The Leaf Hatch

Golden leaves dance on the current, painting the water in warm hues—a sight to behold, if only you weren't trying to fish. Each cast becomes a delicate negotiation with nature's confetti. Your fly, once visible, now vanishes in a swirling tapestry of crimson and amber. The frustration builds as another drift is fouled by a perfectly placed maple leaf. But there's a meditative quality to this challenge. You're forced to slow down, to truly read the water through its seasonal veil. Just when the leaves seem to conspire against you, a telltale ripple betrays a feeding fish. In that moment, the maddening and the magnificent merge. This is autumn angling—where each cast is an act of defiance against nature's obstacles, and each success feels like stealing fire from the gods.

In this week’s edition:

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Image by Mike Doughty

IN THE RIFFLES

I heard a key scratch in the lock. The door swung open to reveal a maid, the hotel manager, and a Mexican policeman. It occurred to me I should have tipped the maid.


That’s in hindsight. But all lessons are learned in hindsight. The manager shouted something incomprehensible and I barely had time to grab my rod tube. I didn’t test my Spanish. I didn’t try to explain I would only be there long enough to chase, on foot, the big warm-weather roosterfish teeming off the Baja coast. It sounded foolish enough in English.


In the parking lot the cop tossed me my bag. The manager locked the gate. “No pesos, no servicio,” he said. This I understood…


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