Late October, 1844. Somewhere along the bottomlands of the Platte, two days east of Fort Laramie. The wind has teeth in it now, and…
Read the storyThe Argument Over the Feeders My dad and me closed on one hundred ninety nine…
My buddy Travis and I were splitting a case of beer on his tailgate last…
I spent forty-one dollars on a single minnow-colored crankbait the week before, and the fish in Boone Creek did not…
The worst sound in the woods is not a twig snapping behind you. It is the click you hear when…
I spent all summer shooting flat. That was the problem, only I didn’t know it in September. I’d set up…
I spent four months telling myself I was ready, and the whole time I was setting up a miss that…
You wake because the mold is lying empty between your boots, and the morning is cold enough that the last…
The first time a real buck walked under my stand, I dropped my arrow. Not once. Twice. And both times…
The first thirty-five days I fished that stretch of river, I did not catch one smallmouth. Not a dink. Not…
I used to think wind was the only thing that mattered, and the wind was always in my favor, because…
The first duck I ever shot clean dropped straight out of the sky and hit the water with a sound…
