Somewhere along the quest for Instagram fame, us anglers have been in search of that big fish. The big toothy bastard that will get you free shit or that epic salmon that makes you nut as you see it flying through the air. But honestly, fuck that. Who cares about the size of the fish you catch, really. Not what its about.


The transition from fish bum to student has been a little difficult, keeping me away from the water and closer to the crowded city. I recently went on a dinner date with my real Professor, and some ladies of course. I asked him if he went fishing lately and he said he was too busy as of recent, and I agreed, saying I haven’t been fishing for a few days. Like a few days was in reality to me, what felt like a few weeks.

When I think of fishing this summer I think of high elevation streams, spring fed water running ice cold in backwood Vermont. I can’t get those sexy Brookies off my mind. There is something magical about fishing these Native Americans. Belonging to the mountain streams way before we inhabited Vermont’s lush landscape, these fish are epic to hunt, providing a more than rewarding fight. We find them in deep clear pools suspended under overhanging rocks. We fish them with light colored caddis, drifting them and stripping them trough the pools, waiting for the small hit.


Brookies may be on the smaller side of the spectrum for sport fishing, but will always hold a special place in my heart. Despite their size, and eagerness to consume bugs, these fish are rather tricky to catch. The hit and spit the imitation fly out in less than a second. Crouching behind rocks, hand up high as to get as much line out of the water as possible to be ready for the gentle strike. We stare at our drifting caddis, imagining that any second we see bubbles and the flies disappearance, and the take. Every once in a while you get to see a pretty ambitious strike and watch as the fish fully ejects from the water like a torpedo to take your fly. Other times we catch them on the strip, imitating a caddis swimming right before it reaches the surface film and flies away.


So to the next person that is bragging about the size of the fish they catch, let em know whats good and flip him or her the bird and tell them they’re suss. Fishing isn’t about fame, media, or any sort of big dick contest. Fishing is about a passion. True love. Beatrice. A fragile privilege we are lucky to be able to enjoy. It’s about the fish.