Julie Zapoli

A New Year’s Day ritual involves fly fishing in Patagonia and, with a little luck, good Scotch.

At the risk of offending the people I fish and break bread with, I’m just going to say it: I don’t get Michigan in the winter.

It’s clear from the moment I arrive that there aren’t enough dead bugs on my windshield or dirt on my car to be perceived as a serious fly angler here.

He wants his picture taken in front of a sign that reads: “Idaho … Too Beautiful to Litter.”