We’re miles from the truck and 600 feet below the canyon rim when the first raindrops dimple Trout Creek. Charlie Card has spent his entire life in this country and guided it professionally since he was seventeen. I figure that makes pulling the plug his call. “What do you think, Charlie?”
Sunday, May 29, 2011 began as an ordinary day in the White Mountains of eastern Arizona. Memorial Day weekend draws large crowds from hot deserts to the high country to camp and fish. But at approximately 2 p.m. that afternoon, smoke began to rise from an abandoned campfire in the Bear Wallow Wilderness Area on…
It isn’t those first, crisp, mahogany-spinner mornings that get me, the ones ending with a warm afternoon and a few straggler hoppers still clicking. It’s the days that come a couple weeks later, after the onset of frost, when the first nasty cold front under low-lying clouds makes you hustle through the wadering process because…
There is no photographic evidence of Robert Zimmerman stepping out of a river bearing a brace of trout, boots of Spanish leather glistening; nor are there secondhand tales of a small mumbling man with a bewildering patter and a decent roll cast, tales shared by grizzled guides after too much bourbon, and only with trusted…
There are two types of fly shops out there, destination and local. Oak Orchard Fly Shop defiantly falls into the latter category. Of course this was not always the case.
John Jackson began snowboarding as a preteen on the powder-strewn spines of the Eastern Sierras, near his hometown in Crowley Lake, California. Soon after, he cast his first flies in that same backyard—in places with legendary names like Inyo, Sierra, Yosemite, and King’s. Fifteen years later and the basic ingredients haven’t changed, just the stakes.…
Stiff keys moved toward the carriage like an old man lifting his arthritic knees up a flight of stairs. They rose once, twice and, with effort, three times. A weathered and worn ribbon, now more leather than cloth, slowly began to cough up faint traces of ink with each succeeding stroke. And with each erratic…
I’m sitting now, on one of the first mornings of the New Year, in a messy, stinky pile of marabou feathers and raccoon skins that nearly canvas the frigid wood floor of my tying room. It’s only ten a.m., and I’ve sneezed at least a couple dozen times by now, and my fleecy home office…
[Last Friday we posted a short piece on Last Chance, Idaho, flyshop, The TroutHunter. Co-owner Jon “The Animal” Stiehl joins us today, filling you in on the dirt: High times, low times, drunken A-Bar debates, scraps with reps and the establishment, Idaho gun love, and Rene Harrop’s penchant for Natty Lite. Enjoy. —GM]
When I moved to an Albany, NY suburb from northern Michigan five years ago, my first priority was to find the closest flyshop. At my new place of employment, I walked through a maze of cubicles, searching for the most outdoorsy looking guy in the building. “Bruce, where’s the local fly shop?” “We don’t really have…
Next time you’re driving around fishing the rivers of southwest Montana and you’re in the mood for a little adventure, try driving the High Road. This rough-and-tumble 20-mile county road connects Twin Bridges to Melrose and the Big Hole River to its confluence with the Jefferson. But before you start out, learn from the mistakes…
Most people with a shred of business sense would question 31-year-old Blake Merwin’s motivation to open the Gig Harbor Fly Shop in March of 2009, right in the midst of America’s largest financial collapse since the Great Depression. The established flyshop of twenty years, and barely ten miles down the road, had just been forced…
What would motivate a person to open a fly shop in the midst of the Great Recession? I asked this question to David D’Beaupre, who opened The Sierra Trout Magnet and Guide Service in Bishop, California, in August 2009. With small, independent fly shops closing left and right in recent years, I figured he had…
About a month ago we received a letter signed by a dude named Matt. He claimed he’d stumbled upon a flyshop so amazing, so gritty, so real, in a state so blessed—or cursed, choose your poison—with outfitters, that we must share it with you. Sensing the big scoop, we dug deeper. Matt told…
In a town crazy for baseball, there are at least a few people in St. Louis, Missouri, that regard the Cardinals as mere amusement—something to occupy their time while driving to some of the most underrated flyfishing streams in the Lower 48. Many of those drives start at T. Hargrove Fly Fishing, tucked off Interstate…
Fly fishing has yet to gain traction in the wide world of Olympic-caliber “sports”—trampoline, rhythmic gymnastics, synchronized swimming, curling, ping pong, to name a few of our favorites—but that has not deterred Whistler Flyfishing owner Brian Niska from reaping rewards with the 2010 Games touching down on his home turf this week.
He has a serious problem, this man. Some would call it a sickness. He’s a junkie of the worst kind and he knows it, lying and cheating to get what he needs, reckless in the pursuit of his much-needed fix.
I pour a little rum in my cider and get typing. At present, I am coupled with winter, 400 square feet of cabin, a half-empty bottle of rum, and memories of my rookie year of guiding in Yellowstone Park. The only sound breaking the tap-tap of the ‘writer is the occasional gust of wind dusting…
In Montana there are two kinds of winter days-those that are warm enough for fishing and those that aren’t. Here, cold is a relative term. A week of high-sky, 40-degree weather in early November can send the Baetis hatch into submission and seem downright arctic after a month of Indian Summer. Yet a windless February…
Here’s how you float the Yellowstone: With a good friend, it’s impossible to make a mistake. It’s also impossible not to. Every oar splash and drift through a seam is cause for good-natured accusation and graceful riposte (“You’re the shithead.” / “Hey, fuck you.”) Waiting your turn at the put-in, sizing up the other fishermen.…
What to do when a fish morphs from gills and guts into something larger – a memory that splashes across three generations of anglers, alternating between dream and reality? Born to my grandfather, this fish swam through my father Charles and landed with me. Even before I hooked her one cool April morning on Georgia’s…
The ancient Mako 17 lounged beside an Indian River fishing camp. Amid the rusted trailer and decaying leafy interior clutter was her magical and somehow readable stern message merrily announcing, “Reds R Us.” I chuckled at the irony of that sun-bleached clunker’s name as I wheeled a friend’s sleek, carbon-and-fiberglass Maverick down the ramp. Almost…
“A brook trout wouldn’t last five minutes in this water,” I say to Haroldo as he leans over the gunwale and washes the slime off his knife. “Never mind the water temperature he’d be dead before he ever felt the heat.” Haroldo looked up, smiled, and nodded like he understood. “You believe in natural selection?”…
See them coming, swimming toward you like ducks across the sky at dawn. It’s hard for a Northern Rockies trout chaser to fathom: no hatch to match, no current seam to aim for, just you and a couple dozen bonefish headed your direction. Throw it too late and you’ll spook ’em. Too early and your…
I grew up in Detroit, a city whose belching smokestacks and clamoring auto plants preach a relentless contempt for mass transportation. Yet when I moved to Washington, D.C., I fell in love with trains—the grand stations and comforting rhythms of the ride hooked me. I eventually ditched my car completely, relying solely on bike, cab…
Ephemerella grandis is, like the rest of us, a sex fiend. From the moment he sheds his heavy, heinous body of youth, his thoughts are dominated by mayfly fornication-drake nookie, if you will. He can’t sleep. He can’t eat. He can do nothing but flutter about on the breezes of desire, looking above the river…
Flyfishing is a sexy sport. This I know because I’m in awe of good fishermen, which has left me attracted to grubby guys I normally wouldn’t have noticed except maybe to offer them change. I’m not too experienced a flyfisher and I’m a terrible flirt, yet when it comes to mixing the two together I…