The Strung Dispatch

Welcome to the first issue of Strung Dispatch. If you’ve followed us in print, we’re glad you’re here. If you’re new – welcome. 

Strung has gone through a few evolutions since its inception in 2018. We started with humble roots and a desire to promote the mountain lifestyle through Strung Magazine.  We quickly whittled our content to the pursuits we love most - hunting and fly fishing - under the banner Strung Sporting Journal. As media consumption habits shifted and the cost of print continued to rise, we made the difficult decision to close our print chapter with the Winter 2024 issue. While our love for print will never fade, adapting was necessary to keep Strung alive.

Closing up was not acceptable to us. We firmly believe that now, more than ever, we need to slow down and take time to savor all of life’s moments. In an age where experts, counter-experts, news outlets, and vanity chasers bombard us with information from every direction, our minds are overwhelmed — and our capacity to fully feel, to experience joy, pain, and the full spectrum of human emotion, is fading. Good outdoor writers have always had the ability to connect us to raw human emotion, and it is our mission to relentlessly pursue this tradition. 

We’re still chasing the heart of a good story—whether it’s found waist-deep in a cold river, miles into the backcountry, or around a late-night campfire. What you'll find in Strung Dispatch is a mix of seasonal stories, standout photos, occasional wild game recipes, gear reviews, and the kind of honest perspectives that keep us all grounded in why we head outdoors in the first place. The kind of perspectives that remind us to be human. We remain focused on storytelling, not how-to or where-to pieces.

We guarantee that everything you read in Strung is created by real people — not artificial intelligence. There is beauty in imperfection, in the human touch, in stories shaped by experience rather than algorithms. Our contributors are real people who live in and for the outdoors, and who possess an uncanny ability to connect to the world around them and to share that connection with their audience. 

If these things are important to you, we invite you to join us, and share the Dispatch with your friends and family! 

As our inaugural Dispatch issue took shape, the theme of gratitude quickly emerged. We are grateful for the ability to pursue game and fish, for the company of good friends, and for the ability to share thought-provoking, gut-wrenching, and comedic pieces with like-minded folks.

We are grateful for our readers and appreciate your joining us at the start of our new chapter. We hope what you find here keeps you inspired, connected to the world and people around you, and itching for your next day afield.

With Gratitude,

Sammy

“And into the forest I go, to lose my mind and find my soul”  ― John Muir 

There wasn’t a particular cause for the tightness in my chest. It was a feeling I had grown accustomed to, even normalized over the past twenty years. Perhaps it was my body’s way of telling me that I hadn’t fully processed events from my past. Or maybe it was from the self-imposed pressure to please others and always perform flawlessly. Regardless, it’s a feeling I think most people can relate to in one season of life or another. For my brain and body, it was the modus operandi. 

As I now stood in a pristine stream in western North Carolina, it was sorely at odds with my surroundings. Why was my brain doing this? Why right now?

Cool air had finally begun its descent, which meant that the fish inhabiting this section of stream would be arrayed in splendid, striking hues of orange, red, yellow, and blue in preparation for the Fall spawn. This stream tumbles off the northwest side of the southern Appalachians and is enclosed by dense hardwoods from above and impenetrable rhododendron thickets shrouding from the sides; it stays ice cold year around—the perfect hiding place and stronghold for the Southern Appalachian brook trout. Over the last ten years, this trip had become an annual pilgrimage, and I felt the need for it now more than ever.   

There is something intrinsic about our connection to the land around us. Like us, it is a complex system, a razor-thin balance of unseen forces—positive and negative charges, dividing cells, microscopic symbiotic relationships, and water flowing through and saturating it all. My conscious experience was not too dissimilar to the flowing mountain stream in which I now stood, pushing and pulling, changing and constantly shifting, pouring over deep slabs of bedrock and cutting lines through ancient soil. 

But we are not entirely victims of the forces around us. We have consciousness and an ability to perceive the gravity of it all. The choice and capacity to love and to hate, to feel joy, sorrow, and all range of emotions in-between. You can bury it down deeply and ignore teleology as many do. But as I enter midlife, I’m learning again to see with the eyes of a child. The whole system is an inexplicably complex improbability, a grand cathedral. The trees with limbs like arms reaching towards the sky, birds singing their morning chorus, mountains towering like steeples, and brilliant, radiant light streaking down to cover and give life to it all; each day offers the gift to participate, as well as the opportunity to change direction mid-stream.    

As of late, a thousand cares had increasingly consumed my mind, and work was not doing me any favors. Though life-giving in many ways, it still forced constant interaction with the hurting, sick, and suffering. Distracted, it was as if I could no longer see the flowers and the birds. The world suddenly had become unpredictable and dangerous.

Forgetfulness is a formidable foe. I paused, took a breath, and made a short cast into the next plunge pool; my fluffy caddis swirled gently in the vortex created by the spillage at the head. On the opposing bank a squirrel startled, scurrying up the trunk of a tree, chattering and complaining loudly as it temporarily halted its pre-winter forage on the forest floor. I couldn’t hold back a drawing smirk. The squirrel saw me as a threat—a foreign invader in its forested realm. Though in no danger, its survival instinct had kicked in and up the tree it went. I paused, musing at my own dysfunctional tendency towards flight. It has its advantages if you are being chased by a moose (another story), but in this story, I’m standing in a babbling mountain stream catching wild, native fish on the fly. My autonomic nervous system should be on vacation, sitting on a beach and sipping a margarita, not giving me chest tightness and heart palpitations.    

Lost, flailing somewhere in the soupy mixture of my thoughts, I was suddenly pulled back to the present by the sound of rushing water. A short distance upstream, the mouth of a tumbling creek was visible spilling out of the rhododendron and creating a wide pool in the river. My fishing buddies were about 30 yards above the pool, methodically casting and working their way up the boulder-strewn bank. Figuring that they had likely dedicated the better part of the last half hour to working that pool, I decided to press up the feeder with the hope of finding some virgin water. Negotiating the narrow creek bed was slow work as I painstakingly made my way through the dense armor of stream-side foliage. The sound of pounding water grew louder, until at last I poked my head out into a clearing where the stream was making its final descent, pouring through an opening in a rocky outcrop and then cascading roughly twenty feet. The water at the bottom didn’t look very promising, appearing shallow and swift, but my mind drifted to what lay at the top of the falls. Without thinking and against my better judgment, I began to climb.    

Already sweaty and dirty from the army crawl through the hells below, I fixed my eyes on the top of the falls as I negotiated the craggy cliff. Progress was slow, and to free up both hands for the climb, I held the cork handle of my two-weight between clenched teeth, trying hard not to let it slip while also doing my best to prevent teeth marks. Reaching for the top, my foot gave way, causing my left shin to slam hard against a sharp rock. Though nauseating, the pain provided just enough charge to thrust me up the remaining few feet belly crawl onto the flat surface beside the spillover. Breathing heavily, I took a moment to reorient, sitting and staring at the top of the falls.

Glancing down at my throbbing leg, my waders appeared scuffed but fortunately not torn. I could feel the warm sensation of blood trickling down my shin, but any feeling of pain was quickly shelved at the prospect of exploring a new blue line on the map.    

Though the water was low and crystal clear, the glare of evening light reflected off it harshly. Shielding my eyes, I could make out the silhouettes of two sizable specs in the 10-inch range cruising the far bank. The quarters were tight, and I knew that if I moved any closer to the pool, I would risk spooking the fish. With no room for a back cast, crouching low to the ground, I stripped line off my reel allowing it to pile at my knees. Taking a deep breath and pulling the fly tight between index finger and thumb, the leader stretched, creating a slight upward bend in the rod. With one shot to get it right, I refused the temptation to overthink the cast, fully trusting in rote motor memory.  I exhaled, and then released. The fly shot forward, following the leader as it uncoiled and landed softly into the current along the far bank. Gliding languidly at first through the heart of the run, it began to pick up momentum as the water shallowed, skirting underneath an overhanging limb. I held my breath in anticipation and gave the leader a single, short mend.

Seconds from disappearing down the falls, the water erupted in a frenzy of orange, showering the calm pool with crystalline droplets of water, each simultaneously acting as a tiny prism, splitting the light and creating a brief rainbow that arched across the creek. The moment was surreal.    

Taking care to keep the fish in the water as it darted around the net, I marveled at the little work of craftsmanship. Akin to poetry, these animals are to be experienced rather than treated as a task to catch and release. As I watched the fish swim back into the run, fin briefly, and then disappear into the shadows along the bottom of the stream, I was overcome with gratitude. My soul was saturated with a deep sense of satisfaction, keenly aware that this feeling could not be manufactured at will or forced into being but could only be found in complete surrender to the moment.   

With 30 minutes left of light, I opted to head back down the cliff rather than make another cast. The experience had been enough. Though re-entry to civilization was fast approaching, strangely enough, I felt ok about it. As I shimmied back down the bluff, I realized that virtually all the tension had vanished from my body. It had melted away as I had allowed my mind to go on autopilot, focusing only on my surroundings. In an end-of-trip tradition held sacred by my circle of fishing buddies, I whispered a quick prayer of thanksgiving, knelt, and fully submersed my head into the stream. I felt alive, aware, and refreshed.

Although all was not well in the world, in the quietness of the moment, that was ok. Often forgetting that joy and contentment are choices, we dwell on things that cannot be changed or controlled. There is a desperate need to learn again the art of peaceful rest. For me, the nidus from which my cup overflows is time spent with the people I love that I am surrounded by daily, as well as the transcendent message proclaimed by the beauty and patterns of the natural world. Nothing tunes my heart more readily to this message than a brook trout taken in solitude from a high-country stream. Today, I am finally present, and for that, I am thankful.   

Let me be the first to say this: I hate ticks. They’re gross-looking, can hitch a ride on you and your dog with ease, and carry a host of diseases. I doubt you need much convincing from me to share in my disdain. I’ve often said that I would rather deal with an occasional bear than perpetual ticks showing up unannounced in my life. Whether I really mean this, deep down, I can’t say. But you get the idea. I can’t stand the little bugs. Fortunately, I’ve not succumbed to any tick-borne illnesses, at least yet. My dog however, cannot say the same. 

With October soon giving way to November, I could nearly place myself there. In my mind’s eye, I imagined heavy fog rolling off my breath, shimmering with a thousand refractions of light and native grasses graced by the prismatic sunrise. A week in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula in pursuit of ruffed grouse was closely in the rear-view mirror. And although ruffs are my favorite birds to hunt (at least at this fleeting moment), I was ready for more open country accompanied by open shooting opportunities. Soon, I could manifest my daydreams of cackling roosters and explosive quail erupting from cover in front of my pup’s nose, or so I thought.

My American Brittany, Creek, was acting strange. A dog that was normally aglow with life and vigor was lethargic, muted, and clearly oppressed. She also wouldn’t take any food, a characteristic not like her. I immediately knew something was wrong and got to the vet as soon as I could. X-rays and bloodwork revealed the sinister ailment lurking within: anaplasmosis, a tick-borne illness that turned my world upside down for a few weeks. And while Lyme’s Disease makes the headline in our minds when it comes to ticks, anaplasmosis, I’ve learned, should be considered a close second. Thankfully, a prescription of rest and antibiotics for Creek would rid her of this pestilence. 

But November still came, as it always has. And while I should have been walking a patch of prairie or brushy thicket, canine sickness had me anchored at home. I was a bird hunter without a bird dog, an equation I’m not the fondest of. But I couldn’t take it; I had to get out and walk some land. So, on the verge of bird dogger heresy, I went. As I wandered a nearby grassland I’d scouted prior, I felt like a ship without a rudder, aimlessly hoping to flush a migrant woodcock or covey of quail. Suddenly, the phone rang. My veterinarian was on the other end, giving me professional advice I didn’t want to hear. She specified that at least two weeks of rest was in order. Like Creek’s antibiotic, I had to swallow the pill of my own pride and do what was best for my companion. 

A word of caution and friendly reminder to all of us: keep your dogs medicated on the monthly. I am pretty regimented on this matter. However, as my routine was (happily) interrupted in the aforementioned Michigan trip, I was late on Creek’s medication. I can’t help but wonder if one of the many ticks I pulled off her that week was the bearer of her impending sickness and if punctuality could have saved us all some pain. 

But another reminder emerges from the background as well. To a bird hunter, two huntless weeks in November can feel like punishment. Social media pestered me with others’ adventures while I felt like I was in time out. But underneath it all, it gave me the opportunity to reflect and ask myself: What is this relationship with this dog built on? Is it simply how much you can hunt with her? Is it what she can merely provide you? Or is it something more? If she could never hunt again, would she carry the same value to you?

That last question haunts me even now. And I know for a fact that Creek can answer that question were it on the other shoe, or paw, I should say. If I encountered some life-altering event that prevented me from ever stepping in the field again, Creek would carry the same love, affection, and devotion she does to me now. And that is a humbling feeling. 

In time, Creek rebounded and we were soon off to rouse a bird somewhere in this country. We chose Missouri quail. She took to the field as if the ailment never happened, happy to be there with me, and I with her. They call Missouri the “Show-Me State”, and those huntless two weeks showed me a lot about myself and about my dog.

Bird dogs are ride-or-die; fiercely loyal, ready for anything, true to their owners. 

They aren’t merely instinctual fur-covered animations placed here to produce game for our guns. No; that’s not the world they see. Through their eyes, it’s an unwavering commitment to us owners as we partner together in all things, hunting included. And all thanks to a tick bite, I was reminded just how blessed I am to have a relationship like that. 

What about you? Is your friendship with your dog built on his or her ability to provide experiences in the field, or is it deeper than that? If that’s what you build it upon, that’s what it falls upon as well. Reminding myself, I remind you too: commit yourself to your dog the way they commit themselves to you.

With my sweet, little Creek warming my right side while I write these words, I say this: hold your dog close. Give them an extra belly rub. Take a little time for them every day. It makes their entire day. And savor every passing moment you have to inhale the air they just exhaled.

*On occasion our gear reviews may contain affiliate links. If you make a purchase through an affiliate link there is no added cost to you, it helps us maintain this newsletter and it is truly appreciated.

We first covered these sunglasses in our May 1, 2025 blog post. We’ve logged countless hours with them since our original review, and love them more every day. They are truly one-pair-for-everything sunglasses. The Hookset sports a subtle, solid, mid-size full coverage wraparound frame. They are one of a handful of Smith sunglasses that come with an option for their new Chromapop Glass PolarChromic lenses, which is where they really stand out.

Smith managed to merge optical vibrance, clarity, superior polarization, and variable light transmission into one pair of lenses, eliminating the need for interchangeable lenses or multiple pairs of glasses. They adjust light transmission based on ambient light conditions. Early morning, harsh glare, and low light? No problem. Midday, overhead sun, white out? No problem. The polarchromic effect is a subtle but effective. One pair of sunglasses from first light to dusk. Done.

They are comfortable and have anti-moisture technology (I can’t explain it, but it works). The one and only drawback is that the glass lenses can make them front heavy. If they don’t fit your face structure well, they can slide down more than composite lens sunglasses and you’ll find yourself adjusting them more frequently.

It will be hard for us to wear another pair of sunglasses for the foreseeable future.

There are currently two Chromapop Glass PolarChromic lenses options available. Brown Green Mirror (bottom sunglasses in image above) and Yellow Blue Mirror (top sunglasses in image above).

Brown Green Mirror is better suited for lower light conditions, allowing 11-23% VLT (visible light transmission, or the percent of light allowed through the lens). They cast a warmer temperature on what you see.

Yellow Blue Mirror lenses are suited for slightly brighter conditions, allowing 11-20% VLT (maximum of 20% light transmission), and cast a slightly cooler temperature on what you see.

The lens and frame combo are perfect for fly fishermen, fresh or salt.

Smith Optics has graciously provided us with a pair to be given away with this issue of Strung Dispatch. All that is required is your email address at the link below. There is no other catch, no credit card or payment info required. Entries must be received by midnight, Thursday, July 31st Eastern Standard Time to be considered. One winner will be drawn at random, and announced with the next issue of Strung Dispatch. We will contact you by email if you are selected, and you have 48 hours to respond otherwise we will draw another winner.

Slow braised, a venison neck roast can be transformed into tender, succulent meat, perfect for home style tacos. Give this recipe a try, and you’ll think twice before throwing neck meat into the grind pile. This is not a quick cook so prepare accordingly and enjoy the process. It’s best to let the neck roast thaw in the fridge uncovered and salted the day before. Know that it can take up to 6-8 hours for the meat to become tender as it braises. This recipe can be made in a slow cooker or Instapot, but we like the flavor profile of a slow braise in the oven better.

***If you are in an area with prevalent Cerebral Wasting Disease (CWD), or have any concern about CWD, we do not recommend using the neck roast - or any other cut that may be in contact with the spinal column or brain. In its place you can substitute any hind or front quarter roast, or even shanks, for this recipe.***

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