As the saying goes, there’s more than one way to skin a cat. While its safe to assume that the old adage should be interpreted more figuratively than literally, you won’t be skinning anything unless your blade is sharp enough for the task. Most of us get by with blades that are just sharp enough to get the job done, and inevitably, we find ourselves woefully unprepared for a task that requires some precision.

I grew up outside of Livingston, Montana, three miles up a curvy dirt road. A small creek, teeming with native Yellowstone cutthroats and flanked by bushy willows, paralleled the road, and I started fishing there as a preschooler with my father, planting the seeds of a lifetime obsession. By the time I was 5, I would venture to the stream alone with a rod and jar full of grasshoppers freshly procured from our front yard. On my way out the door, I would tell my parents, “I’m going to get lunch.”