At this point, it’s time to step back from the stove and let all the elements of our gumbo fall in love. Cover it and let it roll over a low simmering heat. Return every now and then to taste and maybe add more seasoning. As you taste, you should notice the flavors coming together and making a true gumbo flavor profile.

Serving: Gumbo tastes best the day after you cook it, so I recommend letting it sit in the fridge overnight. This also gives you the chance to remove some of the fat, which will separate to the top. Serve your Gumbo over rice with some parsley or green onions as a garnish. Keep in mind that this is not a rice dish. Therefore, use a small amount of rice. In my family, we always have homemade potato salad on the side. The combo of the two is to die for.

Pairing: Gumbo goes good with most beverages. Your classic lager, be it Rainier, PBR, or the microbrew variety, will do well. For wine, I like a New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc, but a Riesling or light red like a Pinot Noir will also work.

That’s all, folks! Get your people together and share this delicious meal with them.

Oh yeah… thank you for reading :)

If you’re a new subscriber and would like to check out some of my past work, you might enjoy these.

Kudos

I’ve slipped away from my strict biweekly posting schedule since I eclipsed the 1-year anniversary of this newsletter. I’m proud to say that this is because I’ve been directing my writing energy elsewhere by seeking publication in a variety of print and digital magazines. For starters, I recently worked with Flylab on a gear review. There will be a few more coming soon. Next, I’ll have a fun article in the upcoming second edition of Revelry Collection. Check out the work Bentley is doing via Substack here, and sign up to receive a copy of the second edition here. In other news, I recently submitted a piece to the Flyfish Journal, which is the first time I’ve ever “submitted” anything to a publication. I haven’t heard back yet, but it’s probably because they’re frantically drafting a contract to sign me full-time…

And something I’m thrilled about, I’m working on a feature article for TROUT magazine to highlight a very prominent author in the fly fishing space. It certainly is the biggest piece I have ever worked on. Nervous is an understatement, but I’m confident I can nail it.

All of this has been incredibly fulfilling. It has pulled me away from Kudos, but I’m okay with that.

da boat

Bateau Dunn has been out of commission since about the time I published this piece discussing her arrival into my life. After some fun fishing with my brother, she started leaking fuel inside the outboard. In the process of searching for the fuel leak, a bolt broke off in the engine block. After trying multiple different extraction techniques, I came to terms with the notion that the bolt will not be coming out. So, I rented a die grinder and the proper bits to bore out the old bolt. After doing so, I used a thread repair kit to insert a new bolt. And now, I can go back to fixing the fuel leak…

It has been the classic experience of working on a motor. Try to fix one thing, and you break something else. In the process of fixing what you just broke, you end up needing tools and parts you don’t have. Then, while waiting on tools and parts, you lose the willpower to fix the broken thing, and the project gets put on the back burner.

I’ve got parts arriving next week. Hopefully, it all goes smoothly.

It won’t, but I’ll probably learn something :)

A newfound love

Since the leaves started changing, I’ve been duck hunting. Within an hour of my house, there are upwards of ten different game management areas specifically for hunting waterfowl. Each one is managed and maintained by the Washington Department of Wildlife and has incredible hunting opportunities for the public.

Hunting was not a large part of my upbringing, but I’ve graciously inherited a shotgun, and now, I can’t keep myself away. This past Saturday, I spent fourteen hours standing in a duck blind, and my hunting partner was the only one to kill a duck. Despite the low success rate, it was one of the best days I’ve had in the outdoors in a very long time.

It’s nice to have something new. Something to suck at and be humbled by.

For the ears

I’ve been in a music slump recently and have been struggling to find what I’m looking for. This happens every now and then. I think it’s a good thing. It forces me to be a bit quieter and spend less time with noise in my ears. That being said, I’ve still got a few things to share.

Ambient music has always been on my radar, but I hadn’t explored it much until recently. This genre can be characterized by atmospheric sounds, long notes, synthesizers, and a general lack of direction (but in a good way). It doesn’t have the beats and melody that make up the typical musical structure you might be familiar with. Think nature soundscapes or meditation tracks. Here are some examples.

This album by electronic music legend Aphex Twin is a classic in the ambient genre and does a nice job of using some dance-focused elements that give the songs a bit more structure. Full disclosure, there are some very experimental tracks in here. You may find yourself hitting the skip button a few times.

This album by Susumu Yokota has been a favorite of mine, as it combines jazz, nature, and electronic. It was named the top electronic release of 2000 by The Wire, a notable accolade.

Part of the inspiration for this dive into ambient music came from an Ezra Klein Show episode with Brian Eno, a pioneer of the genre. Check out the podcast here, and you can listen to Eno’s quintessential ambient album above.

Outside of the music realm, I have been inundating my ears with podcasts. I consume a copious amount of news every day, and as someone who could use a break from the shit storm, this conversation provided a nice break.

If you thought your WWII history was up to speed, this podcast may teach you a few things you didn’t know. Mainly, the copious amount of substances used by the Nazis and other countries. For example, French soldiers were given a daily ration of wine to keep up morale, but at the same time, it drastically changed their behavior and, in some ways, made them vulnerable to attack by the meth-fueled Nazi Blitzkrieg. This conversation made me think about how ingrained a variety of these special chemical compounds are in our lives. Be it caffeine, THC, alcohol, SSRIs, or something else, drugs are still turning the knobs of society every day.

Thanks for following along! I hope you’re having a happy and healthy autumn.

Recently, my work travels took me to the lovely corner of America called New England. The impetus of this trip was to host a weekend gathering of college fly fishing clubs, a core element of my 9-5. After the work was done, I had the pleasure of fishing with two mentors. First, an Uncle who was one of the first people to put a fishing rod in my hands. The other, a fly fishing industry wizard who has led me through the beginning of my career.

The story of my Uncle Ron deserves an entire book, and one day, maybe he’ll let me write it. He’s been a stalwart figure in my life as a Maine builder, an incredible storyteller, and a fishy human. Since my youngest days, Ron has pushed me to not just pursue fishing as a hobby, but to dedicate time to it and become a skilled angler.

Captain Joe Gugino of Fish Boston has supported me throughout my budding path through the fly fishing industry. A man with a wealth of industry experience and a rolodex of contacts I’ve yet to find the bottom of, Joe is a legend in the best sense of the word. With his help, I’ve gone from a terrified intern to the manager of a suite of programs that impact thousands of young people every year.

Both Joe and Uncle Ron have mentored me as an angler, a conservationist, and most importantly, a human. Now, I get to return the favor through my work, and I feel incredibly grateful for the opportunity. At the same time, the experience is full of insecurity. Imposter syndrome is a real SOB, and it’s a constant battle to keep it at bay. Simultaneously, the ego is just as persistent. Thankfully, I am constantly humbled by the work I do and the people I meet.

While fishing with both Uncle Ron and Joe, we had great success on the water. In Maine, the fall colors had set in, and the bass and pike were eager to attack our topwater lures and Mepps spinners. In the Boston Harbor, I caught my first striped bass from the bow of Joe’s boat. It was a whirlwind of a morning that began at 5:15, culminated with a fish caught at 7:05, and ended with an airport drop off (from the boat) at 7:45 for a 9:00 flight.

As I sat in Logan Airport, with fish slime on my pants, I was struck by the emotional weight of fishing with these two mentors after I myself had started to become a mentor. In an instant, my mind travelled back to my college apartment in 2021. There was a microphone in front of me, and I was recording my first-ever podcast as a nerve-stricken Trout Unlimited intern with Joe Gugino as my guest. The red light started flashing, and the recording began. My heart raced, and the nerves shook inside me. I opened my mouth and the words landed like a steaming pile of shit.

As a great mentor, Joe was well aware of my emotional state. He kindly suggested we start over. “Take your time,” he said, “you’ll do great.”

It was exactly what I needed to hear in that moment.

Kudos to Uncle Ron, Joe, and all the mentors out there. The world would be a very different place without you.

Check the kill switch. Engaged. Check the battery. Connected.

I walk back to the outboard. Check the fuel lines. Looks fine.

I turn the key a few more times. Nothing.

A sly grin works its way across my face as I realize this is exactly what I wanted when I bought a 40-year-old boat.

I walk to the bow, drop the trolling motor in the water, and take off onto the lake.

Welcome to the inaugural voyage of Bateau Dunn, my new boat.

I’ve been in the boat market for a year, yet I was struggling to find “the one.” I’d spend my evenings scrolling through Craigslist, hunting for what I was looking for, but, like online dating, there wasn’t much worth my time.

So, I gave up on the search and forgot about it entirely—until recently, when, at a friend's wedding, I came across just what I was looking for. There was too much going on to make the purchase then. Fine by me; I needed some time to think.

A few days went by, and I was talking about the boat with my dad. When I described her, he said, “I think you should buy it.” That was all I needed to hear.

I emptied my emergency fund, confirmed that she was still for sale, and drove the three hours to make a final decision. After a brief test run at the local lake, some respectful haggling, and a handshake, I owned my first boat. I made my way back home feeling like I had accomplished a childhood dream.

Bateau Dunn is an 18-foot aluminum center console with a seaworthy hull and plenty of space for fishing. She’s been well taken care of and has a fun-loving, fifty-horsepower, 2-stroke outboard to power the journey. Her name is an homage to my grandparents. “Bateau” is Cajun French for boat. I’m lucky enough to trace my heritage to Louisiana, where French Canadian immigrants thrived in the cypress swamps and wetlands thanks to their skills as hunters and anglers. “Dunn” is the proud Irish name that makes up the rest of my genes. While I can’t be certain, I do wonder if any Viking blood from the island across the pond slipped its way into my own veins and fueled an obsession with open water.

I have been lucky enough to be around boats my entire life. Before I ever drove a car, I was behind the helm of a Sea Ray ski boat when I was just a wee lad on Lake Nagawicka. In the early days, I sat on Grandpa's or Dad’s lap. As I grew up, I sat on a pile of cushions so I could see over the steering wheel. Soon enough, this boat became an extension of myself in those warm Wisconsin summers.

As much as I loved the Sea Ray, it wasn’t a fishing boat. It was great for skiing, tubing, or cruising with a glass of wine, but it fell short in the fishing department. Thankfully, there was another.

In South Louisiana, my Paw Paw had an old bass boat. This was my ticket to the swamps, cypress forests, and wetlands of Cajun Country. When it was parked in the driveway, my cousins and I would spend hours jumping in and out, pretending to take on the high seas.

Since those early days, I’ve loved boats, and I still smile with every new vessel I board. Each one is full of character, and if you pay attention, it will tell you an incredible amount about its owner, passengers, and story.

As I’ve grown, grandparents have died, boats have been sold, and I’ve spent the past few years without a family boat.

Now, we’ve got a new family boat, and I’m the skipper :)

When considering the inaugural voyage, I knew I wanted one thing: to catch fish. And the best way to catch fish is to get some worms, hook ‘em under a bobber, and throw them out on the local lake. That we did, and fish we did catch.

Joined by the fishiest of friends, Bateau Dunn was baptized in fish slime, cold beer, and laughter. The motor may not have cranked for the first half-hour, but she was just nervous. All was forgotten once she finally turned over, and a few bass ‘n’ brim hit the deck.

We must have caught over forty fish that evening. It felt like a good omen, to say the least.

The future looks exciting as I think about all the upcoming adventures of Bateau Dunn. I dream of chasing lake trout in the Rockies, trailering her down to Louisiana for redfish, and, most of all, carrying on the legacy of the boats before me.

This scene played itself out night after night on the 2025 Ambassador Summit. Whether it was a gas station parking lot or along the riverbank, whenever there was free time, the hacky sack appeared. Each time, I observed with a curious eye—watching and learning from the crew.

Hacky sacking, from my perspective, is a fight against gravity. Considering its omnipresent nature, gravity is one hell of an opponent. Therefore, it takes an equally relentless hacky sacker to beat gravity. To succeed at this game, you must accept that sometimes, gravity will win. Like many things, you may lose the battle, but you can still win the war. And the key to winning this war is picking that hacky sack up off the ground and kicking it again.

You’d think that after 26 years, I’d learned this hacky sack/life lesson, but simply knowing something doesn't equate to putting it into practice. Failure is a necessary component of life. Without it, there's no substance to the day-to-day. Everything is easy, free, and frictionless. It’s satisfying on the surface, and in many moments, desirable, but this kind of life gets old.

Watching the hacky sack crew was a stark reminder that attempting to avoid failure leads nowhere.

The hacky sackers drop the sack, whiff it, kick it the wrong way, or trip over their Chacos, and it never fazes them. They laugh, stoop down, pick it up, and start again. Sometimes a curse word is uttered, rarely a sigh, but more often than not, it’s just part of the game.

It's a recognition of the reality that by no means can we be perfect. Failure is an integral part of the human experience, and it's worth embracing as an opportunity to improve rather than something to fear.

A friend of mine recently gifted me a copy of The Art of Living, a collection of passages from an early Stoic philosopher, Epictetus. Here are a few quotes from him that offer palpable insight into the topic of failure.

“No matter what happens, it is within my power to turn it to my advantage.”

“Everything has two handles: one by which it may be carried, the other by which it can’t.”

Both of these quotes serve as a reminder that our outlook on life is more important than the events themselves. This is a core principle of Stoicism: we cannot control most of what happens to us, but we can control how we respond. We will fail, but how will we respond to that failure? I hope to spend more time learning from it than dwelling on it.

To do anything well you must have the humility to bumble around a bit, to follow your nose, to get lost, to goof. Have the courage to try an undertaking and possibly do it poorly. Unremarkable lives are marked by the fear of not looking capable when trying something new.

This one comes from a section of the book titled The First Step and there are few words for me to add—quite honestly, it needs no explanation, because it captures everything I witnessed in the hacky sack circle.

Here’s a more modern example of our ability to determine how we react to a situation.

Jocko Willink - GOOD

I’m not sure how to describe this video or what caveats to give, but I’ll just say it’s probably not everyone’s cup of tea. Give it a watch and let me know what you think.

And last, but certainly not least, a recognition by Eddie Vedder that we will screw things up, leading us to regret our past choices. But it’s up to us to recognize that these mistakes are part of life and oftentimes, we are the only ones who cannot forgive ourselves. It's a message of self-love: forgive yourself for those failures, learn from them, and live in the present tense.

You can spend your time alone, re-digesting past regrets, oh

Or you can come to terms and realize

You're the only one who can't forgive yourself, oh

Makes much more sense, to live in the present tense

With one Summit under my belt, it’s impressive how much less stress I feel going into this year’s event. Nonetheless, it will still be a large undertaking and one that I am very excited about.

Recently, the CEO of the organization I work for, Trout Unlimited (TU), put out a request to staff to tell him our story about why we work for TU. Essentially, why do you do what you do? I’m not sure if anyone else replied, but I knew this was something I wanted to write about. I hope you enjoy.

Why do I do this?

Which begs another question: what do I do?

My goal is to build a generation of conservation-minded anglers—anglers who love to fish, but first and foremost, care about the protection of the resource. At TU, I manage the youth fly fishing programs, focusing on high school students with TU Student Clubs and college students through the TU Costa 5 Rivers program. Both of these programs allow me to help build this generation of conservation-minded anglers by using fly fishing as a catalyst for community and conservation ethics.

Why build a generation of conservation-minded anglers?

In simple (slightly selfish) terms, it’s because I love to fish. Without anglers who want to protect the resource, the resource will cease to exist—leading to no fishing, which, in my opinion, sounds terrible.

On a more grandiose level, I believe having more anglers isn’t just good for the resource—it’s also good for humanity.

Yes, I love seeing native trout in their habitat, but how about the community that fishing creates? How about the people it brings together, the conversations it ignites, and its ability to heal the soul?

I felt this healing power last week while on the lake with my fishing buddy. We all know that life has its fair share of mudflats, and those few hours in the boat together were better than a visit to a shrink. We caught bass and brim to our hearts’ delight, but the relief I felt after the trip wasn’t because of the fish I had reeled in. It was because of the powerful connection the two of us have, thanks to our mutual love of fishing.

I texted him afterward and expressed my gratitude. His response was, “Fishing, it’s never just that.”

I do what I do because I want to continue fishing and enjoying all the fine benefits that come along with this incredible activity. I have been blessed to identify as an angler since the day I could put a worm on a hook. I hope to continue to identify as an angler until the day I die. But for that to happen, we need people to care about this resource and care about each other.

Fishing might just be a silver bullet, and with it, we could save the world.

Nice job. It’s great to be reminded that with a little patience and understanding, we can navigate the ‘mudflats’.

I was not surprised by his introspective thoughts; he’s always been able to pull a metaphor out of the mud. The surprising part was that it was a perfect metaphor for the moment I was living through. I responded to his comment with:

Those bastards pop up everywhere…

What da hell is a mudflat?

In Bristol Bay, a mudflat is a large area of earth that is exposed as the tide ebbs out and the layers of the ocean floor become visible. They’re difficult to navigate because they look like a mirage. The beginning and end are hard to spot, leaving the viewer feeling confused and full of self-doubt. Despite all this confusion—and the not-so-pretty name—these mudflats are beautiful. They are rich with history, full of character, and can powerfully alter your course.

In life, mudflats aren’t all that different.

We all encounter them. They express themselves as a business partner taking their money elsewhere, the death of a loved one, or the end of a love story. They’re an inevitable obstacle, something we have to live through. And usually, the best approach is to be patient, understand them, and learn to navigate them.

To clarify, I see mudflats as distinct from other obstacles or challenges we face in life. As an example, let’s consider a flat tire in a foreign country. In this situation, the end goal is apparent: get back on the road. The route to get there may be hidden, but we know where we’re going. A mudflat isn’t like that. Not only is there no clear route, but we don’t even know which direction we’re headed.

Additionally, mudflats seem to have the complicating element of involving another person; they seem to be based on relationships, where we can't control all the variables to improve the situation. For example, if I’m concerned that I’m getting fat, I’ll just work out until I look like Tyler Durden. This doesn’t feel like a mudflat because I have access to all the tools I need to solve my problem.

In my current muddy situation, two people’s hearts are in different places. One wants more than the other is willing to give, but the one who wants more cannot change the other's heart. And so, the one left wanting must wait before attempting to navigate the mudflat.

As I cruised through Bristol Bay, I knew I would come across one of them. I could see the water shimmering as the smell of low tide hung in the air. I was riding high across the water when it came into view. Upon arriving, I banked toward shore, then the opposite way, trying to find a route around. A slight lump formed in my throat as I realized I had encountered my first mudflat of the journey. Self-doubt took over as I began to wonder if I had gone the wrong way. I wanted to know the route around, but I was searching for something I had no way of knowing.

So I sat. I watched the tide move in and overtake the mud. The water seemed to know exactly where to go as it showed me the knowledge I desired. It began with a small wave crashing on the surface. The wave pushed and pushed until a channel became visible, and it was no longer a crashing wave but a slow-moving river. Right before my eyes, this river persevered until it connected to another behind it. Together, the rivers on this mudflat showed me the path forward, and I cranked up the motor to escape. As I shot out the other side, I felt the clarity of open water in front of me, and self-doubt was pushed away by newfound knowledge.

I had made the right choice by being patient and understanding.

As I cruised through life, my heart danced a jig. It was overflowing with joy because love was on the horizon. Or was it a mudflat? I couldn’t tell. The mirage made it hard to know where a love story began and a mudflat ended. As I came closer, I realized that it was a mudflat—but easily one of the prettiest damn mudflats I had ever seen.

At full throttle, I came to a jarring stop. All that I had subconsciously hoped for had been a mirage, nearly all of it created by my own mind. I had fooled myself and run aground on this oh-so-beautiful mudflat.

At first, I tried to push through by pouring everything I had into it—love, honesty, hope. I turned the boat around, went even faster, and ended up with the same result. After a few attempts (I’m hard-headed), I learned that this was not an issue of effort or passion. And this was not an issue that I had all the tools to fix, because, like many mudflats, this one involved another person.

My dad’s comment came back to me, and I exercised a little patience. I allowed a few tide cycles to go by and watched the water ebb and flow off the mudflat. Soon enough, I spotted a route through that I could trust and believe in. It involved more understanding than I had previously brought to the situation. Understanding for my own heart and understanding for this other heart. With neither of these hearts being in the same place, it became clear they weren’t meant to be together on this mudflat.

I picked up my heart, having lost the feeling of love and joy, and broke away.

As I escaped, the tears welled behind my eyes, and I recognized that, like many things in life, the hardest choices are the ones worth making. I did my best to leave that mudflat with a smile—because one day, maybe I’ll come across this mudflat again and I’ll remember the way around. Or maybe, the mudflat will join me for a boat ride.

It’s great to be reminded that with a little patience and understanding, we can navigate the ‘mudflats’.

Thanks for the comment, Dad, and thanks for the inspiration for this edition of Kudos.

I’d love to hear about the mudflats in your life, let me know in the comments or shoot me an email :)

p.s. A few years ago, YETI was lucky enough to have me as a model in their article 79 Million Stronger. Those photo shoots are where the uber high-quality drone pictures by Travis come from.

Welcome to early summer in Bristol Bay. Welcome to the Alagnak River.

And, most importantly, welcome to Anglers Alibi.

As I stir in my sleep, a low hum approaches. It ebbs and flows in my dreams until my internal alarm clock awakens me.

I rise and look out the window to confirm what I felt. My feet hit the cabin floor; I tug on a pair of damp work pants, a crusty sweatshirt, and my XTRATUF boots. On the way out the door, I peek at my watch—4:30 a.m., and it's bright enough to be 8:00 a.m. in the Lower 48. By the time I make it to the dock, the low hum has arrived. It’s Graham in his notorious aluminum skiff named Moby Dick. Today’s haul consists of windows and doors for the log cabins we are building. This delivery comes as a sweet relief, compared to the endless supply of logs I’ve been hauling up the hill from his boat.

As we start to unload, the boss realizes an opportunity. He’s got two boats parked in town that need to be brought back to the lodge after some repairs. He calls out, “Cliffy! Can you go to town with a couple of the boys and bring the jet boats back?”

Shit. Today of all days? I have a meeting with my real boss at 9:00 a.m. I guess I’ll be missing that.

While in college, I spent three summers at Anglers Alibi. During the first two, I was a camp hand and fishing guide in training. My jobs included collecting firewood, filleting fish, scrubbing toilets, serving dinner, making coffee, doing dishes, and taking guests fishing in the evening. My day would begin at 4:45 a.m. and wouldn’t end until 11:00 p.m. After two years of being a grunt, I got my USCG captain’s license and came back for a season as a full-time guide.

Anglers Alibi was my summer home for those three years and still holds a large piece of my soul. As I’ve written before, Bristol Bay is probably my favorite place on Earth, and Anglers Alibi is no exception. This family-style fishing camp is nestled on the Alagnak River, just a few miles from the Bay. At Anglers Alibi, guests can expect warm hospitality, incredible fishing opportunities, and the best guides on the planet.

In summer, the Alagnak blossoms with life as salmon fill the river, moose and bears come to its banks, and birds of all sorts swoop in to eat their fill. As a young man, I can’t imagine a better place to spend the summer months.

Earlier this year, owner and operator JP sent out an email mentioning that he was building six log cabins for guests. Previously, guests stayed in canvas hoop tents that were comfortable but far from luxurious. The new cabins would be an impressive upgrade that required an equally impressive amount of work to complete. There are no skid loaders or four-wheelers at Anglers Alibi, so every task is done with human strength. Every piece of material is moved by human hands, and every hole or trench (there are many) is dug with a shovel.

Immediately after I read JP’s email, I called him and asked if he needed any help. Within moments, we were coordinating travel, and before I knew it, I was being asked to head to town and bring the boats back to camp.

“Hell yeah, I can!” I replied, as I thought about how to tell my 9-5 boss that I wouldn't make our meeting.

I scribbled her phone number on a piece of cardboard and handed it to JP.

Please text my boss and tell her that I won’t make our meeting — I’ll call her as soon as I get back to camp.

I sprinted up the hill, threw on my waders, and packed a bag with the essentials: water, two Snickers bars, a bag of chips, a first aid kit, an extra layer, a headlamp, and my Leatherman.

I gathered the crew that would be joining me and shared what little information I had, given the impromptu nature of the situation. I made sure they knew this wasn’t your average boat ride—it could go sideways fast. I’d always been taught that when you leave camp, bring everything you might need to survive a night in the skiff. Bristol Bay tides are massive, and with 23+ feet of water moving around, if we misjudged the river or the timing of the tide, we might be stuck out there for a while.

With a rough idea of our mission and excitement in our hearts, my crew and I hopped into Moby Dick and made our way downriver toward the town of King Salmon. Our journey would take us down the Alagnak River, through the Kvichak, into Bristol Bay, and finally, up the Naknek River. Once in King Salmon, we would grab the boats and retrace our steps back to camp.

As the river flew past, I scanned left and right, trying to remember the route from over three years ago. Alagnak literally means “making mistakes” in the local tongue, because the river channel is constantly changing.

As we made our way, I noticed new channels and branches had appeared, with many of the crossovers lying in different places than they used to. It would be a sporty ride home.

When we entered Bristol Bay, it was choppy, to say the least. With the tide tearing out and the wind blowing in, my teeth chattered as the aluminum skiff throttled along. All the while, a smile stretched across my face as I remembered my time fishing at a set net site just a few miles across the bay. Long rides in an aluminum skiff might hurt the shin bones, but they're good for the soul.

After a forty-five minute ride, we hit the beach in Naknek and loaded Moby Dick onto Graham’s trailer. I was lucky enough to get a spot inside the cab of his truck as we made the twenty-minute drive to where we would pick up the boats. The other boys rode in the back of the truck as we tore down the Alaska Peninsula Highway toward King Salmon, passing coastal brown bears, hitchhikers, and clouds of mosquitoes.

King Salmon is a small town that is vital to the commercial and sportfishing industries, as it is one of only two airports in Bristol Bay that can land a jet. These towns (Dillingham being the other) serve as hubs for the $2.2 billion industry that blossoms in the summer months, thanks to wild salmon. Despite their importance, it still feels like a foreign country when you land out here. Each town has the necessities, but nothing more. The people who live here year-round are hard-core Alaskans, and the folks who travel here for the summer are downright unique. These little towns are just another reason I love Bristol Bay.

Graham dropped us at the boatyard, and we were on our own. After fueling the boats, and with the tide turning in our favor, it was time to begin our journey down the Naknek River. We had about fifteen miles to go before we would enter the Bay. While the Alagnak is a muddy river with an ever-changing channel, the Naknek is full of car-sized boulders hovering inches below the water's surface, just begging an overconfident skiff man to hit them at full throttle.

We took our time in the river, avoiding boulders, taking in the sun, and feeling grateful that we weren’t at camp digging holes or schlepping logs up the hill. Eventually, the river opened, and the water looked like chocolate milk—a telltale sign that Bristol Bay was close. We jumped up on step and headed northwest toward home.

Bristol Bay is known for its mud, and the slick, never-ending deep brown mixture has been the death sentence of sailors and boats for centuries. Combined with massive tides, the mudflats around the Bay appear and disappear as if controlled by a menacing dictator. On the way in, the journey was a simple straight shot. Now, there were mudflats the size of an NFL stadium in our path.

Thankfully, we had the tide at our back, and with our jet sleds able to cruise through shallow water, we should be all right.

It was smooth sailing until we encountered our first flat. I banked right toward the shore, hoping to find an inner channel. After four minutes of going this way, my search for an inside channel was denied. I stopped the boat and made a U-turn, hoping I could get around the outside. I got the same result as before—until we hit a tiny inlet that the water had just started to flow over. We waited a few minutes while the tide pushed in and were able to punch it over the top of the shelf in just three inches of water.

Twenty minutes later, we came upon another massive mudflat. This time, we got sucked into a horseshoe bend with no outlet. At the whims of the tide again, we waited for the water to flood over before we could escape.

After this final muddy obstacle, it was smooth sailing as we continued onward to Anglers Alibi. A quick right turn out of the Kvichak River, and we were in the Alagnak River, heading home.

As I made my way through the lower river, I was confronted with the most sublime memories. Memories of spending every day on this magical river, of witnessing the last remaining wild salmon runs, and of living out many people's dream job. As this feeling of pure freedom blew across my face, my eyes began to twitch. The tears built behind my sunglasses and rolled off my cheeks into the water below.

I cannot fathom a life in which I hadn’t spent those three summers at Anglers Alibi. To say I learned a lot would be an understatement—every day on the Alagnak contained unique experiences, people, and conversations that helped craft the man I am today.

I’ll never be able to repay the debt I owe to Bristol Bay, but I am eternally grateful for all that she gave me.

Recently, the Caravan’s Writing Collective put out a “Community Prompt.” They requested to hear about a favorite summertime ritual and the soundtrack that goes along with it. It seemed right up my alley.

There are five key elements of my truck that I hold dear.

The driver's side window,

the passenger side window,

the rear versions of both those windows,

and the incredibly important sliding rear window.

Each one opens and closes, but the results are different depending on what combination of windows you open, how wide you open them, who is in the car, what song is playing, and what the weather is outside.

The sliding rear window stays open 24/7 once the month of June hits; this is non-negotiable. The airflow is immaculate and only improves when you open successive windows.

On the cool morning ride to work, I’ll crack the driver window a couple of inches. Just enough to pull air through the cab and pump my sinuses with a fresh dose of summertime pollen, but not too much to overpower the sweet sounds of Just Another Day by Queen Latifah.

After the work is done, I open the passenger window. Traffic is heavy (for my small town), and I’m not in a rush. I turn the bass up, the treble down, and let Natural Mystic by Bob Marley & The Wailers rattle the loose change in my cupholder.

En route to pick up my summer fling, I frantically open every window in an effort to kick out the smell of wet waders and spliff smoke. Moon Groove by Noizu plays as I nervously prepare to not make a fool of myself.

Once I arrive at her front door, I roll up her window a bit. She did her hair up cute, and boy, it’d be a shame if I messed that up. I switch the song to Oh So Shakey by Charley Crockett. I hope she likes it.

After I drop her off, the summer sun has warmed everything around me. En route home, all five windows are wide open. The air flies through the cab, creating a tornado of energy. I crank the volume to MAX as Toxicity by System of a Down destroys my eardrums. A larger-than-life smile creeps across my face, because hot damn—I love summer.

—

Summertime and driving with the windows down go hand in hand where I live, because it’s the only time of year that it’s possible. For these very special four(ish) months, this is our only chance to feel the breeze on our brows. Come late September, the clouds will appear, the PNW grocery store mist rains down, and the windows will stay shut until next June.

Here, if you don’t open your windows in the summer, you never will. Some mornings, I question my choice. I could leave the windows up, turn on some light AC, and avoid a stuffy nose at my desk, but what's the fun in that? Roll 'em down, let the fresh air blast you, and begin the day feeling revitalized by the natural world.

The pollen count may be up, but so are the vibes. Happy summer, Kudos readers.

Thanks to the Caravan Writers Collective and Matt Smythe for the inspiration here!

Looking to the future, I plan to continue this biweekly writing exercise. I hope to settle deeper into my voice and firmly identify what I bring to the table as a writer.

Some light housekeeping…

For those of y’all gracious enough to support my work financially: your subscription may be on auto-renewal. I’d hate for you to be automatically charged against your will, so I recommend checking when you switched to a paid subscription and keeping an eye out for an email notifying you that your subscription will renew soon. If you have any issues, just reply to this email—I’d love to help.

What I’ve learned.

Work hard, have fun. Everywhere I look in life, this message comes roaring through. Writing is hard, but it is also incredibly fun. It is a powerful release of emotion unlike anything else. To think and then write those thoughts is a seemingly simple process, but once you make the attempt, it can feel daunting. However, as you sit with those thoughts, and settle into the magic carpet ride of your inner consciousness, something beautiful happens. You find a flow—no different than a perfect turn in fresh powder—that moves you to create something beautiful.

Let’s run through some of my favorite posts from the past year. If you recently subscribed to Kudos, maybe check these out.

Also, if you have a favorite edition of Kudus, please let me know in the comments :)

—

The “best-performing” post of the past year was Outlook Cove. This personal narrative of my time in Kodiak, Alaska—helping with my friend Sydney's commercial fishing operation—was a blast to write. It’s a long post, but that hasn’t seemed to dissuade people from reading.

Not only can you clean the dirt off in a banya, you can also clean your soul. Spend twenty minutes in a room over 150 degrees, step out into the cool Alaskan air, take a few deep breaths, ideally jump in some cold water, then hop back in the banya, and you might just meet God. Shit, it’s the closest I’ve ever been. The banya encourages you to take a second, breathe deeply, and think about nothing. When I buy a piece of land, a banya will be the first thing I build.

—

It’s hard for me to pick a favorite post, but 26 Candles might be the one I’m most proud of. I dove headfirst into the vulnerability of life in my mid-20s, and it was quite rewarding. I felt that not only did the piece accurately express my emotions, but it also placed the reader in my shoes and helped them see what I was experiencing. I find it very difficult to accomplish this. But, at its core, I think that is the ultimate challenge of writing. Don't tell me… show me. Make me feel it. Make the words take my mind into your mind.

I made my 26th lap around the sun last week, and now I’m wondering—is this when the quarter-life crisis is supposed to hit? And, more importantly, is that dramatic or exciting? These days, I feel ever-pressed by the world around me. I wonder why I hold myself to such a high standard. I wonder why I don’t know where I’m heading. I wonder why I can’t seem to find love. And I wonder what I am doing wrong, despite getting so many things right.

So, I guess the quarter-life crisis is hitting. And yes, it’s a bit dramatic.

—

The story of my AIRE 1 weekend training, and a broader discussion about outdoor activity.

The rain soaked us as we dug furiously through the avalanche debris. With each shovel strike, the clock ticked down toward our ten minute goal. With every passing second, the likelihood of survival dropped significantly. To describe the snow as heavy would have been an understatement. It was essentially like shoveling wet concrete. Buried two meters below us was our best friend.

This was the Mt. Baker backcountry and thankfully, it was practice for the real deal.

—

I am obsessed with music. I love listening to it, thinking, and talking about it. This post was fiery, passionate, and incredibly fun to write.

Here’s another Sturgill line that’s bound to make you question the definition of modern country music.

Every time I take a look inside that old and fabled book
I'm blinded and reminded of the pain caused by some old man in the sky
Marijuana, LSD, psilocybin, DMT
They all changed the way I see
Love's the only thing that ever saved my life

I’ll let you read between the lines, but that’s quite an Outlaw perspective for a genre of music typically dominated by God-loving, drug-fearing folk. When this album was released in 2014, it achieved moderate success, but by no means soared off the charts. However, among those who appreciate the depth and grit of modern Outlaw Country, this album is considered one of the best ever. A country album centered around the exploration of hallucinogenic drugs may not work for Nashville, but it works for me. I recommend this album to anyone, psychonaut or not.

—

A lighthearted—and, in my opinion, funny—4/20 post.

Hot on the heels of gamblers and Bigfoot enthusiasts, anglers may be some of the most superstitious people on the planet. We’ve got lucky fishing hats, funny routines, and strict rules about what can and cannot be on the boat. We hold on to these superstitions because, deep down, they mean something to us—even if they are completely absurd.

As I look through what I’ve created this past year, I couldn’t be more proud of myself. Creativity is not something that has historically come naturally to me, but this feels right. Most importantly, I’m incredibly grateful to every single person who reads and subscribes to Kudos.

In college, I stopped playing competitive sports and I began to miss it. I felt this void each time I competed in a fierce game of beer pong. Shot after shot, the desire to win grew inside me. By the time the final cup was sunk, I wished I had an outlet other than red Solo cups.

Competition makes me feel ferocious in a way that drives me to win—unlike any other driving force. It alters my perspective, gives me a sharper edge, and builds unclouded motivation leading to a tangible boost in self-confidence.

In my youth, I may have leaned too far into this confidence. As a (young) adult, I’ve begun to recognize the benefits and potential downsides of the ego boost this competitive desire creates. But, like most things, this double-edged sword can be quite deadly when wielded effectively.

Recently, I had the opportunity to lean into the competitive edge—to let that fire burn a bit and to do my best not to let it get out of hand.

I sat at a picnic bench with Jake Bubbs, team captain of the Glutes of Glory. It was probably our third time meeting. He mentioned that his team needed a substitute for the annual Ski to Sea race in Bellingham.

“What leg?” I asked.

“Canoe,” he said.

“I’m in,” I replied.

He mentioned that it was car-free.

“Even better,” I said.

I didn’t know what “car-free” meant.

—

Ski to Sea is a Bellingham tradition that’s been around since 1973. It’s a multi-sport relay race that begins on Mt. Baker and ends in Bellingham Bay with seven different legs: cross country skiing, downhill skiing, running, road biking, canoeing, cyclocross biking, and sea kayaking.

About 500 teams compete every year—some stacked with Olympians, others just a bunch of buddies chasing a good time. As I mentioned earlier, our team was in the “car-free” division. This meant that we would complete the entire race—including transportation to and from the start and finish—without the help of a motorized vehicle. To do this, we would meet at a central location the day before the race, bike to our starting points, camp overnight, compete in our leg of the race the next day, and reconvene at the finish line—before BEGGING someone to drive us home.

Festivities began on the Friday of Memorial Day weekend when we gathered at Bubb’s house for a team dinner. As I checked out my modes of transportation—a tandem bike, a canoe trailer, and a canoe—I began to have doubts. The canoe and tandem bike looked sturdy, but I doubted the trailer’s strength. It had passion—but strength? Not so much.

On Saturday morning, my nerves were shaking. I hadn’t participated in a race in a while, and despite the low-stakes nature of this one, I still felt jittery. Additionally, I hadn’t ridden a bike for more than a lap around the cul-de-sac in years. This was going to be a twenty-five-mile round-trip journey, on a tandem bike, with a canoe in tow. I hoped I wouldn’t be a disappointment as a last-minute substitute.

When it came to canoeing, I had confidence. Growing up, I’d spent entire summers fishing out of a canoe. There had been a few nights when my buddies and I were chased off the lake by lightning—I hoped those moments of paddling fury could reignite the muscle groups and propel me down the river.

Once the Glutes of Glory boys had all converged at our starting point, we loaded everything up and—in a blur—the Type II fun began.

The other racers went up the mountain, while Jack, my fellow canoer, and I stayed en route to the canoe launch point. Upon reaching the bottom of the first hill, we learned some tragic news: the gears on our tandem bike didn’t work. With a canoe full of gear and two full-grown men on the bike, even the slightest incline became miserable. We ended up pushing the whole package up most of the hills—and then damn near hitting light speed on the way down. I frequently looked behind us to see the trailer wheels wobbling at an unsettling rate.

After the thirteen-mile journey, we arrived at the canoe check-in and quickly realized that our early-2000s, $250 leisure canoe, would be stout competition for the multiple boats priced over $3,000. We weren’t fazed, and time would prove that we were right not to be concerned.

Once approved for launch, we left the canoe and trailer with the local Boy Scout crew, who volunteered to keep watch over the boats Saturday night.

Our campsite was on the farm of a guy named Dusty. When the car-free trend started a few years ago, several people stepped up to help facilitate. Dusty was one of those folks. He offers his land to the canoe paddlers for camping. Thanks to people like Dusty, the car-free Ski to Sea is possible.

Sunday morning was filled with excitement and, surprisingly, fewer nerves. We cruised over to the canoe launch point and prepared ourselves for the race. The Boy Scouts were also serving breakfast, and made me a cold chili dog. I guess the kid didn’t have his Fire Safety Merit Badge—otherwise, he could have heated it up.

We were told that our road biker would take about two hours to finish his leg. This meant that around 11:30, we should be expecting him to roll through. Sure enough, at 11:15, they announced over the intercom: “Team 422, your road biker is 10 to 15 minutes away.” My heart skipped a beat as I made my way to the handoff location. I did a few jumping jacks, some arm swings, and my best Rocky impression. The competitive spirit started simmering in my chest as I mentally prepared to paddle until my arms fell off.

At 11:27, our road biker came flying through the finish line. I met him, grabbed the baton, and bolted away. It was a good quarter-mile run to the river, and I hauled ass. Upon arrival, Jack was there with our canoe, ready to go. I hopped in and we took off. Simultaneously, another team was launching their canoe just up river. I took the liberty of cutting them off—with a sly smile. The race instructor had asked us to play nice. Motherfucker, I’m playing to win.

I sat in the rear, Jack in the front, and we started paddling. There were eighteen river miles ahead of us, and the average finish time was three hours, with the fastest teams completing the course in an hour and fifty minutes. Our goal was two and a half hours.

I felt lucky to have some river experience under my belt because not only was this portion about paddling strength, but it also required reading the water. If you took a bad line, you would be pulled into an eddy or slow-moving water, which drastically reduced your pace. The trick is to stick in the fast water on the outer bank.

The race flew by. I drank two swigs of water, ate a Snickers bar, and eight gummy bears. I put every ounce of strength into the race, and I think we could have made it to Japan if we had more gummy bears.

We were making good time as we crossed the marker that signified two miles to the finish. This was the time to turn up the pace. And holy shit, I pulled some demons from within me in those last two miles. Jack and I hauled ass, never missing a stroke. Our $250 canoe could've towed a wakeboarder. As we passed the carbon fiber boats and Olympic athletes, I knew we had won the day.

We turned the final bend, and the finish came into view. There was a sea of boats in front of us, and the DGAF attitude continued as we sent a barrage of water their way.

When we hit the bank, our cyclocross rider met us. Unbeknownst to me, we had to carry the canoe up over a hill and across another finish line. While paddling, I had given my all—but, like most things, it turned out I had more to give. We hoisted the canoe with our trembling arms and stormed up the hill.

After completion, I turned to Jack and, as if we had just won a state championship, let out a furious howl. The competitive spirit had taken over me, and I was happy to let that fire rage. We finished in two hours and thirty-six minutes—right on time.

—

As we collected ourselves, Jack and I began to think about the fifteen miles of tandem biking, with the canoe trailer in tow, to complete the car-free Ski to Sea. Sadly, after just about three miles, the trailer’s axle snapped. Upon inspection, it was clear that the trailer was toast. The break left us feeling a bit hopeless as we hauled the canoe to the nearest road and called our teammates for a pickup.

Despite the canoe trailer challenges, we made our way to the finish line with our heads held high. Glutes of Glory had finished the race in eight hours flat, in fourth place among the car-free teams and 86th out of all 500 teams.

The boys tore through the beer garden in celebration as we reminisced about the race. It's impressive how quickly, upon completion, Type II fun becomes just good ol’ fun.

As we sat on a log overlooking Bellingham Bay, I was left with an incredibly calm feeling. I had met these guys forty-eight hours earlier, and now we felt like a team I could count on.

In that moment, I realized that not only did I miss competition, but I also missed the camaraderie that comes with being on a team. The intense moments, the sadness, the celebration—all of it builds a powerful bond between people.

The Ski to Sea race grounded me in a way I hadn’t felt in a long time. From the moment we gathered for the team dinner to the post-event celebration, I had a one-track mind—focused on the race and nothing else.

Thanks to everyone who made it possible—especially each member of the Glutes of Glory who gave their all to cross the finish line as fast as we could.

Solitude was our friend on the small lake and every paddle stroke sent ripples clear across to the far bank. We arrived at the first spot, and upon standing up, Sydney nearly flipped the boat. As the laughter rolled, I realized we had already accomplished our mission.

As the dry fly bobbed along, we waited with a feeling of hope and suspense that all anglers know. It’s a silent plea we make to the fish: Please—just bite the damn fly. We can try everything in our power to make that desire come true, but ultimately, we need a little bit of help from our friend, the fish. So we hope with all our might for a bite—and I PRAY that Sydney doesn’t stand up again.

Saturday evening fishing escapades call for a few additional elements, namely beer and music. In Washington, we drink Rainier—aka Vitamin R, Raindog, or Seattle Sunshine. As for the music department, we are again left with a leading option: country. The good kind. None of the autotuned bullshit that Nashville keeps pumping out. Our playlist (linked below) included Johnny Blue Skies, Rattlesnake Milk, Sierra Ferrell, and the Turnpike Troubadours.

As Sturgill sang, the late afternoon sun reached golden hour territory. Suddenly, a trout leapt out of the water after the dry fly. Sydney set the hook, but nothing pulled back. The bastard got away.

After a few more casts, we flipped the boat around to move spots. Amid the golden-hour distraction, two other anglers had joined us on the lake. Friends? Certainly not foes. I paddled closer, confirming the diagnosis of friends—Wilbur and Simon, two of my local fishing buddies. We exchanged knowledge, though neither of us had anything fruitful to share.

With Vitamin R coursing through our veins, we paddled onward and reached the peak angling buzz. After fishing the dry fly for a few hours, we switched both rods to streamers.

I launched an olive wooly bugger towards some lily pads, let the fly sink for a few seconds, stripped twice, paused, stripped again. Something bumped it… I stripped two more times, and the fish ate it! I offered Sydney the rod. Unimpressed, she scoffed and said, “Give me the net.”

The fish swam left, right, down, and up—like we were hell in a boat—something to be avoided at all costs. After dodging the net twice, Sydney scooped the fish and our cheeks hurt from laughing at the debauchery. A nice looking trout. After a quick picture, the ol’ boy slipped away with a perfect fish flop.

We made a few more casts. I feel satiated. Sydney was still hungry to get one, but today wasn’t the day. We turned back towards the launch.

As the sun set, the five minute paddle home was remarkably peaceful. What more could I want? I had a friend, a fish story to tell, a beer, and some good tunes.

Mission accomplished.

I was inspired to write this post by Matt Smythe of Glorious Mayhem, who recently wrote about a human's place in the natural world (read below). His words were powerful, but what really grabbed me was what he left unsaid. This ability to make me feel something without having to read unnecessary words was impressive.

Glorious Mayhem

THIS WILD FLAME

17 minutes into a 30-minute backroad commute. 17 minutes into a driving rush of Misfits, Fugazi, Dead Kennedys, and Operation Ivy. Fog like soup, like over-applied gouache, has erased the expanse I know by heart. Rolling fields, vineyard rows, the lake a sprawl between hardwood acres blanketing rolling hills. Normally, the music matches my speed. Matche…

Read more

a year ago · 14 likes · 6 comments · Matt Smythe

Kudos is an opportunity for me to grow as a writer. Today’s post was an attempt at brevity without sacrificing emotion. Too often, I rely on additional words to improve my writing when in reality, I wish I could say more with less.

If you have any tips, I’d love to hear them. Otherwise, thank you very much for reading.

Big Cliff Watson died when I was eleven so there wasn’t much time to get to know him, but I did know and love his gardens—which were bountiful to say the least. Eggplants, tomatoes, jalapenos, beans, herbs, the whole gamut. I have vivid memories of the earthy smell, the topsoil full of worms, and the lush green plants that seemed to tower over me as a small child. At that age, gardening seemed so simple. Take a seed, put it in the dirt, water it, and then boom, eat the fruits of your labor.

From that age, I was intrigued but failed to understand the complexity of growing food. Now, I realize the multitude of interactions happening around us that affect a garden: the sun rising and setting, the clouds bringing rain or shade, the dirt and the world of nutrients it holds, and the air—the ingredient these plants move in and out of their leaves—that is so important to our life as humans. Over time, I’ve begun to understand that gardening is hard, mysterious, and rewarding.

Countless people have influenced my intrigue with growing things. In the beginning, it was my mom’s herb garden. She never fooled around with vegetables, but each summer she planted basil, dill, parsley, and chives in a pot on our back patio. These herbs served as a garnish on the summer dinners we ate as a family. It was a powerful connection between plants and food.

My first attempts at gardening were in my early teens. I expressed this desire to my parents, and they (like always) jumped at the opportunity to support my interests. It was fun for a few summers, but it became difficult once I started spending the growing season on commercial fishing boats.

It’d be a shame to not mention the other folks that played a role in my appreciation of gardening. For starters, my Aunt Katie who had incredible flower and vegetable gardens at her house in Maine. When we visited, she would point out the weeds for pulling, and then I’d get to hose down the plants. I just enjoyed spraying the bugs out of the air, but she was more than willing to let me have my fun.

Remember the mushroom man, Uncle Cassim? He was known for growing a variety of dahlias in all sorts of colors and styles, but in my mind, when thinking of Cassim Dunn, I immediately think of peppers: shishito, poblano, serrano, jalapeno—all of them he would start from seed in the hot sun of Taos, New Mexico. Each summer when he made the trip to Wisconsin for the family reunion, he brought a pair of plaid shorts, a striped shirt, and a suitcase overflowing with these lovely peppers.

Finally, both of my grandmothers have the greenest thumbs around. My Grandma Pat had massive flower gardens surrounding her house—a collection of annuals and perennials under an immense canopy of oak trees. In summer, I would watch the progression of the plants as they shot out of the dirt, began to bloom, made me sneeze, and then progressed into a deep green. By the end of the summer, the gardens were so thick you could barely decipher where a purple cone started and a hydrangea ended. My Mimi, aka Cajun Grandma, has continued the gardens of Big Cliff after his passing. I’ve been lucky to learn and work with her into my young adult years in a way I didn't have the opportunity to do with the original Cliff Watson. She’s taught me how to plant a tomato seedling, how and why to pull the “suckers” off, and how to keep pests out—her preferred method for any mammal is a B.B. gun. I like that approach.

I’m grateful to all of these folks for planting the gardening seed within me. The moment that the sunset moves into the evening, I start checking the Farmers Almanac, thinking about when the last frost is, and planning how to lay out the farm.

2025

We have a kick ass raised bed in the backyard and this year, with one season under my belt, I already feel ahead of the game. In the 2025 garden, we’ve got arugula, lettuce, Swiss chard, baby bok choy, two varieties of pole beans, shishito, poblano, serrano, and purple bell peppers, and, of course, some cherry tomatoes.

Gardening fulfills me in many ways—everything from the simple enjoyment of being outside to the immense satisfaction of growing my own food. Additionally, I love to get dirty. I finish the day behind a desk, kick off my shoes, and hop in the dirt pile barefoot, on my hands and knees, pulling up weeds and checking out the bugs that have made a home in the soil.

Above all, the mystery of the activity is so exciting. As a novice gardener, so much of my success is left up to chance. I do my best to read, learn, and think about my actions, but at the end of the day, it requires a bit of luck for it all to work out. There is magic hidden beneath the veil of black earth that I don’t yet understand. Similar to fly fishing, there are countless variables out of my control—and I love that. I’ve got to get a bit lucky with my garden, and that's a mystery I’m happy to watch unfold.