I lifted up my twelve gauge into some kind of a ready position and crept into the woods.
My learning curve for fly fishing in New Zealand was spent swearing fish had echolocation and casting through air that would sooner yield me a flying mammal than a fish beneath the surface of the water.
Tucker is almost quivering, sitting on the edge of excitement and instinct.
Mark bundled beneath the hood of his sleeping bag and pondered the precipitation.
The town of Sintra sits within eyesight of the ocean and clings to the rolling green hills of Portugal.
The ritual started for my brother and me about twenty-five years ago.
I first encountered wild, native Brook Trout in the Appalachian foothills of Western Pennsylvania, not long after I’d begun fly fishing
By capturing moments and memories from the river and the wild, we remind readers of our relationship with place and inspire others to find their own floodplains to explore. As the river reinvents and redefines itself day by day, season by season, it’s an open invitation for us to rethink what we thought we knew. We hope to do the same with FLOODPLAINS, providing story angles, photographs and illustrations from the outside.