Nick Simonson

Artificial Intelligence has quickly become the latest digital implement to make life easier. From doing document review and summarization, to crafting entire programs out of thin air, even a luddite such as myself has found countless benefits from the simple commands given to this Google on steroids and the amazing outputs it produces as each entry refines the request and updates the final product. In the end though (hopefully, absent a Skynet achieving self-awareness scenario) AI remains a tool and serves as a reminder that as we advance and evolve as a species, each innovation we come up with helps us along that path.

Whether it’s been a converted gravel pit, a dammed-up stretch of creek bottom or gully, or even just an area dug out from the earth itself for the purpose of providing a fishing opportunity, ponds have provided a great deal of insight into the angling process and have held a lot of fond spring…

I braced myself against the roaring north winds of Minnesota's opening day, waves rolling into the south shore so hard their crests lapped at the just-installed dock and sprays of white splashed up between the slats, soaking my tennis shoes. It was a classic start to the season, and while I knew there'd likely be no trailing fish behind the heavy five-of-diamonds spoon I chucked out against the gales and into the clear spring water, I gave it a good six or seven dozen casts before I conceded to the conditions.

This spring has afforded us blissful moments of calm weather, sunny skies, and ideal conditions. Unfortunately, it's usually been only for about four hours on perhaps one or two days out of the week, and usually not on the weekend. With that brief and beautiful window magically opening on Saturday afternoon, I quickly grabbed a selection of rods and small tackle to hit the water with my boys, in hopes of catching some stocked trout or really anything with fins that would bend their ultralights and provide some stimulation other than screens that have filled much of this cold, windy spring.

Memorial Day weekend, and the unofficial start of summer, more and more finds me on the move. As friends' kids grow up, graduate, get married, and my own — a bit younger — find themselves loose for summer; our activities shift, our travels increase, and the era of spending three days and four nights fishing appears distant in life's rearview mirror. But those memories are fond and often come rushing back as I find a way to squeeze in whatever time on the water I can during the late spring holiday.

Here in the final week of my boys' fun version of summer school, known locally as Camp Education, I dropped my oldest off at the crosswalk in front of the middle school to see a classmate of his hauling a selection of neon green pool noodles wrapped tight in a bear hug toward the front door.

There’s something almost primordial about seeing a big fish — a huge predator — with a smaller one locked in its jaws. There’s something even more primal of watching that fish not let go, even though it can. In the Darwinist, survival-of-the-fittest, kill-or-be-killed world that is still the natural food chain in the waters around […]

Before heading up to Minnesota's Iron Range to see family over the Fourth of July holiday weekend, I had the amazing experience to watch a loon at close range track down and take a relatively large panfish from the school of sunnies I was casting to just off the dock on the south shore of Big Detroit Lake. Under the water the bird moved swiftly and adeptly, unlike how loons usually are, flapping and struggling to get airborne and then skittering to an ungraceful stop upon landing after flights that seem all too fast for the lazy warm days of summer they spend in the region.

On the hookset, I knew the bass at the other end was big. It was the first cast of the night, and by the time I steadied myself on the stern of my brother's boat, the line was tight and the largemouth was off and running, likely weaving my Fireline through the various posts of the first dock just off the deep rise of the warming lake. As I hauled back, I could feel the scrape and a quick pop as the metal did its magic and the fish was freed from any fear of a prolonged battle, left only with a mouth piercing it would probably shake in a couple days' time.

The transition of summer into fall brings with it the first upland season of the year with mourning dove hunting beginning on Sept. 1. While I can recall endlessly entertaining afternoons walking shelterbelts to flush these fast-flying birds from their daytime roosts, the most memorable hunts came from around favorite water holes marked on my GPS and in memory which my friends and I would wind our way to after work down dusty gravel roads. At our destinations we'd set up a spread of foam decoys, and later, mechanized models that really seemed to do the convincing of those birds coming in the fading light of evening. While that was really it to provide some great late summer and early autumn action in the field, I found over time that some water holes paid off better than others for doves.