It’s been awhile since the box came out of the storage room—months, actually. I can tell the last batch of flies I tied was destined for Alaska, given the pink, white and orange marabou situated atop the pile. The box looked like a creamsicle.

A fuzzy, hairy creamsicle.

For every angler who plucked their first trout from a black-bottomed beaver pond high in the Rockies under the watchful eye of a father or a grandfather, this day is for you. For every fisherman or fisherwoman whose first bluegill came to hand after it pulled a bobber under water on some lonely little stream shaded by sweet gum trees, this day is for you, too.