That first ominous little tickle in the back of my throat came on the morning after a fairly raucous evening of hand-rolled cigars, butter-smooth rum and, of all things, the hideous mixture of vodka and Red Bull. It was one of those nights that, at my age, you only endure on a far-flung fishing trip away from the steady influence of someone who has your best interests at heart. I remember looking around the dark balcony of the flashy, noisy and generally chaotic nightclub and thinking to myself, “What the hell am I doing here?”

As I get ready for an upcoming saltwater trip, I’ve been enduring the challenges most right-brained thinkers deal with when it comes to organization and preparation. For me, it generally starts with unpacking my duffle from my last big trip. That means I have several notable organizational obstacles. First, I need to remove everything “trouty” from my bag. Yes, I’m a procrastinator — I’ve embraced this trait and have come to grips with the fact that I tend to work best in short bursts and on a deadline.

Years ago, when I was working to protect public lands in the West from any number of extractive industrial activities, I was fond of telling the generally conservative hunters and anglers that I came into contact with on a daily basis, “You don’t have to be a left-wing radical to engage thoughtfully in conservation. You just have to be pragmatic and understand what it is you’re fighting for.”

Oh Lord, my God
When I, in awesome wonder
Consider all the worlds Thy hands have made
I see the stars, I hear the rolling thunder
Thy power throughout the universe displayed
Then sings my soul, my Savior God to Thee
How great Thou art, how great Thou art
Then sings my soul, my Savior God to Thee
How great Thou art, how great Thou art

— Carl Boberg, 1886

This creek and I go way back. When I first moved to Idaho 25 years ago, it was one of the first blue lines on the map that I searched out. I found its subtle course through a lodgepole forest in what was then a crisp new copy of DeLorme's Atlas and Gazetteer for the Gem State. That same collection of maps is now a dog-eared, faded compilation of a quarter century’s worth of adventure. The adventure started here. On this modest little willow-shrouded, beaver-dammed trickle through the Targhee National Forest, just outside of Yellowstone National Park.

It’s possible we’ve taken our passion for native trout a bit too far. Not that North America’s native fish should be held in disdain. Far from it.

In putting the notion of Manifest Destiny into practice — first by identifying it as the inevitable future for European Americans in the mid-1800s and then by actively pursuing it as an ideal — our predecessors doomed more than just the Indigenous people of our continent.

Carl Jung coined the term “synchronicity.” The term applies when multiple, unrelated events play out in a way that makes them seem intertwined, even when there’s no evidence that they are linked in any way.

In February of 2016, I was in tiny Punta Allen, Quintana Roo, steeped in Mexico’s wild and jungly Yucatan. I’d spent a perfectly lovely Sunday prowling the flats for bonefish and permit, catching the former and getting an abrupt middle finger (fin?) from the latter.

Sometimes the enemy of good isn’t evil. Sometimes the enemy of good is perfect. This may be the case on Buffalo Creek, a wild trout stream that runs through the Absaroka-Beartooth Wilderness of southern Montana before crossing into Yellowstone National Park. Buffalo Creek is a tributary of Slough Creek and, eventually, the Lamar River. It’s also been identified as the source of the non-native rainbow trout that have persistently been showing up in both Slough Creek and the Lamar.

My fascination with Labrador started sometime in the late 1990s. Having grown up in the mountains of Colorado, where seemingly every little creek and beaver pond was stacked with non-native brook trout that topped out at about eight inches long, I yearned to feel the tug of a real brookie — a five-pound behemoth that swam where it was supposed to swim. That place, of course, was Labrador. The far-flung Canadian province might have been on the same continent, but for a young angler with limited means and designs on a somewhat normal existence, Labrador might as well have been on the moon.

I don't want to live on that kind of island
No, I don't want to swim in a roped off sea
Too much for me, too much for me
I've got to be where the wind and the water are free.

— Jimmy Buffett, Cowboy in the Jungle