As a kid, I very rarely had the opportunities to travel to many fishing destinations. The majority of my most memorable adventures have been had in places less than 10 miles from home. My options were limited, but for the longest time, the thirst for anything more was satisfied solely by my ability to make the most of what I had available to me.
I have always approached water from a much different perspective than most. Whether it be a turbid, silty drainage creek snaking through the suburbs of Overland Park, or a park pond speckled with goose shit, emitting an indistinguishable odor that permeates the surrounding quarter mile, I see potential. All water is special to me, almost magic in a sense. The abysmal depths of the tributaries of the Mighty Mo, all stained green by algal blooms in full summer sun hold a whisper of secrecy that few seem to hear... But me. These areas talk to me. Once untouched, free flowing, and pure, now encroached upon by man's strive and opinionated attempt to better the land. I see the skeleton of what used to be. I cut out the cars, trash, and people and pull out the beauty in what these small streams hold. An untapped gold mine of excitement that I had all to myself for the longest time.
Here, you won't find the stereotypical fly fisherman's targets. Nor the stereotypical beauty that comes with many of the places that fly fisherman are supposed to travel. But the fish are there... Shadows moving about the shallows, kicking up clouds of detritus from the muddy bottom. These shadows are the magic that is Roughfish.