It’s always tough to see the squadrons of Sandhill cranes heading south but this year it was a special downer because an era has come to an end.

My bride has decided to monitor any procedures associated with winterizing my fishing gear.

We’re talking beyond-wicked supervision.

Simply put, the bucket doesn’t cut it anymore.

Back in the good old days it only took a couple of minutes to stick all of my shore paraphernalia into the same plastic pail that I sat on while fishing and stuff it in the basement.

Ah… is this cool, or what? Here I sit at my keyboard on a drop-dead gorgeous morning.

As I look out the windows of our cabin, the sky gleams like the deep blue of a rain-washed glacier while nary a breeze disturbs the white puffs of mature dandelions awaiting their turn to destroy what’s left of the lawn.