Random Thoughts of the Day - March 26th, 2026

Thank you for all the wonderful thoughts yesterday. If you can't tell, I am madly in love with my wife and am more than happy to shout it from whatever mountaintop (electronic or otherwise) I'm on. That said, let's get into it!

Today's Ponderings:

1. As a follow-up to my last note about Fly Tyer's Dungeon, I got my sampler goodie pack in, and I can confidently say...holy crap all the new stuff is incredible. So just to recap, we're putting together a $50 order from Fly Tyer's Dungeon for someone who is new to fly tying.

   1. Here goes:

      1. Skeeter Fuzz Dubbing: Superfine and no flash.

      2. Simply Scud Dubbing: Slightly flashy and stiffer fibers to comb out for bugginess. Good to mix with other dubbings.

      3. H2O Twist: Basically Krystal Flash, but cheaper.

      4. H2O Multi-Mix: Get a couple hanks of these for your flat tinsel needs.

      5. Fish Flash in Clear: Wider tinsel for wing cases.

      6. Baby Bug Back: For scud-like bodies.

      7. Fish Tinsel: I really like this stuff for ribs. Can split strands to fit fly size.

      8. Micro Chenille: Red for worms

      9. Mop Chenille: Just do it and don't tell anyone.

      10. Standard Chenille: Red and a couple naturals.

      11. Bug Legs: Black for most applications, white plus sharpies for any other colors and barring.

      12. PIP (Parachute Indicator Post): White and whatever hi-viz color is most visible to you. For me, that's Hot Pink.

      13. Shuck Yarn: Great stuff for emergers, spinners, etc.

   2. I'm at $33.55 and I've added pretty much all my commonly used colors! From here, add some more colors to your selections, or try out some other materials.

      1. Here's my cart:

         

         

         
         
         

A Not-So-Random Thought of the Day - March 25th, 2026

Lots of random thoughts to share today, but one that is not, so let's start with that:

My wife and I have been together for seven years, and today is our anniversary. We met in a fantastic Mexican restaurant. My wife is a fan of all things Canadian, and I had decided to show up in more or less a Canadian tuxedo of denim. I was obsessed with exploring every inch of the mountains I could get my boots on after moving up from South Florida just six months prior. My wife was a walking confluence of all things nerd, and damn proud of it. Board games, Dungeons and Dragons, graphic novels, sci-fi movies; if it was nerdy, she was ready to rattle off five questions about it in rapid fire. Her smiles flashed like diamonds. Her laughs were infectious; whether it was her barely constrained, cartoonishly mischievous high-pitched giggles that escaped around the hand covering them or the full-bellied roars that shook the restaurant in reaction to some corny joke I'd told.

We often tell people we thought we were very different people on our first date, and that it wasn't love at first sight, but we went on another date because we liked what we saw in one another. While that's certainly one, very normal, well-adjusted, human way to put it, I think I'd like to expound on that.

I think the gravitational pull of every speck of stardust that guided my steps to that moment where I sat down and shared a plate of tacos with my wife for the first time was the universe putting me exactly where I needed to be.

I grew up a city kid with no experience living in the country. The universe felt it appropriate that the best law school to accept my application was in the middle of the country. As I was looking for someone to take my city apartment lease over, it introduced me to someone who had a friend going to the same law school. I met up with that person, who quickly became one of my best friends. She adopted a dog in her first year of law school, and I would steal her dog for walks to clear my library-fried brain.

Wanting that, I volunteered at a shelter all summer, had four dogs picked out, any one of which would've been fine. But the universe decided they were to guide other people through life, and they were all adopted the weekend before I was ready. But as soon as I found out, a call came in over the radio that the neighboring county had taken in over 60 animals in a hoarding rescue, and were sending the overflow to us. The first dog out of the truck was covered in dirt but something deep and ancient told me to get that dog. As he patiently allowed me to give him a bath, the dirt yielded to the water and underneath was a stunningly beautiful goofball Australian Cattle Dog mix named Dingo.

Being a broke law student working three jobs over the summer, I didn't have money to go out to the bars every weekend. But Dingo seemed to like going for walks, and we lived on the edge of the Hoosier National Forest in Indiana. So we started going on longer walks. Then overnights. Then through-hikes across the state. I unquestioningly threw myself into this new state of wanderlust; running out of my last classes for the week to grab Dingo and head to the woods in search of adventure. After a series of soul-crushing years in South Florida, realizing that law school had transformed me from a born-and-raised city kid to a country boy, I made the move to the mountains and rivers of East Tennessee, following the path the universe, through Dingo, laid before me.

"So, it's obvious, even from before our first date, that we're two very different people. I have to ask: Why did you agree to go on a date with me?" I asked my wife over a second-date brunch of chicken, waffles, and bottomless mimosas.

"Well, we are different, but everybody nerds in their own way. And you are very attractive, but honestly? I really liked your dog. And dogs know humans better than humans do."

W, from the door of our home, down the road, through forests, up mountains, across waters, to the moon, over the vastness of space and time, to the edge of the universe and back again, I love you more than anything, and always will.

The Mental Stress of Getting Skunked

It's okay, it's no big deal. It's fine...really...IT'S...FINE.

"Well that was an incredible waste of time," I thought as I walked back to the bank, my right leg weighed down by a couple gallons of river water I'd taken on from a leak in my waders. Just icing on the cake. A skunk cake where I fished four hours without a single bite. I threw everything I had at the water, knowing there were fish in the area, and had no idea why I wasn't getting any action. I felt like I spent four hours doing nothing, learning nothing, and had nothing to show for it. That's not true at all, but we'll get to that.

As I steamed and fumed on the way home, dealing with emotions that I didn't really understand, I realized I needed to talk through things with my wife. As always, she helped me get to some good conclusions and ways forward.

Getting Skunked is a Failure

I tried for years to tell myself after getting skunked, "Hey, any day on the water is a good day." While there are plenty of people who genuinely have that outlook, I'm not one of them. Surprisingly, admitting that to myself actually made me feel better, not worse. Let me explain.

My overarching goal as a fly fisherperson is to become a more competent fly fisherperson. Whether I'm actually out on the water, or I'm tying flies, prepping my gear, looking at maps, listening to podcasts, reading books; all of these activities are in furtherance of getting better at fishing. When I go fishing, I may have subgoals that I have set for myself, such as working on nymphing presentations. But the most objective measure of my progress toward becoming a more competent angler is catching fish. Stated differently, catching fish is a sub-goal to becoming a better angler. So, if I catch no fish, I have failed my sub-goal of catching fish.

And that's okay.

There is still plenty to gain in the face of failure, but it requires honesty and reflection. For me, failure imparts a sense of personal responsibility. It creates an urge to make note of my mistakes, learn from them, change approaches, try again, and measure results. If I dismiss the skunk with a casual "hey, just another good day on the water; we'll get em next time," there's no urgency.

More importantly, I'm lying to myself by saying it was a good day. String enough "good" days on the water together, and eventually I'll just give up. With the adult responsibilties I have on my plate, I have better things to do than wander aimlessly on the water, and I'll go do those instead of wasting my time. And once you feel like you're wasting your time, that's when you get closer to making the dreaded TRUE LAST CAST, instead of the ONE MORE LAST CAST.

I Didn't Waste My Time Today

By starting from a place of honesty, I also have to be honest and say that, despite failing to catch fish, I didn't waste my time out on the water. I made progress toward my goal of becoming a more competent angler.

So looking back at this weekend, I failed by not catching fish, but I didn't waste my time. I fished a new stretch of water, in a new watershed. I learned the topography of that stretch. I saw multiple hatches of different aquatic insects. I took a new rod out for a spin. I fished with split shot for the first time. I saw that rigid edges of waterproofing tape on waders can cause premature failures. I learned that the spot I fished in is frequented by non-anglers visiting a state park, and that it's probably better to fish it on inclement weather days.

To wrap this stream of consciousness up, everybody has their own outlooks toward fishing. Above all else, I'd urge anybody to find what works for you, what makes you happy, and stick with it. But if you're struggling, if you're frustrated, take some time to think about how you feel, try to be honest with yourself, talk to someone whose input you trust, and you might gain a new outlook that brings you more happiness on the water.

You all should do that, though; not me. This article was entirely hypothetical. I never get skunked.