Spring – A Run of Luck, Kalamazoo Comeback, Permit in the Keys, Reckoning at Riverkeeper Lodge
Summer – Nelson’s Anew, Kamchatka Steelhead Retrospective, Meeting in the Thin Space, Yukon Pikeathon.
Fall – Uncertain Waters, Too Many Fish, Too Little Water, Steve Huff’s Retirement Party, Pike Language.
Winter – Debonair Dirtbag, Golden Bones, Unofficial Absaroka
Tommy Robinson remembered his moment of enlightenment. It took place in the ’70s, back when nobody believed you could catch permit on a fly. Robinson grew up in Key West, and began guiding before he’d even graduated high school. But on this day he was an angler, fishing from the back of the boat while…
COMPARED TO THE INITIAL REPORT, our weather wasn’t looking so bad. Wind was steady at eight or nine knots out of the northwest, pushing temps down to the mid-forties. The water had cooled significantly over the last week, and reports of trout and reds still being around were spotty and unsubstantiated. Our odds weren’t good.…
“Gaining a good network of supporters is critical to the life of any new NGO, and in this day and age people can be very leery of supporting any non-profit; not everyone out there is completely sincere in their fundraising efforts.” —Bucky Buchstaber, from the opening paragraph to his story, “Fly Fishing Collaborative in South…
CHASING HATCHES IS STUPID and obnoxious. I know. I’ve tried. Pursuing particular insects insures that the potential for disappointment will dwarf the likelihood of success. If us fishing media folk are to be believed (also a bad idea), fishing is an appreciation of the moment, being present, or some other Baba Ram Das shit. Planning…
The familiar tug, the comforting bend of the 7-weight, and another Michigan smallmouth—this one, 17 inches. Not a record, but it came to my net in a peculiar spot in an unaccustomed location; along a stretch of the Kalamazoo River west of Marshall, Michigan, where the tree-lined banks now give way to clear-cut fields and…
Mid-June after a May-long drought and, weeks before we thought they would, the rivers had begun to “take shape,” an idiom I’ve always loved for its suggestions of primal formation and rebirth. What was just days prior a brown blob squirming primordially down from Rogers’ Pass is suddenly the jade-green Blackfoot, its boulders and riffly…
“I got one once that had a spot shaped like Mickey Mouse ears— for real,” says Captain John Turcot, referring to one of the more memorable markings he’s encountered over his two decades of hunting reds in Florida’s Mosquito Lagoon.
“ARE YOU SURE that car’s gonna make it?” the gas station employee asked, without knowing our destination. Clyde was the only one who knew the answer. Instinct and lack of mechanical competence told me to trust him.