Many "must haves" in that collection. PC: Christian A. Shane

The Cigar Box

Each winter around the first week of January, Steve hand-delivers the wooden cigar box. Previously filled with premium Nicaraguan Padrons, the box now holds premium hand-tied flies. Steve always comes through for our Penn’s Woods West TU chapter Great Fly Sale fundraiser. Collecting the donated flies for our annual event offers a glimpse into the lives of our local tyers. Most deliver their patterns and prototypes by way of plastic fly boxes and containers to organize them in sets. Six flies for five bucks.

Not a great stretch for rafters looking to float

Colorado Stream Access

Take any Colorado stream-access battle that has taken place this century, and a small, relatively unknown but politically connected nonprofit has likely played a role. The secretive Creekside Coalition has fought for much of the past thirty years to keep stream-access laws in Colorado from becoming anything like those in Montana, where the public is allowed to recreate in its rivers and streams up to the high-water mark

Ruby River, Montana. PC: Bryan Gregson

Thrown for a Loop

The press release arrived October 4, 2024: “Cox Enterprises Acquires Loop Tackle.” Atlanta-based Cox Enterprises Inc. is a 127-year-old, privately held, global media and automotive empire worth around $30 billion. Its purchase of a relatively small European flyfishing brand seemed odd. But, free country and all that.

Bruun (L) and Pallot, smallmouth fishing in Wisconsin. August, 2025.

A Flip Fable

Stan Beaulier’s pickup, towing a five-owner Clacka, idles by the Grand Motel’s parking lot, which is occupied by our ancient gang-of-four fly-gear fiddlers. A fine young guide, Stan wears sandals for shoe-demanding river bottoms and is frequently laughing while spouting common and Latin names of Wisconsin’s eleven native turtles, cardinal flowers, and five different redhorse species known only to McClane’s.

Photo by Tosh Brown

French Connection

A sharp sun is pinned overhead, drilling into the back of my neck like a hot desk lamp. I’m alone in a rowboat on a lake, a shallow depression with the sort of soft marl bottom that squelches unpleasantly between the toes. Its shape is the result of glacial waves that once buried northern Michigan in six thousand feet of hard, gray ice. In late June, with a ring of leafy oaks surrounding the lake and the air hanging wet and heavy, the fact that there was even snow here three months ago seems unlikely, and a mile of ice, impossible. When it’s hot here it seems like it’s always been hot, and always will be.

Something that looks sort of like a mayfly. PC: A.J. Swentosky

Summer Doldrums

A sharp sun is pinned overhead, drilling into the back of my neck like a hot desk lamp. I’m alone in a rowboat on a lake, a shallow depression with the sort of soft marl bottom that squelches unpleasantly between the toes. Its shape is the result of glacial waves that once buried northern Michigan in six thousand feet of hard, gray ice. In late June, with a ring of leafy oaks surrounding the lake and the air hanging wet and heavy, the fact that there was even snow here three months ago seems unlikely, and a mile of ice, impossible. When it’s hot here it seems like it’s always been hot, and always will be.

Idaho's world-class smallmouth water. PC: Visit Idaho

Dworshak Dreams

A float tube is the wrong vessel for Dworshak Reservoir. The lake is more than fifty miles long, nearly twenty thousand acres, in some of the wildest country in Idaho. A friend who hunts elk in the surrounding forest, usually from a boat-in only campsite, refers to the lake as “Big D.”
I knew all of this before I showed up there in early May to search for smallmouth. Yet there I was, shouldering a float tube to a beach a few hundred yards from the launch, trying to avoid hearing the jet-boat crowd laughing when I strapped fins on.

Illustration by Paul Puckett

Ode to a Dabbler

When it came to hobbies, my dad was an accomplished dabbler. He’d go all in on a hobby, whatever it was, yet inevitably he’d lose interest in it. The shelf life varied for any one of Dad’s many recreational pursuits, but it was usually a matter of months rather than years. Take running, for example. Dad got the running bug following the 1977 publication of Jim Fixx’s The Complete Book of Running. I can still picture its monochromatic jacket cover with a runner in stride wearing red running shorts, matching red running shoes, against a red background. Dad read the book and then went about buying all the necessary gear: Brooks running shoes, colorful running shorts with vented slits nearly to the waistband, close-fitting nylon tank tops, terry cloth wristbands, and a usually red bandana. That was his kit. And like so many of my dad’s avocations, there was usually one idiosyncratic item associated with the new hobby that especially stood out. Here it was Gator Gum (lemon-lime flavor), which Dad chewed before a run and claimed that it staved off dehydration. As for the actual running, Dad did put in some miles. “Got in a 10-miler this morning,” he’d say. “Got my second wind around mile six,” he’d add, or “Felt great today.” Then, several months would go by and he simply didn’t run anymore.

Beats a Flying J

I-80 Interlude

AFTER ALL THESE YEARS, I finally get to hotspot. Anyone who has ever suffered through the four-hundred-mile godforsaken
slog from Casper, Wyoming, to Echo, Utah, on I-80 knows it to be one of the most desolate drives in America. If you’re not
being run off the freeway by stimulant-powered semi-drivers, it’s only because snowfall or 60-mph crosswinds have forced
them to commandeer all the rest areas.