Ryan Brod

From the poling platform I spotted the dark shapes—five or six of them—milling over light-colored bottom. “OK Dad,” I said, “I’ve got a group straight ahead, 90 feet.” I poled the skiff quietly, keeping my eyes on the black backs of the tarpon. They resembled suspended logs, except that every once...

The ice is out and I’m itching to get on smallmouths. The fact that I’ve been quarantining in my apartment with two roommates who can’t even talk fishing with me isn’t helping. Problem is, water temperatures are barely nudging 40 degrees. This means that although I’ve been daydreaming about big...

When I get to the tip-up, the silver spool spins fast enough to raise bubbles in the hole. It slows to a moderate spin, consistent, without stopping. I give a thumbs-up to my dad who trails behind me. He picks up his pace, navigating the lake’s crusty snow cover on his one good knee. By all...

When it finally happened, I was thinking about lunch: moose stew bubbling over the Coleman stove back at camp or turkey and cheese on a bulkie roll. I’d been casting since dawn, and both choices seemed tempting. Standing at the stern of my canoe, I gazed across the water into Canada. Large, spiky...