Marek sat in his boat, the cold pressing into his bones. The nets were set, but he knew. He always knew. The herring were gone, the cod were ghosts. The river, once generous, had turned silent. He pulled the lines anyway. A fisherman does not stop fishing just because the fish have left. A man does not stop rowing just because the water runs cold.
Last Flight Out As the afternoon sun slides toward the west, another weary day fades into the horizon, mirroring the slow end of this year, slipping through my fingers like…
Hell's Backbone The snowy peaks of the Hell's Backbone mountains seemed to be on fire as the first rays of the sun peaked over the ridge to the east. It's…
Adirondack Memories Faded SnapshotsThe other day, while rummaging through the huge wicker chest in my office for something I cannot remember, I saw an old Montecristo N°4 cigar box. In…