August is a tough month. By the time it arrives, I’ve already had a full summer, starting with early turkey-hunting trout trips — or trout-fishing turkey trips — in Minnesota’s Driftless and northern Michigan. After that are the the big bug hatches, hundreds of winding river valley miles, too many late nights and bug bites, and a comprehensive collection of the Upper Great Lakes’ mayfly and caddis species pasted to the bumper of my truck. Then musky season starts, with its early mornings, sore arms, two-stroke smoke, and well-seasoned sea legs.

My father once told me that “home is where you hang your hat.” I believed it, for a time, at least. I mean, as a young boy, who was I to argue with the wisdom of a grownup?

I’ve come to realize, though, that “home” is where everything seems to fall into place just right. For me, it’s where things make sense. Where the pieces and parts of the world interact just so, and they work together to manifest something approaching perfection.