As a kid some 45 years ago, I bathed in the mystery of a sleepy, slow, Southern river. The Sabine of my youth was a muddy puzzle that rarely gave up its secrets to a pre-teen boy armed with a spinning rod, a Zebco 33 spooled with 8-pound mono, and a pocket full of Beetle-Spins. But when it did, the rewards were gigantic. Big cats. The occasional fat crappie. Once in a while, it coughed up a sizable black bass or a foot-long sand bass.

The multitool was somewhere in my vest. Forty-three tools in one. Well, forty-four if you count being able to hook it to a drift boat’s anchor line when the lighter anchor—the pyramid-shaped one made from lead—wrestles itself free from the carabiner. That was the good news.