Connecticut Fly Angler

It was the 24th of December. A light, clean blanket of snow had carpeted the landscape and dressed the trees. It hadn't yet been sullied...

Cheyenne and I walked down to the Bridge Pool one dull, chilly November day. This was the first time she'd ever been to my home river wi...

My home river will never be what it was when I first fished it. I’ve accepted that fact. What it means to me though will never change. There...

Ever since I caught my first trout over 20 inches on Christmas Eve Day in 2013, a spectacular wild brown I name Grandfather, I have fished m...

There's a certain point in December when my home water goes from fishing anywhere from pretty mediocre to downright terrible to fishing ...

My home river is the place I learned how to read moving water. It's where I first started lifting rocks and looking at what was living o...

Home means different things to different people. Too me, home is a specific small mountain stream in Eastern CT, sheltered by hemlock and ...

If you enjoy what I'm doing here, please share and comment. It is increasingly difficult to maintain this blog under dwindling readersh...