The day I met Hoppy Patterson, my right leg was buried to my onions in a murky mix of sand, silt, clay, and river water. I’d been sucked down about forty minutes before that, and in the meantime, had removed my vest, tossed my rod to dry ground, found a stick, and started to write Babe a goodbye note in the sand.
Stuck in the middle
by Tim Schulz - Thursday, Sep 3rd, 2026




