Long before Phinnigan would enter a Maine grouse cover, we had something considerably less glamorous to work on: walking down the road together.

There were no birds involved. No shotgun. Just a young English setter, a leash, and an awful lot of enthusiasm pulling in the opposite direction.

I could already picture him working through the autumn woods. But first, we needed to learn how to get somewhere without him pulling against his collar and straining his throat.

That was where our preparation began.

About fifteen years ago, I loaded my truck and headed north to Labrador for the first time. I knew I was going in search of brook trout. What I didn’t know was how much the journey itself would come to mean to me, or how the people waiting at the other end would become part of my life.

Since then, heading north has become an annual tradition. Each year, I pack the truck with rods, fishing gear, and bags and begin the long drive toward a place I’ve come to know and love.

You might think that after fifteen years, some of the excitement would wear off. But when the truck is loaded and I’m ready to pull away, I still feel that familiar anticipation. There are a lot of miles ahead, and I look forward to seeing what they bring.

There are milestones in the life of every bird dog that stay with you.

The first time a puppy follows its nose into heavy cover. The first bird scent that changes the way it carries itself. The first real point. The first retrieve. And, of course, the first introduction to gunfire.

That last one deserves patience.

A young bird dog can have all the natural ability in the world, but confidence is still something we must protect. There is no reason to rush the process or push a dog simply because the calendar says hunting season is getting close. The dog will tell you when it is ready, if you are willing to pay attention.

Recently, I loaded a box of quail into the truck and headed for the mountains with Phinnigan. The purpose of the trip was simple: give him another positive experience with birds and introduce him to the sound of a .22-caliber starter pistol.

It was an important day, but I did not want Phinnigan to feel any pressure from me. This was not a test he had to pass. It was simply another step in his development.

That difference matters.

There are outdoor traditions that everyone recognizes. Opening day of deer season. A spring morning in the turkey woods. Casting dry flies to rising trout. Walking behind a bird dog through October cover.

Then there are traditions that live quietly in certain corners of the country, practiced by small groups of sportsmen who understand the tides, the habitat and the history that make them possible.

Rail hunting in the salt marshes of South Jersey is one of those traditions.

I’ve spent much of my life outdoors. I’ve guided anglers, traveled to wild places, and spent more seasons than I can count preparing for the next hunt. After a while, you learn what to pack, how to read the weather, and when to slow down and pay attention.

You also get used to knowing what you’re doing.

This year, at 63, I decided to give that up for a while. I put down the crossbow and began learning to shoot a compound bow.

A practical guide to preparing your gear, your dog, your vehicle—and yourself—for the best season of the year

There is something about the first cool morning of fall that changes a sportsman’s entire outlook. The air feels sharper. The woods begin to trade their summer green for red, gold, and orange. Trout become more active, migrating birds return, and hunting seasons finally appear on the calendar instead of somewhere in the distant future.

But fall also has a way of arriving faster than expected.

Every bird dog needs to learn the rules, what he can do, what he cannot do, and what is expected of him both at home and in the field.

I firmly believe a puppy learns many of those lessons through experience, repetition, and a little trial and error. A young dog is going to make mistakes. Our responsibility is to provide clear, fair corrections and give him the opportunity to make the right choice the next time.

With Phinnigan, I have been fortunate when it comes to his natural ability in the field.

In my last False Albacore Countdown, we talked about the anticipation of the season, the first reports, the gathering bait, the birds, and that unmistakable excitement that comes when you know the albies aren't far behind.

Now, let's continue our preparation for false albacore season with a more in-depth look at the gear, flies, lures, leaders, and little details that can help make your next outing a success.

There is a point every August when my thoughts begin drifting away from trout streams, summer bass, and warm evenings on the water toward something faster.

Much faster.

The first reports usually begin as rumors. A few fish spotted offshore. Bait beginning to gather. Someone sees birds working over nervous water. Then a photograph appears from somewhere farther south, and suddenly everyone who loves chasing false albacore starts paying attention.

One of the many times of year I look forward to is the arrival of false albacore season.

Every sportsman has certain moments on the calendar that seem to pull us outside. For some, it's the first gobble of spring echoing through the hardwoods. For others, it's a crisp October morning behind a bird dog, a Hendrickson hatch on a Pennsylvania limestone stream, or the first cool evening that hints autumn is just around the corner.

For me, late summer brings another tradition that I eagerly anticipate.

As August begins to fade into September, I find myself paying closer attention to weather forecasts, water temperatures, tide charts, and bait reports. Long before the first fish crashes through a school of bay anchovies on the surface, the preparation has already begun.

Because false albacore season isn't just another fishing trip.

It's a tradition.

It's the unofficial beginning of one of my favorite stretches of the sporting year.

There's something about August that feels different.

The mornings still arrive early, but the air carries the faintest hint that summer won't last forever. The afternoons can still be hot enough to make even the most dedicated outdoorsman look for a little shade, yet every sunset reminds us that another season is quietly waiting just around the corner.

For most people, August is about one last family vacation before school starts.

For sportsmen, it's something entirely different.

It's the month of anticipation.

Every adventure eventually comes to an end.

No matter how incredible the destination, how wild the country, or how memorable the experiences, there comes a time when the truck is pointed south and the journey home begins.

After an unforgettable drive to Labrador, a week spent with great friends, and days immersed in one of the last truly wild places on earth, that's exactly where I found myself.

Labrador has a way of leaving its mark on you.

Its vast wilderness, crystal-clear rivers, floatplanes, and majestic brook trout create memories that stay with you long after you've packed away your waders. Every morning brought the excitement of discovering another stretch of water, another breathtaking view, and another chance to connect with one of the most beautiful fish that swims.

The fishing was everything I had hoped for. The scenery was even better. But as the miles home rolled beneath the tires, I realized something I've learned after years of traveling.

Few subjects create more debate among bird hunters than dog training.

Mention e-collars, whoa posts, force fetch, field trials, or professional trainers around a campfire and you're likely to get as many opinions as there are hunters sitting around it.

Over the years I've learned something about bird dogs.

Most of those arguments miss the point.

Before you ever pick up a training book, watch a video, or send a dog to a trainer, you should ask yourself one simple question:

What do you want your bird dog to become?

Every year about this time, my attention starts drifting north.

The fly boxes get reorganized. Leaders and tippet are checked and restocked. Rod tubes begin appearing by the door. The truck gets serviced, and maps that haven't changed in years somehow find their way back onto the desk.

For many people, Labrador is just a place on a map. For me, it has become something much more than that.

It has become a tradition.

People ask me the question all the time.

"You traveled all the way to Argentina for fish you released?"

"You went to the Bahamas just to catch a fish and let it go?"

"You flew halfway around the world and came home without bringing any fish back?"

The answer is simple.

I was never really traveling for the fish.

At least not entirely.

Don't get me wrong, I love fishing. I love the anticipation of a rising trout, the explosive strike of a golden dorado, the sight of a bonefish racing across a tropical flat, and the powerful run of a sea-run brown trout.

Those moments are what initially draw us in.

There was a time when becoming a sportsman meant far more than simply catching fish, killing game, or posting grip-and-grin photos on social media.

It meant something deeper.

It meant class.
It meant humility.
It meant respect for wildlife, respect for other outdoorsmen, and respect for the places that gave us these experiences in the first place.

Somewhere along the way, parts of that culture began to disappear.

Today, many young outdoorsmen are being taught that success is measured by followers, sponsorships, giant piles of dead fish, or how loud they can be online. Shock value has replaced quiet wisdom. Ego has replaced humility. Attention has replaced tradition.

There are trips you plan carefully…

…and then there are journeys that begin with nothing more than curiosity, hope, and a willingness to trust strangers.

My first trip to Argentina started exactly that way.

I traveled alone carrying little more than fly rods, a duffel bag, and a handful of emails from lodge owners and outfitters I had never met, men who would eventually become lifelong friends.

Landing in Buenos Aires was sensory overload.

I wandered through the airport completely lost, jet-lagged, and overwhelmed while impossibly beautiful Argentine women tried to sell me cologne as I searched for baggage claim. At that moment, I honestly wondered what I had gotten myself into.

Stepping outside the airport, the city hit me immediately.

The noise.

The movement.

The chaos.

There’s a moment each spring on the Upper Delaware when everything shifts.

The long, quiet winter loosens its grip. The river swells with snowmelt, the air carries just a hint of warmth, and if you’re paying attention, you’ll notice the first real sign of life: insects.

Not many. Not yet.

But enough.

And for those of us who have spent time on these waters, we know what that means, the season has begun.

There’s a question that comes up more often these days, sometimes asked with curiosity, sometimes with skepticism:

Why do you hunt?

It’s a fair question. And truthfully, it deserves more than a quick answer.

Because hunting, at least the way I’ve come to understand it, isn’t just one reason.
It’s a collection of moments, stacked over time, that shape who you are.

And for me… it started when I was twelve.

Tactics, Strategy & a Day on the Juniata with Big Smallmouth

There’s a stretch of spring when everything begins to shift.

The rivers start to wake.
The water warms just enough.
And smallmouth bass, quiet through winter, begin to move with purpose.

It’s the pre-spawn.

On rivers like the Susquehanna River and the Juniata River, this window offers some of the finest fishing of the year, if you understand where to look, how to present, and when to adjust.

But like most things in this game… the lessons don’t come from theory.

They come from days on the water.

There is a moment each year,somewhere between the last frost and the first true warmth—when everything begins again.

You feel it before you see it.

The air softens. The river breathes differently. The woods begin to whisper.

And then, almost overnight, spring arrives.

For those of us who live for time afield, it brings two of the most anticipated events of the year, the first great Hendrickson hatch on the Upper Delaware, and the thunderous awakening of turkey season.

Two different pursuits. One shared heartbeat.