On an overcast, unseasonably mild January day, I found myself on one knee, my neoprene waders protecting my skin from the condensed pack of fading snow I was parked in.

In front of me was a small pool of the Mullet River protected by frosted cedars and plenty of downed timber. My left hand clutched the butt end of the nine-foot fly rod I had borrowed from my friend and fishing companion, Brandon. My right hand held the flies that were supposed to be attached to my tippet which now swung naked in the gentle breeze.

I was out of breath, drenched in sweat, and there was a steady stream of blood flowing out of my left thumb from an unintentionally self-inflicted wound undoubtedly caused by my haste.