August Ants

I met Goran at my acquaintance Peđa’s place. I had come over to show him some camera lenses that I no longer needed. Peđa, a professional photographer himself and a painter, was dealing in photo equipment, and Goran arrived just as I was about to leave.

He introduced himself as a cameraman and photographer. I learned soon enough that he was also a great painter, sailor, and writer—we just kept talking. He was older than me, but we became friends immediately.

Goran’s curiosity about fly fishing quickly became another connection between us, and his musical taste was extraordinary. I would spend time at his place listening to Egberto Gismonti while he showed me outstanding color slides he had taken with his own hand-constructed camera.

I have never seen images like that.

Although I was preparing to leave for Boston to study at Berklee, our friendship did not end with my departure. During my visits home from Berklee, we continued sharing many experiences together. We talked, biked, hiked the nearby hills, filmed the long-eared owl population that wintered around Aračlijski potok near Jagodina, and discussed art, music, poetry, photography, and biology.

The summer of 1993 was a difficult one because of the Balkan wars. I was home from Berklee that summer, and Goran and I decided to go fly fishing in Resava Canyon. It was August 10—just a few days before my birthday, so I remember it well.

We knew the water was low and that our chances of catching fish were not great. My father was our driver, and he never abandoned his role as a silent witness to my fly-fishing experiments.

Goran brought his 7’6” Germina fiberglass rod for a #6 line.

“The weight does not bother me,” he would say.

And I knew that. He loved to exercise, was always in great shape, and never took the elevator to my apartment. He always ran up the stairs. I lived on the tenth floor of a high-rise building!

We followed the dusty road into the canyon. We fished different spots, separated from each other, probing the deep karst pools with our flies.

I was lucky and caught a small trout near the large rosehip bush, where trout would often rise.

Later, we met again.

“Did you get any?” Goran asked.

“Only one small fish. You?”

“I had one attack my wet ant,” he said, showing me his large thread-body ant with a lacquered finish. “But I struck too soon.”

The day was getting late.

In those years, Resava looked different at the entrance to the canyon, below the ramp. There was a series of pools created by several smaller dams. Those quiet stretches provided tremendous hatches of caddisflies, E. danica, and other insects.

We decided to try one particularly interesting pool farther downstream. I had done well there earlier that summer, and I remembered the bottom of the pool covered with large cases of limnephilid caddisflies.

All three of us spread out along the pool. Goran was making upstream casts with his Germina. I was slightly upstream from him with my little Diamondback Carbonite 6’6” 3-weight.

Before making my first cast, I looked up.

Huge swarms of ants were twirling in the air above us, like a tornado between the treetops and the side of the road where we had parked our Peugeot.

We continued casting, with the sun already far behind the canyon walls and the shadows growing longer.

Slowly, fish started rising.

I could not believe it.

I tied on my winged ant fly, and a beautiful trout, close to 40cm, took it with confidence. The little Diamondback bent almost in half, and Goran helped me land the fish.

He dropped his rod. Both he and my father were standing beside me, watching quietly.

It was already completely dark.

The ants were everywhere.

I put on a larger Light Cahill dry fly. I could no longer see my ant, so I decided to use the last remaining light to tie something larger and more visible onto my leader.

Against the last traces of light in the sky, without a flashlight, I tied that knot.

By then the pool was boiling with rising trout. Huge splashes appeared everywhere.

I kept casting.

Another trout came—this one slightly larger. Goran gave me instructions, although I could no longer see him. He was crouching low on the bank while I played the fish from the asphalt road above.

After that fish, I landed one more, about the same size. Goran expertly guided that last trout into his hand.

I was shocked.

I had never caught such beautiful trout on dry flies in Resava before—not just one, but three good fish in one evening. In the dog days of August!

And then, just like a light switch, everything stopped.

The ants disappeared.

The trout went back into their hiding places.

All of us realized the same thing:

We had witnessed another one of nature’s miracles.

We broke down our rods in complete darkness and drove back toward Jagodina, excited and puzzled.

My father was driving.

Goran turned toward me and smiled gently. There was no excitement, no dramatic celebration. He simply placed his hand on my shoulder.

“You are a heck of a fisherman,” he said.

That moment stayed with me.

I realized that sometimes the most disappointing day can suddenly turn around and surprise you with something enormous.

Unfortunately, I did not realize then that my time with Goran was limited.

In those years, he told me many things about life that I was not ready to understand.

Today, I know he was right.

Some people appear at exactly the right moment in our lives to teach us lessons that last forever.

Goran was one of those rare people.

Sword Beetle

August beetle fever!

Peacock beetle variation with elytra made from sword feathers and parachute hackle.

Steampunk Pump

Built in the 1920s and renewed in the 1950s, this old water pump still supplies Sisevac with drinking water. It stands beside the Crnica, the little limestone stream that runs through the village. The man who keeps it running is my childhood friend, Toplica.

Karst Mystery Stream

Somewhere in the limestone country of eastern Serbia, I found a little stream that disappears into the earth. I looked around its Ranunculus beds and saw no trout. But the water goes underground, and somewhere downstream a remarkable karst spring emerges with an exceptional wild, native trout population.

Is there a connection?

Perhaps. One day I'll find out.

Summertime Reading — Limestone Legends

Searching for Silver Sedge

(Photo: Odontocerum albicorne, Trawscoed, North Wales, August 2015. Photo by Janet Graham, via Wikimedia Commons. Licensed under CC BY 2.0.)

Two days ago I spent almost four hours on the phone with my friend Dave Skok. We talked about trout and striped bass fishing, sight casting, dry flies, spring creeks, hatches, and fly rods. That conversation somehow sent me looking for a particular insect I thought I might have seen on my trout water, the Moesian karst stream Crnica in eastern Serbia.

I have spent countless hours reading its currents, turning over its river stones, and trying to fool its trout. Yet even after all these years, the river still manages to keep secrets from me. It concerns a magnificent, heavily structured caddisfly that I suspect may be hiding right under our noses: Odontocerum albicorne, famously known to fly anglers as the Silver Sedge.

If you look at European entomology maps, the Silver Sedge is a documented resident of the region. It has been recently documented in Montenegro and is present in Bulgaria. It is also included in published lists of the Trichoptera fauna of Serbia. However, I have a confession to make: I don't believe I have ever personally seen one on the Crnica.

But before you call me crazy for speculating on its existence, consider the timeline. Odontocerum albicorne is a summer specialist. Its peak emergence occurs from June through July and stretches into August. For many years, my calendar has kept me away from the river during those exact sweltering summer months.

Could this beautiful insect be hatching in the warm summer twilights while I am wading the flats around Boston, looking for striped bass, far away from the Crnica? I think it is entirely possible.

I have, over the years, observed an enormous biodiversity of aquatic insects on the Crnica. I have also found that another almost identical species is documented in the Balkans, Odontocerum hellenicum. Based on the current data, it seems that O. hellenicum would be more likely to occur farther south, in the Stara Planina region.

To understand why the Crnica is a prime candidate for the Silver Sedge, you have to look at how these insects live. The larvae are master underwater stonemasons, constructing incredibly strong, curved defensive cases entirely out of tightly bound grains of sand. They don't just live anywhere—they require clean, permanent, moderate-to-fast flowing water with a rich substrate of gravel and boulders.

The pristine, well-oxygenated upper stretches of the Crnica fit this ecological profile perfectly.

When they do emerge, they are not small caddisflies. The adults boast a substantial forewing length of 13–18 mm, easily identified by their distinctively long, aggressively toothed antennae and striking silver-grey appearance when resting on riparian foliage. For a trout, an adult Silver Sedge or its swimming pupa represents a high-calorie steak dinner.

I am hoping that next June I will dedicate some time to setting UV light traps and doing more sampling of insects along the banks of the Crnica. I hope this ghost story will eventually be solved!

A Few Things I Found Down the Rabbit Hole

While I was a biology student in Belgrade in the late 1980s, one of my dearest professors was Miloje Brajković. I told him way back then about my interest in fly fishing and angling entomology. He smiled and gave me some tips and encouragement as I began collecting specimens, along with resources for identification.

So I am listing his work on top…

Živić, I., Marković, Z. & Brajković, M. (2006). Contribution to the faunistical list of Trichoptera (Insecta) of Serbia.Acta Entomologica Slovenica 14(1): 55–68.
— A very useful general Serbian caddisfly reference; the revised list increased the known Serbian Trichoptera fauna from 173 to 186 species.

Novaković, B., Stojanović, K., Marković, V., Radojević, A., Božanić, M. & Živić, I. (2017). A Valorization of Benthic Invertebrate Fauna of the Mlava River (Eastern Serbia).
— The Mlava survey: 197 benthic taxa recorded during 2009–2014.

Stojanović et al. (2018). Odontocerum hellenicum (Malicky, 1972) (Trichoptera: Odontoceridae) as a host of Agriotypus armatus (Curtis, 1832) (Hymenoptera: Ichneumonidae) — the first finding for Serbia.
— Particularly relevant to the southeastern-Serbia angle.

Klima, F. & Hodges, J. C. (1987). Description of the Larva and Female of Odontocerum hellenicum Malicky, 1972, as Compared to O. albicorne Scopoli, 1763 (Trichoptera: Odontoceridae). Aquatic Insects 9(3): 177–183.
— The really useful hellenicum/albicorne comparison.

Kiss, O. & Pfliegler, W. P. (2011). The biology and life cycle of Odontocerum albicorne (Scopoli, 1763) (Trichoptera).
— Excellent general natural-history source; also discusses the Balkan Odontocerum species and the Bulgarian O. hellenicum records.

Kumanski, K. (1981). Faunistic investigations on Bulgarian Trichoptera to June, 1980 — with a revised check-list. In: Moretti, G. P. (ed.), Proceedings of the 3rd International Symposium on Trichoptera, Series Entomologica 20: 139–147.
— The older Bulgarian source behind the O. hellenicum connection.

Malicky, H. (1972). Weitere neue Arten und Fundorte von Westpaläarktischen Köcherfliegen (Trichoptera), von allem aus dem östlichen Mediterrangebiet. Mitteilungen der Entomologischen Gesellschaft Basel 22: 25–68.
— The original description of Odontocerum hellenicum.

Bozdoğan, H., Bilalli, A. & Ibrahimi, H. (2025). New caddisfly records (Insecta, Trichoptera) for Montenegro and Ecoregion 5, Dinaric Western Balkans: distributional and ecological insights. Biodiversity Data Journal 13: e146076.
— O. albicorne was documented on the Zeta River in Montenegro using a UV light trap on July 22, 2024; five males and nine females were recorded.

Looking for the Right River to Call Home

Every fly angler meets many rivers along his or her life path. Rivers are like romantic relationships. Some enter our lives quietly and change us forever. Some become part of us. Some are like the most passionate romances—they can sweep us away in a single rendezvous, yet they don’t necessarily hold the highest places in our memories. Others become lifelong partners, and very often they are found along paths less traveled, hidden from the mainstream fly-fishing world.

I inherited my first river from my grandfather. The Crnica became my first love, rising from its karst spring in Sisevac, a former mining village in eastern Serbia. My grandfather was a schoolteacher living on its banks well before World War II, when the village was much larger and its life was deeply tied to the mines. He fished it with flies, along with his best man, Luka Vraneš, who hailed from Bosnia and tied his own flies. I caught my first trout there as a boy, and wrote about it in my primary-school writing exam. My grandfather was a wonderful storyteller who survived two world wars and lived long enough to write about his life. I fly fish because of him. The Crnica is a river that will follow me throughout my entire life. I will always return to it.

Later, through my early college years, I started fishing the nearby Resava and Mlava more. They were cut from the same karst landscape. I was discovering rivers on my own at this point in my life, and wandering along their canyons connected me to my father, perhaps during the period of our lives when we were closest. He began coming with me on my trips and quietly became a witness to my fishing explorations. He was not a fisherman, yet he always patiently stood by my side on those journeys.

Soon after that I moved to the United States. I fished some wonderful and famous streams, like the Ausable in New York and Silver Creek in Idaho. During my years in the Twin Cities, I probably fished the Rush River more than any other American stream. Yet none of them became a part of me.

I discovered the Driftless streams before I knew I would one day live not far from the Driftless Area. My reconnection with them came during the summer after my graduate studies in Iowa. I fished the small Spring Branch Creek with almost unlimited devotion that summer. I had been separated from trout fishing for several years, partly by graduate school and partly by everything happening in the Balkans. Spring Branch brought me back to something I had almost forgotten I needed. It was intimate, manicured like a miniature English chalkstream, and full of puzzling twists and trout lies, but that summer I fished it with the intensity of someone returning to an old language.

The first river that felt like a chosen love was Waterloo Creek. This was the first stream where I completely felt: this is where I could imagine staying. While living in the Cities, I would make the long drive to Waterloo fairly often, sometimes simply to spend a few hours beside it. Looking back, I realize I was courting that stream. Its marshy valley always hid numerous surprises—from unexpected wisps of snipe in the fall and the tail slaps of beavers to a large brown trout sipping beetles along Waterloo’s quiet banks. It presented a unique world where I could disappear, where imagination and reality were completely intertwined, and every departure felt like a sudden awakening.

Waterloo’s neighbors—French Creek and North Bear—became different rooms of the same trout palace. I used to call French Creek my “Magic Carpet Stream.” Its abundant mats of vegetation would present a wonderful challenge whenever a sizeable trout dove into them. And North Bear is where I met Sid Neff, that wonderful limestone fisherman from Pennsylvania. We spent hours talking about Charles Ritz, Ernie Schwiebert, Vince Marinaro, and other limestone legends beside his camper van one morning, drinking tea and eating toast with English marmalade. We continued fishing terrestrials later that day with our glass and cane rods. It was an unexpected connection to a long-lost world.

What does it actually mean to call a river home?

Is it the place you spend the most time? The stream with the biggest fish? The most beautiful landscape? Is it a river other people think you should love?

Or is it simply the place where, after enough years, you stop looking around and realize:

I don’t want to be anywhere else.

The Shepherd Woman from the Mlava

Back in 1993, I was home in Serbia for the entire summer. I had just bought a new Sage rod at Stoddard's in Boston and wanted to try it on some larger trout. So I decided to go with my father to the Mlava River in eastern Serbia, camp on its banks, and fish it for a couple of days.

We reached it by traveling along an old road full of incredible potholes, as so many village roads were back then. Our Peugeot wrestled with them valiantly. We arrived at Trška Crkva, an ancient church whose history reaches back to the early Christian era. Near the bridge, at the edge of a large meadow beneath a magnificent tree, we pitched our tent. As soon as everything was set up, we headed straight for the river.

I entered Mlava's magical tunnels.

The Mlava is a legendary karst river in eastern Serbia. Known for its picturesque meanders and gentle flow in its upper reaches, it also holds deep pools that have long been famous for producing trophy brown trout.

I started with a large caddis pupa and caught a trout almost immediately. I watched it attack my fly beneath the surface. Then I switched to a silver-beaded Pheasant Tail nymph. That fly proved deadly. Trout after trout came to hand as I nymphed with my 9-foot Sage rod.

I was so happy. It felt as though everything had come together at exactly the right moment.

My father walked along the bank while I fished, although I could rarely see him because I was enclosed within a tunnel of overhanging trees. Every now and then I would call out, holding up another beautiful brown trout. He would peek through an opening in the branches, smile, and make his way over to photograph the fish before I released it.

Later, after a quick snack, we moved to a majestic wide pool. Towering willows shaded one bank while the river divided around a tiny island. I carefully climbed down the steep bank, where several kingfisher nesting holes were clearly visible in the exposed earth. Crossing the smaller channel, I stepped onto the little island, which gave me a perfect casting position to fish both currents.

The trout were rising everywhere.

March Browns filled the air, mixed with smaller Pale Watery duns and a scattering of caddisflies. It was a wonderfully complex hatch.

I began with a Thorax March Brown, and the trout took it eagerly. As darkness settled over the valley, I switched to a wine-colored Comparadun, which the fish accepted as an Ecdyonurus spinner. My final trout of the evening came almost in complete darkness.

We returned to our tent tired, happy, and ready to crawl into our sleeping bags.

The next morning I was on the river early, although the fishing started slowly. Once the sun climbed above the hills, I landed several smaller trout on a Goddard Caddis in the well-known Horseshoe Pool.

Later I walked back to the tent to pick up my lighter rod.

My father was talking with an elderly shepherd woman whose cows grazed in the meadow not far from our campsite.

Before joining them, I stopped beside a fallen tree where a single trout was rising—tiny, steady dimples. I cast a CDC Caddis Pupa, and the fish took it immediately. Unfortunately, I lost it almost at once when it dove straight into the submerged roots.

Disappointed, I walked toward my father and the old woman.

She wore heavy traditional wool clothing, a scarf tied over her hair, and carried a shepherd's staff.

My father introduced us.

"She is from the nearby village," he said. "We were just talking about her daughter. She fell in love with a young man, married in another village, and rarely comes to visit."

Then he turned to her.

"This is my son. Can you imagine how his mother feels knowing that he lives in America now? He may never come back to live with us. He's a musician, finishing university there. He may stay in America for good. Across the world. And you're sad because your daughter rarely visits, even though she lives only a few kilometers away. Imagine how his mother feels, with her only son living on the other side of the world."

The old woman looked at me with deep sadness in her eyes.

"My son," she said quietly, "aren't you sorry for your old mother? How can you leave her and go to America? Her heart will break in two. Why are you doing this, dear boy?"

I was stunned.

I knew she was right in many ways, yet I had never truly allowed myself to think about it. It was not her words alone that affected me, but the sorrow in her voice as it echoed across the river valley.

I felt uncomfortable, confused, and deeply sad.

I knew my life was about to change forever.

In Serbian culture, the bond between parents and children runs very deep. I honestly cannot remember what I answered her. During our conversation, my father quietly picked up his video camera and recorded part of it.

Many years later, after the COVID pandemic had nearly ended, my father and I returned to that same place.

It had changed a great deal. The beautiful old tree was gone, and we barely recognized the meadow.

As I stood beside the bridge putting on my waders, my father looked toward the meadow and said softly,

"The old woman is gone now... many years already."

After a pause he added,

"I wish I could find her daughter and give her the video recording of her mother."

The Lost Fly Box

I was searching for some articles in Fly Fishing & Fly Tying when I came across Neil Patterson’s article about Surfacing Sedge. I recognized the fly immediately, and when I saw the name Andrija Urban, I smiled.

Some memories do not disappear. They simply wait for the right moment to return.

Way back in 1989–1990, I was playing in a jazz trio called STAPS, based in Skopje, Macedonia. I never minded the long train rides from Belgrade to Skopje, with my Kawai keyboard safely packed beside me. My friends and bandmates Pavel Rendzov and Martin Gjakonovski would be waiting for me when I arrived.

We would spend several days together—practicing, performing, recording, and simply enjoying the incredible friendship, love, and dedication that surrounded our music at that time.

But during those years, I was also deeply bitten by another passion: fly fishing.

My father had brought me fishing books from the United States, and I also relied heavily on magazine articles. In former Yugoslavia, two magazines were essential reading for fly anglers: Riborevija and Zov. Andrija Urban wrote regularly for both and was one of the most respected and innovative fly tiers in the country.

Andrija was a military pilot and lived in Skopje. I found his address in one of the magazine advertisements, and during one of my visits to Skopje, I decided to simply knock on his door.

Martin came with me. He knew the area of the city where Andrija lived—Bulevar Jane Sandanski. We arrived among the newly built socialist-era apartment blocks, found the building, and rang the bell.

A kind man with a dark complexion and gentle, sad eyes opened the door.

“Hello, we are looking for Andrija Urban.”

“That’s me. How can I help you?”

We explained that I was a young fly angler and that I wanted to meet him, ask questions, and learn about flies and fly fishing.

He told us that he did not usually meet clients at his home, but then smiled:

“Since you already made the effort to find me, please come in. I will show you.”

We entered a beautiful, spacious apartment. I remember that it had multiple rooms and almost felt like a small fly-tying workshop or manufacture. Every space seemed connected to his craft.

Andrija brought out his fly catalogs.

They were not simply collections of photographs. They were true fly books—carefully organized collections of actual patterns, each one beautifully tied and presented. Between the pages was very fine parchment paper.

I opened the first page and was completely stunned.

Rows of beautifully tied flies filled the pages. The craftsmanship was extraordinary. Andrija used a lot of CDC, a material that was almost unknown among American fly tiers at that time. He also loved shiny Orlon dubbing, which he obtained from the carpet industry. His use of natural materials was exceptional, and his colors were carefully blended.

Every fly showed thought, experience, and artistic vision.

Until that afternoon, most of my fly fishing knowledge had come from books. My Montenegrin grandfather had fly fished using leskovak—an old Balkan traditional hazel branch rod without a reel. In many ways, it was comparable to Japanese tenkara. It was not modern fly fishing with a fly line and graphite rod, but it represented an older tradition of presenting a fly naturally to wily trout.

Suddenly, the person behind the pages I had been reading was sitting in front of me, opening his fly books and sharing decades of experience.

Andrija taught me so much in a few hours.

He talked about observing fish, understanding feeding behavior, choosing the right flies, and selecting appropriate tackle for the smaller karst streams of eastern Serbia where I loved to fish.

He also told me about his rod building. He preferred short rods for brushy streams and explained how he would cut American Berkley graphite blanks to his favorite length—around 180 cm, or roughly six feet.

His advice stayed with me. In 1992, I bought a small Diamondback Carbonite, a 6’6”, 3/4 weight rod, in the United States. I brought it back to Serbia and immediately took it to the Resava River. That little rod became a companion through an important chapter of my fishing life. I still have it today.

Andrija showed me beautiful fly vests that his wife had made. His wife brought us coffee and sweets while we talked.

I was speechless.

Here was a legendary fly tier, someone whose articles I had read and admired, welcoming me into his home and sharing his knowledge with a young angler who was eager to learn.

Several hours passed before it was time to leave.

I bought some flies and leaders from Andrija that day and ordered more from him afterward. We stayed in touch, although not frequently.

Years later, when I was living in Boston, married, and fishing saltwater as much as possible around the year 2000, we reconnected through my good friend Goran Grubić, another excellent Serbian fly fishing writer and angler.

I had actually spoken with Darrel Martin about Andrija years earlier. I met Darrel at the Fly Fishing Show in Boston in 1993, and it was another reminder that the work of this Yugoslav fly tier had reached far beyond the borders of his own country.

Andrija and I continued exchanging occasional messages until the end of his life.

Decades later, while reading Neil Patterson’s article about Surfacing Sedge, I saw Andrija Urban’s name again.

And I smiled.

A fly tier from Skopje, whom I had visited as a young musician and beginning angler, had left an impression far beyond the borders of former Yugoslavia.

Somewhere in Serbia, stored away after my parents’ home was sold, is my old fly box. Inside are some of Andrija’s original flies: mostly his Rađajuća Pupa—his beautiful emerging CDC pupa patterns—along with some emergers and his simple wingless spinners, perfectly matched to various mayfly colorations.

One day, I hope to find that box again.

Woodchuck Wing Spinner

Another small variation on a mayfly spinner.

Shown here are two body color variations: a rusty-bodied general Ecdyonurus spinner and a wine-bodied female—the typical “padavac,” as it is known in the Balkans.

Simple, delicate, and made to float.

Reflection: Neil Patterson

A forgotten curve of Crnica. The river changed its course several years ago, and this stretch exists now only in photographs and memories.

Q: How did you first discover Neil Patterson and his book Chalkstream Chronicle? What was your life as an angler and writer at that time?

I discovered the book shortly after it became available in the United States. I believe I first saw it at the Borders Cafe bookstore. I was absolutely stunned by it.

It was extremely personal and observant, and I felt like I had seen parts of it already, almost as if from a previous life. Of course, Balkan streams are not identical to English chalkstreams, but there are striking similarities: the limestone, the clear water, and the relationship between the landscape and the river.

And then there was the artistic element—a thread connecting everything together. The book was not only about fishing. It was about seeing.

Q: What was it about Neil’s writing that stayed with you? Was it the fishing knowledge, the descriptions of the river, the way he connected nature and human experience, or something else?

It was a combination of many things.

The drawings were unique. The hatch chart at the end of the book was beautiful. The fly patterns he shared were honest, practical, and elegant. They were not created to impress; they were created because they worked and because they belonged to that particular river.

Neil also had a love for soft feathers and traditional materials. Balkan fly anglers have that same connection. When you compare older English fly patterns with traditional patterns from Bosnia, Montenegro, and other parts of the Balkans, there are fascinating similarities.

The Balkan Peninsula is also full of limestone trout streams. Different landscapes and different histories, but a shared relationship between geology, insects, and trout.

Q: Looking back, do you think Neil influenced the way you started writing your own blog—especially the idea of writing not only about fish, but also about places, seasons, memories, and life around the water?

Absolutely. Neil has probably been the greatest influence on my writing about fishing and rivers.

I have had other important influences as well: Ernie Schwiebert, Ernest Hemingway, Arnold Gingrich, Nick Lyons, Roderick Haig-Brown, among others. We are fortunate that these wonderful people left so much behind for future generations of anglers.

Neil’s writing about one specific river was especially meaningful to me. I recognized that idea immediately. I also have my own river—a small stream connected to my family story and my own memories.

I also have to connect this idea to music. I remember Pat Metheny saying in an interview that, in a sense, all of us write only one song. Of course, not literally, but perhaps every artist spends a lifetime creating variations of the same deeper story.

Kenny Wheeler expressed something similar in his beautiful composition Everybody’s Song But My Own. We all have one story, with millions of variations.

Q: You have fished many different waters: Serbian limestone streams, New England saltwater, and Driftless streams in Iowa, Minnesota, and Wisconsin. What connection do you see between Neil’s River Kennet and the rivers that have shaped your own life?

Those rivers represent some of the most unique environments where trout can live.

They are wild yet gentle, mysterious yet approachable, complex and sometimes incredibly easy. In many ways, they are like human life.

They can be silent for a long time, then suddenly become full of energy and surprises. They test your patience, but they reward you as well.

There is a special biological power in calcium carbonate landscapes—whether it is an English chalkstream, a Driftless limestone creek, or a Balkan karst stream.

Q: Why did you feel that this particular interview with Neil was worth sharing now? What did seeing him on the Kennet bring back for you?

It brought back calmness, poetry in fishing, and honesty.

There was no loud action music, no attempt to make fishing look like a competition or an extreme sport. Some modern fly fishing videos present fishing almost like a Formula 1 race. That has its place, but it is not what I personally look for.

Neil represents something different: observation, patience, connection, and love for a particular place.

Q: After all these years of fishing and writing, what do you think makes a river become more than just a place where fish live?

First and foremost, it is your love for it.

Rivers are like people. Their beauty is sometimes hidden beneath many layers. The more time you spend with them, the more those layers are revealed.

There is also always some kind of personal connection. Sometimes a river is simply given to you. My small stream was “given” to me because it was connected to my family history.

Other rivers you discover and slowly fall deeply in love with. The way the landscape and geology fit together, the history attached to a place—these things create something much deeper.

Think of rivers like the Test, Itchen, Silver Creek, or the Henry’s Fork. They carry remarkable histories.

But it can also be a much smaller and lesser-known river. Sometimes those unknown streams hide deeper mysteries than anyone could possibly imagine. Even after decades, I still uncover and learn new things, year after year.

Neil Patterson — River Kennet interview excerpt:

The Photograph

Last Monday I played at the “Meet the Students” faculty performance and talk. Berklee Aspire 2026 was about to begin, so it was a great opportunity to meet new students, talk about the courses our department offers, and play a little music.

I played the opening number and, after finishing, quietly sat back in the audience.

A nice gentleman was sitting next to me. His eyes were smiling, and his demeanor was utterly calm and composed, yet warm and friendly. He kindly complimented my playing, and I thanked him.

He asked almost immediately:

“Where are you from?”

“Serbia,” I replied.

“Ah... Serbia,” he said with a noticeable German accent. “That's wonderful. I'm from Munich. You know, I was a very close friend of Duško Gojković. I knew him for many years. It's a long story.”

I was stunned.

Duško was a famous trumpet player and a legend of Serbian and Yugoslav jazz. I never had the pleasure of knowing him personally, but I had actually met Duško’s mother.

It happened on October 26, 1986.

My closest childhood friend, Drda, and I were waiting for a bus to Belgrade at the Jagodina bus station. We were trying to catch the afternoon bus because Miles Davis was performing that night at Sava Center during his Tutu tour. We had waited a long time for that opportunity.

An older, elegantly dressed lady was waiting as well. The bus was late, and we started chatting.

She asked us where we were going.

We told her we loved jazz and were going to hear the incredible Miles Davis.

She smiled.

“Jazz? That’s wonderful. Then you must know my son, Duško Gojković.”

We were completely blown away.

What were the chances? We had just met the mother of one of the greatest figures in Balkan jazz — a trumpet player who had performed with Woody Herman and Maynard Ferguson.

All of this went through my head while I was sitting next to my new friend at Berklee’s David Friend Recital Hall.

Two days later, he walked into my Berklee Aspire class.

After class, he came over, sat at the piano, and began playing a beautiful tune.

I listened carefully.

“Is it your piece?” I asked.

“Yes,” he replied. “Vlad, at this point in my life, I only want to compose more. You know... I am seventy.”

His eyes were smiling again.

“You write beautiful music,” I said. “I hear Bill Evans... and Michel Legrand.”

He simply nodded, smiling.

“You should come by during my office hours. We need to talk more. And you have to tell me more about you and Duško.”

“Of course,” he said.

He left just as my next class was about to begin.

The next morning I saw a new WhatsApp message from my sister Sonja.

Attached was a black-and-white photograph.

She wrote only one sentence:

"What a photograph... It looks like Dad and Vlajče took it."

I opened the image and immediately froze.

The photograph captured a collision of old and new Jagodina. It had clearly been taken sometime in the 1980s.

In the foreground stood the older, beautiful house of our godfather, Vladimir “Vlajče” Đorđević, professor of German at the Jagodina Gymnasium and my father’s closest friend.

In the background, above his roof, rose the new socialist-era high-rise building where we lived. Only the top two balconies and one window could be seen on the photo.

The second balcony from the top was ours.

The side window belonged to the room where my piano stood.

This was the place where jazz started for me.

Vlajče was a gentleman of another era.

He was always elegantly dressed, wonderfully charming, an erudite man, and one of the funniest people I have ever known. His storytelling was legendary. The way he told a story would make people roll on the floor laughing. He spoke excellent English, loved America, and had even traveled there with my father years before I ever imagined that one day I would live there myself.

Almost every day he would stop by our apartment.

Then he and my father would go for a walk and end up in nearby Hotel Jagodina. Local Romani musicians played there every evening. Most of them were their childhood friends, so the atmosphere was always special.

I would occasionally stop by late at night after spending time with my own friends in town.

The musicians would play swing inspired by Django Reinhardt and Stéphane Grappelli. Then they would sit at the table with us, drinking Jagodinska Ružica wine spritzers and telling stories about Jagodina after World War II, about the 1950s and 1960s.

Živa, Mirko, Branko, Miki.

I had always known that Živa Petrović was one of my first teachers of swing.

I still remember playing boogie for him. He listened carefully, taking quick puffs on his cigarette and exhaling the smoke almost before it had reached his lungs. Then he turned to my father and said:

“Mića, your son plays great boogie. He will soon start to play swing like this.”

Then he taught me “Ain’t Misbehavin’.”

Looking at that old photograph almost forty years later, while talking to a student who had been a close friend of Duško Gojković, I understood something larger.

I was not only learning swing from an individual musician. I was growing up inside a whole musical world — a world of friendships, stories, cafés, and musicians who carried traditions from one generation to another.

Those musicians were my first teachers of swing.

A Quiet Flat

I walked a North Shore flat yesterday during a prime tide window and saw no striped bass. Not unusual on its own—fish move with tide, light, and conditions—but it stayed with me longer than expected.

The water was clear, better than average. The tide was fairly exposed. No bait flicker, no nervous water, no reason to expect anything, and still I had expected something. That expectation is its own habit. I fished it through more out of routine than conviction, eventually stopping with no expectation of seeing anything.

Later, I went back through old blog posts and notes. I wasn’t looking for anything in particular, just revisiting older seasons. But a pattern appeared anyway.

In earlier years—roughly 2012 through the post-COVID period—the flats were more populated. Encounters were more frequent, and fish were generally smaller. There were more shots per outing, more continuity between them. It felt normal to expect a few chances every time out.

Around 2022, that began to shift. Encounters became less frequent, and the fish I did see were often larger. That pattern has continued, and this season feels more pronounced. I now more often find either empty water or isolated fish, occasionally pairs.

What has changed most is not how many fish are present, but how much time passes between anything happening.

It’s the gaps that define it now—the stretches where the water holds nothing and attention starts to drift.

That contrast has become the real change: not the number of fish present, but the length of time between anything happening at all.