A brief hiatus from our careers...

Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.

- Ferris Bueller

Liz and I have decided to accept some advice and take something of a temporary, mid-life retirement while we have the energy, patience, ability, and money. Mm hmm, we've done the "sabbatical."

For three months, we'll be neo-gypsies living between the trees, riverbanks and painted white lines. ♪Picture Liz/Josh in a boat on a river, ♪ with tangerine trout and marmalade slashes... ♪ Because "the experiences, Johnny."

For the first leg, we're splitting three weeks between Minnesota's Duluth, the Twin Cities and my hometown, Mankato to catch up with family, friends and nostalgic hangouts. From there, we'll head up to northeast Montana's American Prairie Reserve, work our way back to Belgrade, Montana along some central-Montana back roads, then take week-long trips at some preferred boondocks throughout the rest of the Northern Rockies in our adventure-mobile.

So far we've filleted some Superior macks, taken a long walk on the beach, watched the fireworks from Duluth's harbor, poked around some Minnesota trout streams, peered into the Boundary Waters at the Sawbill entrance point, broken bread and shared local beers with some favorite people, and watched the Minnesota Twins flop from the first row. And we've still got the better part of two weeks to go in Minnesota.

Here's hoping it's everything we hope it to be and that you all have this opportunity sometime in your lives.

To follow along, look for #sabbaticallife on my Instagram.

"Fish long and brag"

Small, seemingly inane comments can make an impact.

As an assignment from my 8th grade English teacher, I created a booklet about my fishing experiences (including catching a 27-inch, 8.2-pound pregnant walleye on Sloppy Joe's Bar of Lake Mille Lacs, Minnesota, on Father's Day weekend 1993), called Lake Mille Lacs Days. Also included was a goofy anecdote to my dad about the first "big" fish I caught - a 3.25-pound northern pike on Lake Sakatah (the bullhead capitol of the world).

The assigning educator was an interim teacher - not even an English teacher, rather a long-term unspecialized substitute. Her simple, lukewarm praise propelled me to decide I'd like to be a fishing writer. Her feedback was something like, "That was different..." or "You have a unique writing style..." Mild as it was, it stuck with me.

The main story of the booklet:
I remember one day, a few back, at Kamp Dels. It was a dreary, drizzly Sunday morning (approximately 11:00). I was down on the dock fishing for anything that would bite when I felt a pretty good tug. By the time I reeled it in to the dock, I realized this wasn't no bullhead! [It was a northern pike.] There was a nice old fellow sitting next to me and I asked if he could hold it for me while I went to get you, mom and Ryan. When I got to Ryan, he said that you and mom went for a walk so I told Nancy and she told me to tell Gary while she went to see it (Gary was in the bathroom). I walked into the bathroom and saw that there was a guy in there, on the can. Being unsure of who it was, I waited, as did he, to build up enough courage to see if it was Gary. After about 10 minutes, I asked and it was Gary. I told him the scenario and he said he would be down in a second. By the time I got back down to the dock, I had to push my way back to the nice old fella' who was graciously holding my catch. Anyone who questioned my shoving was politely told, 'It's my fish!' and they got out of my way faster than a walleye chasing down a minnow. Then the nice old guy gave my fish back and I thanked him for his time and apologized for all the cuts on his hands. As I walked up to the barn to get it weighed, I ran into you and mom at the bottom of the hill and you guys walked with me to the barn. I remember one guy stopped his van next to us and told his son, 'Now that's a real fish!' Then we got up to the barn and we weighed it and it weighed 3 1/4 lbs. It was [also] a cloudy dreary day when I caught my walleye. The moral of the story is: fish on cloudy, drizzling, dreary Sunday mornings; it's when the big ones bite.*

*Smart kid, that Sunday thing is true.

It's my fish!

 My mother sent me the booklet after she found it clearing closets recently - I had no idea it still existed. If some memories are Bergan folklore, she discovered a runestone as far as I'm concerned.

Page 1:
My gift of writing is for you:

    Dad.    

   May you fish long and brag.   

   Love, Joshua   

Although he wouldn't be able too see that well-wish through, his progeny has, for him. A fishy legacy.

Additional excerpts:
I used to     be afraid of leetches [sic] because I thought they'd suck me to death.  
But now     I know that you can pull them off fairly easily if they decide to suck.     

Who am I?
     I am your son, hopefully someday an avid walleye fisherman with a lakeside cabin on lake Mille Lacs.    

I haven't grown up to be John Gierach or even Al Linder, nor do I own that lakeside cabin, but I am elated to occupy my tiny nook in the collective fishing-writing catalog, and thrilled to have this piece of personal memorabilia.

So take a kid fishing, and encourage that kid.

Look at the size of that belly! The fish, jerk.

Fishing the "warm"

Fishing's different in Minnesota than in Montana. It's Aluma instead of Clacka. Northern instead of pike. The smell of an outboard churning through algae. The haunting call of the loon. Eurasion milfoil & Canadian waterweed. Piscivorous fish. Perch. Bass. Panfish. Carp in which no one sees any sporting value. Blind casting. You never know for sure what's on your line. It's a nice change of pace, but I'm happy to back in trout country.