Not-So-Fictional Fiction [Brickhead originally ran in the Summer 2010 issue of The Drake. For the all new Part II, click here. —ed] QUINTANA ROO, MEXICO. HIS DOGS WERE torched. He’d forgotten to put sunscreen on his feet the day before. He had taken his wading boots off after a mile walk on the flats and just spaced it.…
[There is some irony that a blog about the best photographers in the business is shot with a busted up iphone and a lens that came out of a crackerjack box.—WR] Surface Film is a fundraising event that showcases the work of some of the best established—as well as new—flyfishing photographers in the country. The…
One year of limited mitigation efforts and wrist-splaps for the energy firm that continues to lace the DSP with toxic levels of benzene Today marks exactly 365 days since Denver-based angler Trevor Tanner noticed an oil sheen flowing from Sand Creek into the South Platte River just downstream of the Suncor oil refinery at Commerce…
How to secure your rod in an ultra-cheap tube for less These days you can burn upwards of $200 on a space-age rod tube, or you can just toss your stick in a sack and hope for the best. I’ve been on the road and in the air quite a bit this summer. The people, places,…
Slow boats, picked pockets, and damaged goods From B.C. I headed south via the Tsawwassen ferry station en route to Victoria. Final destination, Forks, WA. We wove through Gulf Islands such as Galiano, Mayne, and Pender. From there, I switched boats and crossed the Strait of Juan De Fuca—just in time to catch a bomber…
Busses and studded boots Three days after returning from Mexico, I was on another plane. This time from Seattle to Vancouver, B.C. When we touched down there was standing water on the tarmac. It was raining hard.
Planes, trains, and automobiles… and pangas, ferries, bare feet, hard boats, and catarafts I left the corporate world on Friday. I was on a plane to Mexico on Saturday. On Sunday morning I was perched high upon a spiny, jagged ledge looking down into the green Pacific Ocean looking for the rooster that swam between…
Tequila (Spanish pronunciation): [teˈkila]) is a spirit made from the blue agave plant, primarily in the area surrounding the city of Tequila, in the highlands of the western Mexican state of Jalisco. “You have chosen a great bottle,” said one of the cooks from the lodge. He was stoic and serious. It was early evening…
2011 was quite a year. I’m thankful. Before I wax nostalgic and get sentimental, I want to close with one last field report from the South Platte River.
[mit-i-gey-shuhn] noun 1. lessening the force or intensity of something unpleasant, as wrath, pain, grief, or extreme circumstances The situation down on the South Platte and Sand Creek continues to evolve. This river is near and dear to a lot of anglers here in Denver – I was happy to see continued mitigation work when…
Denver carp community first on the scene When I was 13 years old my buddy Scott was attacked by a doberman. It was bad. The dog mauled him head on—Scott’s cheek was punctured, one eye was nicked and subsequently swollen shut, and he lost part of a finger trying to fend off the attack. It…
Man and fish departed ways somewhere deep in eastern Washington on a tributary of the Columbia River. The water we fished ran from the granite cathedrals and frozen peaks of the north Cascade Mountain range.
He is guilty. He did it. He confesses. He comes clean. He is a streamer punk.
If you didn’t catch my recent “Carp Slam V” recap, I described a pretty bizarre situation of running into a “gang” of rogue spear-netters on the South Platte River. Just the other day, I received the following e-mail (below). My take: rules are rules, and Denver South Platte street justice is well… justice.
I smelled the tinge of burning gun powder and knew exactly what was going on. I didn’t even have to look. There was a F250 right in front of me so I ran around the hood, ducked for cover and set my beer down on the parking lot macadam. A few minutes before Scott Wells…
I sat on the rock edge of a small lake just west of the spine of the continental divide and waited. I knew what was coming. I just didn’t know when—or how long it would last. The cirque hung above my head like a granite crown. It wrapped halfway around the valley floor and stood…
Cue the ‘70s porn music because the water is finally dropping and watching fish eat bugs on the surface is dead sexy.
When our flight left the tarmac our small plane arced into the sky, and I finally had a good look at the water. We’d traveled more than 24 hours. The engine’s hum and the view below reminded me of the trip from Belize City to Ambergris Caye. Later that day as our boat bounced from…
I strained. I stared. I squinted. My eyes pinched against the piercing sun high above. We had been fishing off-color water most of the day. Now it was clear but my eyes hadn’t adjusted—I didn’t know what I was looking for on the grassy green flat.
sheening v. 1. the terms “sheened” and “sheening” connote partying, questionable decision-making and public humiliation. —The New York Times Wetsville, WA—The loop of fly line hung just below my reel, pinched between my index finger and thumb. The line straightened against the eyelets of my rod and the spool on my reel gave line. One turn. Two…
A Carptribe Kick-Off He’s like Johnny fuXXing Appleseed. But he’s a purveyor of big, bad, brown apples.
Bats, peeper frogs, night birds, lizards, snakes, scorpions, and giant night beetles—those are the jungle sounds I had identified in my fevered brain. As I lay on my back in the inky darkness, they were the only audible sounds next to the distant crush of ocean 400 feet down the mountainside. My eyes blinked against…
1) Because when I don’t use 5 minute epoxy my flies end up looking like this. 1.5) Or this… 2) I have a better chance performing successful Lasic surgery on your retina than I do whip finishing my own clouser minnow. 3) When my bug slams into the hull of the panga during an eighty…
We had the winter itch. It needed to be scratched. So scratch we did. I’m not usually big into winter fishing. I’ve spent the vast majority of my life’s winter months in the mountains—riding a snowboard. It’s not I’m against fishing in the winter, it’s simply that I like being on the side of a…
Death Bridge Local guides call it Death Bridge. From the road it looks old and crusty. Up close in a drift boat it looks down right scary. The ancient railroad trestle runs across a section of an anonymous river in south central Colorado. Structurally speaking this bridge was clearly built in an era long past.…