It turns out when I originally posted what was meant to be a complete list of my fly-fishing stories (below), I left out a few pieces. This post corrects that egregious error of self-promotion.
The three new stories included here are “Fly-Fishing on City Streets Is Weird. That’s Why I Love It” (The New York Times Magazine, August 5, 2020), “Here’s One More Reason to Visit Charleston This Fall” (Bloomberg Business Week, October 11, 2017), and “Catching a Bonefish: The Bucket List Adventure” (AARP The Magazine, April 2, 2018).
I hope you enjoy them.
Back in August, I wrote a story for the New York Times Magazine about a strange habit I have that’s been helping me cope with quarantine isolation. Now I’m posting it here, too. I hope you enjoy it.
Eleven years ago on Father’s Day, a month shy of his 80th birthday, I took my father fly-fishing for the first time.
When I was a kid, my father and I would play catch in the backyard with a football or baseball and shoot baskets or play “horse” on a hoop mounted on our garage, often until well after dark and sometimes, in the dead of winter, until our hands were so raw you could still feel the sting in your fingertips the next morning. As I got older, we ran, skied, and golfed together.
As it is for many…
Photograph by Peter Bohler
Illustrations by Olivia Waller
When you lose your job, your wife loses her job, your daughter takes a bad fall at summer camp and needs knee surgery, and your 89-year-old father has a heart valve replaced, all in the span of three months, there is only one thing to do, at least if you’re me: Go fishing.
Nothing else focuses my mind like casting a fly to a sparkling spot on a gin-clear river, staring at it as it drifts along the water’s surface, and, with luck, watching a fish rise to take it. And so…