Strung Magazine - Vol. 2 - 1: The Fly Fishing Issue by Strung Magazine -Tied to Nature

T H E F LY F I S H I N G I S S U E

ECUADOR highland trout KAMCHATKA: part two versatile DOGS above the SAN JUAN WILD FOOD with HANK SHAW TWO hearted DIY WYOMING antelope hunt

MARCH 2020 DISPLAY UNTIL JUNE 1st.

letter from the

EDITOR

Enduring the arduous months of winter in anticipation of a new season is not unfamiliar to anglers, hunters, or anyone who enjoys the outdoors. After months of indoor exile spent in preparation and contemplation, it is one of the things we look forward to most. Did we tie enough deer hair caddis or load enough shells? Did we adjust our brakes and grease the chain? Snow geese, spring turkey, the first trout of the season, a challenging singletrack shaped by winter are just a few of the things we look forward to. While the new season brings change it also brings new opportunity. Engaging with the outdoors is obviously something we encourage as an outdoor publication. What that means to you personally depends on what is important to you. Some get involved with conservation organizations. Many advocate for the protection of public lands, while others attempt to introduce newcomers to the activities and places they hold dear. Whatever it may be for you personally, your piece becomes part of a larger whole.

The 2020 Fly Fishing Issue is even more robust than last yearâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s, with stunning photography and gripping stories that we hope you will enjoy and share with your outside friends. Some of the goals we set for ourselves in the coming year include teaching fly casting at local schools, foraging and farming education for teen groups, and moving toward reducing our carbon footprint. We currently use recycled paper and soy ink, but admittedly still employ single use poly bags for our mailings to ensure intact delivery. We have recently identified a source for poly bags that are compostable, biodegradable, and carbon neutral. We plan to make the switch to these compostable bags in our summer travel issue. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a small step forward but collectively these small changes make an impact. Support us in our goals to become carbon neutral by helping to spread the word about our publication. Each issue is a statement of our love for the outdoors. I hope you enjoy the 2020 Fly Fishing Issue.

Strung creates excitement for the outdoors in the hopes of recruiting more people outdoors. Over the last 15 months, Strung has worked to include the highest quality content from individuals who are not only passionate, but have something to say about the outdoors. Whether it is an essay from Dave Zoby, a wild food recipe from Hank Shaw, or a singletrack review by Robert Annis, there is something interesting for everyone.

Joseph Ballarini Editor-in-Chief

PROVES HIS POTENTIAL.

upgrades yours.

Gunner, German shorthaired pointer OWNER: jared moss BREEDER: best gun dogs

CLINICALLY PROVEN DHA LEVELS FOR SMARTER, MORE TRAINABLE PUPPIES

strung magazine

Editor-in-Chief: Managing Editor: Creative Director: Wild Foods Editor: Mountain Bike Editor: Canadian Field Editor West: Canadian Field Editor East: Website: Editors At Large: Copy Editors:

JOSEPH J. BALLARINI GEORGE V. ROBERTS MICHAEL REA THOMAS RYAN SPARKS ROBERT ANNIS EHOR BOYANOWSKY ALEXEI JD BOYANOWSKY MICHAEL DUCKWORTH BEAU BEASLEY JOE DOGGETT MARK HATTER TOM KEER JESSE MALES KELLI PRESCOTT SCOTT SOMMERLATTE LEILA BEASLEY BILL BOWERS

CREATIVE CONTRIBUTORS: Nancy Anisfield Robert Annis Stephen Bishop Alexei Boyanowsky Ehor Boyanowsky Colin Clancy Barry Ord Clark J.M. Fabre Holly Heiser Dalton Johnson

Jesse Males Jeffrey Marshall Jeff Mickiewicz Nick Price Tim Ryan Hank Shaw Ryan Sparks Nick Treheame Dave Zoby

Photos Credits: Cover: Pablo Viñaras on the Limay River, Argentina, by Nick Price Editor's Letter and this page: by Dalton Johnson Strung Magazine is a quarterly outdoor lifestyle publication focused on travel, adventure sports, fly fishing, hunting, and wild land stewardship.

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CONTENTS

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Two Hearted - Colin Clancy some kind of meaning, all, to ascribe to the Two Hearted at here e com to id stup was “Maybe it bounty. Stupid to think that a ay-esque, trout-on-every-cast t it to expect some kind of Hemingw ime fishing just because I wan insula would give me some all-t id stup e solo trip back to the Upper Pen som n the wall of my bar ry day, because I’ve slapped to eve e plac the s mis I e aus bec to, in da U.P.” sticker about my heart being

23 27

Marshall Above the San Juan - Jeffrey er West Fork of the San Juan in fishing the fast-tumbling Upp m, trea ups s mile y man e wer “We r flies, but getting there and are there, and eager to eat you t trou The o. rad Colo rn este southw ina.” faint of heart or lacking in stam fishing there are not for those phen Bishop Lessons at Bubba’s Lair - Ste ll. The tiny gray box, a bible. […] Embarrassingly sma ed mbl rese box le tack ’s dad my The “In size, spins, popping bugs, and flies. a meager collection of beetle To . which fit in his pocket, housed line ing fish clip clippers to le box was a pair of fingernail most practical thing in the tack a lightweight pole with a reel d use ely ssment, my dad purpos further compound my embarra ent was the fly rod.” er. But the biggest embarrassm that resembled a floss dispens

n Sparks ador’s Highland Rainbows - Rya Trout Amongst the Clouds: Ecu region's small creeks and the to l wel k 1960s, rainbow trout too the in r ado Ecu to ced rodu “Int in these equatorial waters. At and creating wild populations cing odu repr lly ura nat s, lake alpine reproducing trout in the world.” perhaps the highest naturally over 13,000 feet, these fish are

43 46 55 63 67

k ei JD Boyanowsky “I took a wal ng Kamchatka Part Two - Alex . ains rem Rainbows of the East: Survivi It looked like human pile of something on the ground. a saw and es slop e scre the toward Organs, intestines, and blood p of flesh to get a closer look. […] de […] I walked up to the gory hea This bear had been turned insi underneath were fur and claws. he e,’ were all I could see. […] Hidden onc it seen zly […]. ‘I have ld do such a thing to a giant griz out. I imagined what animal cou eats bears.” only It al does not eat fish or berries. said, raising a finger. ‘The anim . Fabre The Catch of a Lifetime - J.M on a constant wobble and on an beautifully spinning tops, I am tly, “In a world of tightly, efficien t. I don’t mean for any of it, n everything and anyone in sigh dow g ckin kno h, pat le ctab unpredi before I stop spinning.” damage will I cause? Or, how long but I wonder: Jesus, how much Trehearne Northern Fringe Turkeys - Nick on the extreme northern edge a is a unique experience. Being mbi Colu ish Brit in ting hun “Turkey harsh winters, and less turkeys. erica there are more predators, of turkey habitat in North Am alone have a successful hunt.” work to find a turkey here, let Needless to say, it takes some Gear Guide is what spring is all about and year’s first camping trip; this s Fly fishing, turkey hunting, the t will make your outdoor pursuit ted collection of equipment tha our spring gear guide is a cura more enjoyable. Mexico - Robert Annis ng Mountain Biking Gallup, New hed cathedral of mountain biki it would be like to ride an untouc “If you’ve ever wondered what .” nity have an opportu d pilgrims descended, you may before millions of dirt-obsesse n Sparks Rations and Intoxicants - Rya “It’s not an overstatement to say A Conversation with Hank Shaw k: Coo er, den Hunter, Angler, Gar think about wild food. Inspiring way many of us eat, prepare, and that Hank Shaw has changed the ir family has been a passion for t they feed themselves and the wha of ip ersh own take to ple peo to cook and eat wild His writing was what inspired me […] set. out the from f che and this writer nce to interview him.” food, so I was excited at the cha

71 75 77 83 95 99 105 115 123

Trout with Morels - Hank Shaw “This recipe is an ode to spring: peas, trout, morels, fresh spring herbs. Plus bacon, glorious bacon. They’re all cooked in the same pan you cooked the bacon in, so you won’t blow up the kitchen. What’s the result? Damn good.” What’s Old is New: The Rise of Natural Wine - Ryan Sparks “Natural wine goes against the status quo, challenging what people think of as ‘good wine’ and even breaking regional wine classifications. Yet, in my opinion this isn’t a bad thing. Wine is ‘good’ because we enjoy drinking it, not because it holds up to a set of rules invented by a handful of critics. In fact, many wine writers have called natural wine a return to authenticity because it generally tastes truer to the actual taste of the grape it’s made from.” Tying the Pheasant Tail Nymph - Barry Ord Clarke “At a glance, one pheasant tail feather looks like any other pheasant tail feather—or does it? As with all natural materials, no two are the same. The background color, markings, mottling, sheen and fiber length will be different on each and every feather.” Alpine Reflection - Dalton Johnson “While I boil the water, my gaze lands on the distant reflection of the peak in the alpine lake. Wow—if only I were a poet. The beauty of the alpine morning is breathtaking. And something in the air takes me beyond the reflection in the lake and into myself. Climbing is no longer about reaching the summit—climbing has become a way of life.” Farm Kid on Rollerblades - Dave Zoby “He took the rod out of the case. He spun the reel. The line interested him immensely. With his thumb, he examined the deer hair flies, and took a close look at the barbell eyes. And then I saw him decide something. Something about the fly rod challenged his farm kid beliefs. He pushed the rod back into my hands.” Buckshot - Jeff Mickiewicz “I did not hear the gun go off, but at breakfast we realized we had a problem on our hands: Rumor circulated among the employees that the mother grizzly had been injured and was probably still alive nearby. The guests, of course, heard a kinder, gentler story.” By Land or By Sea: Versatile Dogs on the Retrieve - Nancy Anisfield “When it comes to retrieving, especially waterfowl, it seems like Labs and Chessies get all the press. Even on long-distance pheasant marks, the breeds classified as “retrievers” are the media stars. It’s time for versatile dogs—the pointing breeds developed for pointing, tracking, and retrieving on land or water– to share that spotlight.” Facing Your Demons: Lessons Learned from Bears - Ehor Boyanowsky “I entered the darkened ranger’s cabin, and laying the Winchester .30-30 on the sofa, rummaged around in my pockets for a match. And then I smelled it—the unmistakable rancid odor of a mature bear. What now?” A DIY Wyoming Antelope Hunt - Jesse Males “Now all we had to do was put a stalk on them and make the shot. This is when I learned that spotting an animal in open country is only half the battle. Getting into position to make a shot without your prey—or other nearby animals— spotting you is a whole different challenge.”

Great Lakes salmon are often associated with combat fishing, but this jewel of a Lake Ontario tributary is anything but crowded. We hiked for miles without seeing another angler and found plenty of willing fish. Photo: Ryan Sparks

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Zac Mayhew walks through a field of penstimen on a Canterbury river. South Island, New Zealand. Photo: Nick Price

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There’s nothing but dust in the rearview as I

nights camped there, visiting old friends I

navigate this sandy Jeep trail looking for the

haven’t seen in several years and the places

turnoff. I’d opted for what my cell phone GPS

that made me want to spend the rest of my

told me was the fastest route, and maybe it

life there. Like any trip back, it felt rushed,

would have been on an ATV, but these sandy,

trying to fit in as many of the old haunts as

washed out, unmarked two-tracks and a bad

possible rather than having the time to really

map keep turning me around. My phone has

enjoy them.

no service and the gas needle creeps closer to empty.

I’d planned to leave there early this morning, but I got a late start after having breakfast

A wet spring following an exceptionally snowy

with friends and casting for trout with a couple

winter has left massive puddles across many

of them into the afternoon. It felt strange and

of the roads, as well as high water levels

melancholic leaving there so soon.

across the entire Great Lakes region. In my truck I may have tried to plow through some

But I’ve wanted to fish the Two Hearted ever

of these puddles, but I’m not in my truck.

since I read Hemingway’s, “Big Two Hearted

Fearing that my 25-year-old Ford pickup

River,” in college, and this was my chance. The

wouldn’t be able to make the cross-country

Hemingway story, too, oddly starts with the

journey, my mother in law generously insisted

burned out remains of this U.P landscape.

that I take her Lexus. But now I’m terrified of fucking up her vehicle which is so much nicer

That lake I see through the trees holds a

than mine.

great amount of significance to me, but I just can’t seem to find the road that will take me

At times I can see Lake Superior shimmering

to it. I’m tempted to turn around, to turn

in the distance through the charred remnants

onto a road I’d passed twenty miles back that

of trees that burnt in a 20,000-acre fire here

would put me somewhere further upstream

back in 2012, when I still lived in the U.P.

on the Two Hearted, but for some reason I’ve made it my mission to reach the mouth

I first showed up on the north coast of

tonight—I just want to lay eyes on it, and

Michigan a dozen years ago, hauling my

then I can decide where to camp.

meager possessions in my Cherokee, a few hundred bucks in the glove box. I was starting

Then I find it, the actual road leading to the

grad school at Northern Michigan University

mouth, and a main dirt road I realize would

in a few days, and I had a pressing need to

have been my best bet for getting here from

find a job and an apartment ASAP.

Seney in the first place.

It didn’t take me long to fall in love with the

A campground at the river mouth is marked

place, and with this greatest of lakes. And I

prominently and bustles with people, which

vowed to myself that the U.P. would be my

makes me feel somewhat ashamed for having

home forever. When I took a job in Utah, I

gotten so turned around and on the verge of

knew that it wouldn’t be long before I’d make

lost. I park and take my first look at the river.

my way back to northern Michigan. But that

It runs deep and mellow, clear enough to see

was before I met Amy, before I bought a cabin

the stones at the bottom but stained a deep

in the mountains and built a new life. Now, a

tobacco brown.

bumper sticker on the wall of my barn in Utah proclaims, “My heart is in da U.P. but my ass

It parallels the lakeshore for a quarter mile

is stuck right here.”

or so, separated from the lake by a peninsula of dunes, before dumping into the lake which

Despite my love for the Upper Peninsula, I’ve

appears brilliant blue from here. I cross the

never been to the part of the U.P. that I’m

river on a footbridge and walk out to the

headed. The U.P. that I loved and called home

end of the peninsula where the Two Hearted

is 100 miles west of here along the Superior

finally seeps into Superior

coast in Marquette. I’ve spent the last two

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by Colin Clancy

THREE WEEKS AGO, I MARRIED THE LOVE OF MY LIFE, AND NOW I’M TWO THOUSAND MILES AWAY, SPEEDING SOLO IN HER MOM’S CAR THROUGH MICHIGAN’S UPPER PENINSULA. AMY’S BACK IN UTAH WITH OUR DOGS, AND I’M BOUND FOR THE MOUTH OF THE TWO HEARTED RIVER WHERE IT DUMPS INTO LAKE SUPERIOR, HOPING TO FIND A PLACE TO CAMP WHILE THERE’S STILL A BIT OF LIGHT LEFT FOR SOME FISHING.

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I’m tempted to set up camp here and string

I cast streamers until dark without success,

up my fly rod. It’s an idyllic location for it.

but the new possibility of both brookies

But then I look back to the campground

and steelhead—and two full days of endless

that’s full of people, and pets, and tents,

fishing possibilities ahead—enlivens me.

and fifth wheels, and I know this is not quite what I’m looking for. It’s hard to leave this

I get back to the campsite with a powerful

perfect campground and venture back into

hunger and quickly set up my tent and a cot

the unknown, but I’m willing to trade the

outside it. I get a fire going, pour myself a

immediacy of fishing here for the possibility

whiskey—a leftover bottle from the wedding—

of solitude.

and heat up a can of spaghetti mixed with beans, a Nick Adams favorite.

I’d looked up another DNR campground on the river further inland, and I opt to head there.

I’ve been on this solo road trip for a week

I pass through the burnt-out wasteland into

now and have been checking in with Amy

thick forest that seems more like the U.P.

a couple of times a day, but I warned her

that I know and love so much. It feels good

this afternoon that I’d likely not have phone

to be cruising on this main dirt road with my

service here. This will be the first night of

Greg Brown CD on repeat like it’s been most of

our young marriage when I’m not able to at

the time during this road trip.

least text her goodnight, and I hope she’s not worried.

I arrive at the Reed and Green DNR campground at in the golden evening light.

And I feel a bit lonesome, not in a bad way.

I’m so glad that I moved on from the mouth,

It’s strange to be here, alone in the Upper

because this campground is exactly what I

Peninsula woods that I love without my

wanted—deep in the woods backing up to

wife. It still feels odd to think about that

the river, with plenty of solace. Of the dozen

phrase, my wife. I look forward to seeing her

campsites, only one is taken. I pull into the

several days from now at the airport near

site furthest from the other campers.

my parents’ house, 400 miles south of here, where I’ll pick her up on the way to celebrate

Unlike Hemingway’s Nick Adams, I opt not to

my little sister’s wedding.

set up camp first but, instead, gear up to fish. The river is tannin stained brown but is quite

But before that, I have three nights to spend

clear. It runs calm and quiet, cutting deep

here in the Northwoods, and I intend to savor

through the clay soil, the river bottom sandy.

them. I doze on the cot, under the stars to

Huge white pines tower overhead, mirrored in

the constant croaking of frogs, until the fire is

the glass-smooth, ink-dark water.

out, and I retire to the tent.

Birds sing like crazy as I navigate the thick

The gentle patter of rain against nylon

brush and steep clay banks to try to find a

wakes me. I get up to make coffee and

decent spot to cast. It turns out there aren’t

decide to drive around a bit to fish the

many. With no fish rising, I roll cast nymphs

river at a different spot. I’d always wanted

for twenty minutes before moving on to find

to explore this part of the U.P. but never

another spot.

got the chance before I took the job that brought me out west.

A quarter mile upstream I come upon the couple staying in the other campsite spin

Everywhere I go is tough wading,

casting from a beachy section of bank, a

bushwhacking through thick brush and

steelhead on a stringer next to their cooler. I

trees and navigating the steep clay banks.

move past them, excited by this. I’d heard the

The forest dictates where I can cast, only to

steelhead were still running but being late

certain spots and not necessarily the ones

May I wasn’t sure whether to believe it or not.

that likely hold fish. It leaves so much water out there, unreachable.

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At times it’s a total shit show. It feels like I’m

constant movement of birds, chipmunks,

I cast and cast and wade and cast and

constantly tangled, losing so many flies in

squirrels, and frogs.

work my way through a backpack of Faygo

tight trees and on submerged logs. The water

Red Pops and Two Hearted Ales. The cold

itself is slow, mellow, and meandering. It

Early in the afternoon I decide to find a

rain becomes heavier and constant, and

would be a lot of fun fishing by boat, but I’m

place to gas up and get lunch. My attempt

eventually I’m soaked even through my old

not on a boat kind of budget.

to get to Grand Marais is thwarted by a

Gore Tex jacket.

flooded washboard road, and I’m truly There have been no fish rising and no bites.

worried about running out of gas when I

But still, I fish past dark, past when it’s too

Despite the difficulties, my spirits are still

finally pull up to a rec fuel pump next to

dark to see what I’m doing. In the rain, I hope

high as I debate streamers or nymphs, usually

a tavern in Pine Stump Junction. Gassed

that my next cast is the one, but it never is.

going with streamers with the thought that

up, dried out, and with a whiskey and

it’ll leave my chances open for both brookies

burger in me, I head to High Bridge on the

The rain keeps up all night, and in the

and steelhead.

recommendation of a local angler.

morning I realize that my 20-year-old tent is no longer waterproof. I’m cold and wet, and all

The rain continues to fall through the jack

The bottom here is rocky and the river full

pine, white pine, and cedar, landing onto the

of riffles, with some more room along the

forest floor of pine needles, ferns, and moss.

banks to find places to cast. Despite the more

I make coffee and drive south, heading

This pleasant all-day rain just seems so fitting

promising conditions, the afternoon and

for the Fox River 40 miles from here. No

to the Upper Peninsula. The damp pine forest

evening produce more of the same with no

Hemingway-inspired U.P. fishing trip would

gives off my favorite smell, like a Christmas

fish rising anywhere and no action.

be complete without a few casts into the

tree lot. And the place feels alive, too, with

so is all my stuff.

Fox. Hemingway’s own fishing trips, and the

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inspiration for his Nick Adams fishing tale,

hatch. At the bar the locals talk about the

I question my choices. No fish. No bites. No

took place on the Fox, but he chose to name

fish not biting because the water’s so high.

rises. I speed, knowing that I have to hurry

the piece after the Two Hearted instead due

I win $17 at Keno, which I take to be a good

if I want to have a decent amount of fishing

to the poetry of the more northern river’s

omen, and I head back to the deserted Fox

time left.

name. It may be the literary history but is

campground with high hopes.

more likely my utter lack of fish on the Two

I get back to the Two Hearted at Reed and

Hearted, that make me eager to get to the

I sit on the bank and light the last of our

Green bridge an hour before sunset, my last

Fox to try something different.

wedding cigars, a Fuente Hemingway, and

night in the Upper Peninsula for who knows

contemplate this last evening in the U.P. I

how long. I cast both rods—midges and nymphs,

The rain lets up on my drive down, and the

feel no rush to get into the river, just waiting

wet flies and dries, San Juan worms and scuds,

sun even peeks out a bit, but the Fox turns

in hopes that the trout will start rising. The

wooly buggers in black, olive, and pink—just

out to be just as difficult to fish as the Two

cigar keeps these early season mosquitoes at

trying for anything with no signs of life. I’m fully

Hearted. The riverbanks are incredibly thick

bay for the time being while I string up my

aware that I’d be better off getting in more

and tough to access, not to mention that the

spare rod as well so that I can switch between

casts with one fly than wasting valuable time

mosquitoes here are atrocious.

nymphs and streamers easily.

switching them out without rhyme or reason,

Then I find a nice deserted campground on a

But the fishing, or the fisherman, does not

right fly, matched a non-existent hatch, the fish

winding stretch of river where the banks have

improve. The mosquitoes descend in swarms.

would bite.

been cleared for good casting. I fish here a

I try to ignore them, and I do for a while, but

while with no success, but it warms up a bit

they become horrific I can’t stand it. When I

I question the decisions I’ve made since

and there are a few bugs coming off the water.

make the decision to leave, I can’t get away

arriving at the river two nights ago. I’ve spent

fast enough.

too much time driving around, too much

but I’ve convinced myself that if I just found the

I head into town for lunch and a beer,

time exploring—valuable fishing time wasted

considering sticking around this evening to

I hightail it back to the Two Hearted, and as I

looking for places to fish. I desperately want

fish the campground stretch in hopes of a

drive north, I feel pretty damned discouraged.

to catch something, anything, as if landing

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even one fish, even having one hooked for a

Back at camp, I have a hell of a time getting

moment, would give this trip some meaning

a fire started with wet kindling, but once

that it doesn’t yet have.

it’s going I get it raging. With the pouring rain yesterday I didn’t have a fire, so I have a

Sunset comes and goes, and it’s that last

whole lot of wood to burn up. I pour a drink

magic twenty minutes before dark when

that I don’t drink, lay down on my cot, and fall

things come alive. Fish start rising, splashing

asleep with the fire’s intense heat warming

around me. Some are small, but some are

me entirely.

big. And for the life of me I can’t get any of them to take anything. I’m frantically tying

In the morning I make coffee, quickly tear

on different dry flies and making a few casts

down camp, and drive back to the mouth of

with each to see if I can get anything to take,

the Two Hearted. As I pass through the giant

but nothing does.

burn scar, I see plenty of young regrowth that I hadn’t noticed the other day. The

I keep casting as it gets darker and darker and

campground is dead compared to two days

the water becomes ink black, though still tannin

ago. I calculate how much time I have to fish

brown where my headlamp’s beam penetrates

before I have to hit the road—a couple hours

it. The headlamp is now necessary for tying on

at best.

new flies. Finally, once the night becomes pure darkness, I tie on a mouse pattern.

This spot is gorgeous and so is the day, sunny with a chilly but pleasant breeze blowing

As I tie on the mouse, I know that I am beat,

down from Canada. I wade out where the tea-

that the mouse will not conjure up some giant

colored Two-Hearted bleeds into the endless

brookie from the depths. The mouse is my

pristine water of Superior. I cast streamers all

Hail Mary pass. It’s my half-court shot. It’s my

around the mouth until my shoulder aches.

three-dollar bet at the five-dollar blackjack table because they’ll let you play the last of

The breeze picks up—wind knots galore. I’m

your money even if you don’t have enough

still skunked and there’s an impending need

left to make the minimum.

to get on the road. But I cast until it’s too windy to do so and I know that I am done. I sit

Maybe it was stupid to come here in May.

down on a driftwood log and contemplate the

I could have come here in June, when the

long drive home. I long to be with my wife.

hatches are more prominent and the water levels lower. I could have come here in August

Whitecaps now crash across the lake, a

for some hopper action. I could have done

constant roar of them. I pull off my waders

some research. I could have spent more

and strip down to my shorts and walk out

time here, too. Surely I could have milked

into Superior. The water is frigid, and I nearly

another day from my schedule, shortened the

turn back. But, instead, I dive in headfirst. The

Marquette leg of my trip or planned to show

moment of immersion is one of pure shock

up at my parents’ house a day later. Yeah, I

where for an instant it feels as if the heart

had three nights, but really only two days of

has stopped. Silence.

fishing when you think about it. I make a long breaststroke. It’s been six days Maybe it was stupid to come here at all, to

since I last showered, so in this dunking I feel

ascribe to the Two Hearted some kind of

clean, but it’s more than that. I swim one

meaning, to expect some kind of Hemingway-

more stroke, feeling the pull of water against

esque, trout-on-every-cast bounty. Stupid

my arms. My chest skims the bottom as I

to think that a solo trip back to the Upper

open my eyes.

Peninsula would give me some all-time fishing just because I want it to, because I miss the

Gin clear water, sand, and rock.

place every day, because I’ve slapped to the wall of my barn some bullshit sticker about my heart being in da U.P.

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Knee-deep in the legendary San Juan River, we weren’t standing cheek-by-jowl with a horde of other fly fishers dunking tiny nymphs towards monster rainbows (a regular event in the blue-ribbon tailwater below the Navajo Reservoir in New Mexico). We were many miles upstream, fishing the fasttumbling Upper West Fork of the San Juan in southwestern Colorado. The trout are there, and eager to eat your flies, but getting there and fishing there are not for those faint of heart or lacking in stamina. My fishing buddy Paul Bendheim and I found that out one beautiful August morning with the sun gleaming golden in an azure sky. When we asked about fishing the West Fork, a fly shop owner assured us that once we drove through the campground to the end of the unpaved road, we’d simply have to park and walk past a mile or so of private land to get to the river. Never having been there, we took him at his word. Getting to the campground was a snap: it’s well-marked as “West Fork Campground,” off Route 160 headed north from Pagosa Springs toward Wolf Creek Pass. Pagosa Springs, a gentrified old town on the San Juan with an outdoor vibe reminiscent of Durango—albeit on a much smaller scale—is a great jumpingoff point for a lot of wonderful stream fishing in the area. Ditching our chest waders for field pants and wading shoes, we set about walking a gravel road that climbs immediately from the lot, curves hard, then flattens out as you enter a private area with a few homes. Signs direct you to the Rainbow Trail headed for the river. So far, so good. We trekked steadily through an expansive, heavily wooded ranch property—posted on both sides—and admired the lavishly chiseled log fencing set at intervals along the way. And we walked and walked and the trail narrowed, now studded with rocks and tree roots. It swooped up and down like a songbird in flight, and we forded small seeps and larger freshets; the “posted” signs were now only a memory. At times, the trail was no more than a muddy path between head-high marsh plants.

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Above the San Juan by Jeffrey Marshall

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To our consternation, the general

Wading gingerly downstream, I picked

direction was up, even though we could

up a 14-inch rainbow from a nice pocket

start to make out the river far below—

with a Yellow Humpy. The highlight of our

perhaps as many as 500 feet below—in

short visit was a 16-inch ‘bow I caught

a deep gorge, foaming with white water.

in a dream pocket, where a side current

The banks were mind-numbingly steep,

dropped under a boulder, where the fish

and we saw no way down; the river was so

was waiting.

far below us that we couldn’t even hear the stream’s steady roar.

Mindful of the long hike back to the car, we left early, winding our way back up

After more than an hour, and no path

to the trail, past beautiful stands of

down in sight, we talked reluctantly

wildflowers, mostly asters and fireweed,

about turning around. “Let’s just go

and the ghostly legions of dead spruce.

another 10 minutes,” Paul said, and

The return trip was every bit as long. For

we soon encountered a friendly trio

two senior citizens, we were proud of how

of hikers who assured us the path led

our bodies had held up. But it’s a long and

to the river, probably a mile ahead.

arduous hike that requires considerable

And so it was: Navigating a series of

stamina—and it is made even more

switchbacks meandering down through

enervating by the 8,000-foot elevation.

a spectral field of dead spruce that had been felled by a spruce beetle

Bottom line: Fishing the West Fork is an

infestation, we reached the river.

adventure, but the fish are plentiful and cooperative. The views, while marred

We’d hiked more than 90 minutes from

somewhat by the sorry graveyard of dead

the car—probably close to four miles—and

trees, are unspoiled and striking, among

our legs were feeling a bit like Jello. Just

the best the Mountain West has to offer.

past the private property? Hardly. As

Strap on your walking shoes, fill the water

Humphrey Bogart said of Casablanca’s

bottles, and ready yourself for a trek. The

healing waters, “I was misinformed.”

angling payoff may be terrific.

The stream before us was raging after a wet winter and spring, crashing down through the gorge with a myriad of riffles and fast pockets, many too fast to fish. What’s more, the banks were overgrown with alders and frequently blocked by deadfalls; bank fishing was well-nigh impossible. Challenging? Some spots might have rivaled a Marine obstacle course. But there was a big upside: Angling pressure was nonexistent—we never saw another fisherman—and the cutthroats and rainbows were eager to take dries. Paul and I quickly nailed more than a halfdozen fish in one big pool with upstream casts; I threw out a foam hopper, a fly I knew would float jauntily and I could follow in the heavy water. Most fish were what you’d expect for an isolated mountain stream, from 8 to 12 inches and not shy about slamming a potential meal.

STRUNG MAGAZINE

SPRING 2020

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Sometimes I cringed as he whipped that

about unfairness to the fish. I tried to

flimsy piece of fiberglass around. When he

educate him on modern fishing ethics, but he

happened to hook a fish, I couldn’t watch for

was a lost cause. He even threw fish back.

fear of endorsing the behavior. The rod was such a crude instrument he merely stripped

As he placed his tackle box in his pocket,

line in by hand and didn’t even bother reeling

I heaved mine in the belly of the boat, an

in fish. “Why not just use a cane pole?” I

aluminum two-seater. Then my dad shoved

wondered. That would be more acceptable

off and started rowing while I sat in the

around these parts than a fly rod. Admittedly,

back and unfolded my scripted list of fishing

my dad was from upstate South Carolina,

plays. One TV fishing celebrity said fishermen

near the mountains, where people were still

needed to treat fishing trips like football

using such outdated methods to catch trout.

games, with each cast constituting a separate

But using a fly rod in a johnboat on a farm

play. The celebrity said sometimes anglers

pond, was completely uncalled for. Nobody

had to blitz a hooked fish with spurts of

else’s dad used a fly rod.

intense reeling. At other times, anglers should play preventive defense and let the fish tire

The situation was so concerning that for

out. My dad figured it would take 30 minutes

Christmas I wrote to Santa saying, “Please

of battling Bubba before the fish even broke

bring me some bass lures to catch big bass

a sweat. Here, I felt obligated to correct him

like Bubba and a new fishing pole. P.S. Please

and said, “Fish don’t sweat,” at which point he

bring my dad a real pole.” Unfortunately,

said, “They don’t play football either.”

my dad made the naughty list and only got flies and popping bugs in his stocking.

My grandma’s obese Labrador had embarked

Meanwhile, I amassed a large collection of

beside the boat. Apollo had caught a car in

bass lures from Santa. In the Christmas

pup years and thereafter always limped.

spirit, I even tried donating some, but my

However, the limp never impeded his ability

dad was too proud for charity. He told me

to swim laps around the boat. He had extra

to keep them. Afterwards, my triple-decker

buoyancy from the dog biscuits—sausage and

Plano was stuffed full of neon colors. So

egg—my grandma fed him every morning.

much so, Crayola was sure to sponsor my

My dad had a terrible technique for dealing

fishing career. I’d be hailed as the greatest

with Apollo, one that completely ignored

bass fisherman ever to overcome such a poor

the fact that the first row set the tone for

upbringing as a dad who used a fly rod.

the entire fishing trip: He just rowed to the middle of the pond and let Apollo swim circles

I never lost hope that my dad would abandon

around the boat till the dog got either tired

fly fishing, and I sought teachable moments

or bored. To speed up the process, I tried to

to subtly influence him. One Saturday

poke and prod Apollo with my longest pole,

afternoon I had a good opportunity to teach

but the dog bit off the tip. As Apollo swam off

him how to catch big bass when we went

with the rod tip, my dad finally appreciated

fishing at my grandma’s two-acre pond in

my preparedness and said, “Good thing you

Cheraw, South Carolina.

brought other rods.”

I brought along three 8-foot poles, each as

My dad rowed over to the shallow cove that

stout as rebar. The bass I was after was

fed the pond. It was lined with outstretched

Bubba, an ancient largemouth that inhabited

willows and stunted swamp gums. By the

the pond. Even by the most conservative

time I had tied on a plastic lizard, my dad

accounts, the fish weighed 10 pounds, had a

had already unfurled his fly rod, whipped a

rusty hook in his mouth, and had sunk one

popping bug around the willows, and caught

boat. My dad had the odd habit of leaning

and released several nice bream. I told him

over the bow in search of Bubba, especially

he needed to change lures—that big bass like

when I was casting my jointed swimbait with

Bubba needed big baits.

four treble hooks. He never used anything with a treble hook, uttering some nonsense

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by Stephen Bishop

IN SIZE, MY DAD’S TACKLE BOX RESEMBLED A BIBLE. AS A PREACHER’S SON, I WAS ACUTELY AWARE OF THE SIZE OF THREE-DIMENSIONAL RECTANGULAR ITEMS, LIKE BIBLES, AND KNEW THE TACKLE BOX WAS EMBARRASSINGLY SMALL—THINK A GIDEONS’ NEW TESTAMENT. THE TINY GRAY BOX, WHICH FIT IN HIS POCKET, HOUSED A MEAGER COLLECTION OF BEETLE SPINS, POPPING BUGS, AND FLIES. THE MOST PRACTICAL THING IN THE TACKLE BOX WAS A PAIR OF FINGERNAIL CLIPPERS TO CLIP FISHING LINE. TO FURTHER COMPOUND MY EMBARRASSMENT, MY DAD PURPOSELY USED A LIGHTWEIGHT POLE WITH A REEL THAT RESEMBLED A FLOSS DISPENSER. BUT THE BIGGEST EMBARRASSMENT WAS THE FLY ROD.

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My dad thought the topwater torpedo produced a wake big enough for waterskiing and might be scaring the fish. I told him it was working exactly as designed. It was meant to scare away small fish and clear a path for only a bass of Bubba's caliber. However, a strong wind gust changed direction during one torpedo cast, and the torpedo stopped forward progress and reversed course. We both had to duck and cover for fear of the torpedo sinking the boat. Although it was only a 5-foot cast, my spinning reel dispensed a half mile of Suddenly, a big bass jumped beneath a

line, which sprang back to form a birds' nest

leaning willow. Moments later, the willow

tangle fit for an eagle. Thankfully, I had come

intercepted my excellent cast. This was part

prepared for acts of nature, like wind gusts

of my fishing strategy. Bubba would see my

and birds’ nests, and merely switched reels.

lizard sunning on a limb and recognize a real cold-blooded reptile in need of warmth. I was

While I was rigging up, my dad rowed over

so certain this strategy would be effective

to Bubba’s lair, a stretch of shoreline shaded

that I landed the lizard in a few other

by tall pines. More Bubba sightings and

trees. Sadly, I couldn’t see my strategy to

encounters had occurred in this spot than

completion because the wind began pushing

any other part of the pond. This was also the

the boat out to deep water near the dam, at

location of my Uncle Terry’s sunken johnboat.

which point my dad said, “At least you’ll have

The incident was infamous: Uncle Terry had

more room to cast.”

been fishing a plastic worm when he saw his line start running and knew, based on run

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Having learned from the best TV fishermen,

speed, that Bubba was on the other end. He

I knew these conditions called for topwater

had opened his bail and let Bubba take more

lures and long casts with the wind. Ignorant

line. A cunning beast, Bubba had spit out the

of these facts, my dad proceeded to

worm at the same moment Uncle Terry had

disregard casting. He just switched to his

finally decided to set the hook. Terry had

lightweight rod and reel and jigged a Beetle

leaned forward and then reared back with

Spin up and down beneath the boat in deep

such force that he had flipped out of the

water. Although embarrassed by what I

boat backwards. In such a panic to get back

was witnessing, I concentrated on tying on

in the boat and get away from Bubba, he had

a topwater torpedo. Focusing was difficult

swamped the vessel, which had sunk to the

because my dad had just landed a big crappie

bottom of Bubba’s lair. Of course, that was the

that was flopping about the hull. On my

popular story. Others speculated that he had

advice, he threw back the junk fish.

merely forgotten to put the plug in the boat.

Over the lair, my dad dropped anchor. I tied

As dusk approached, the wind calmed, and

on a Baby Rattle crankbait. It mimicked the

my dad convinced me to try his fly rod. At

sound of a rattlesnake. Everybody (except

first, he told me to just ease the popping

my dad) knew that bass were the biggest

bug across the surface, like a little puppet on

predators of rattlesnakes. Although I failed

a string, until I got used to holding the rod.

to catch anything with the Baby Rattle, my

Several small bream came to investigate the

dad saw the obvious potential for a Bubba

popping bug, as I teased it around the boat.

strike and asked to trade rods and reels. He

Suddenly, one swallowed the bug in a little

fished for a while with the Baby Rattle but

gulp. With one hand, my dad steadied the pole

then merely rowed me around the pond.

while I fought the bream. Operating the funny

This was one of his biggest faults. The TV

reel proved difficult; eventually I just stripped

personality said not fishing hard was one of

the line in like I had seen my dad do, and the

the seven deadly sins. I thought my dad, being

tiny bream, my first catch on a fly rod, flipped

a preacher, would have known this. I guess

right into the boat. Nearly dark, my dad

seminary didn’t cover everything. Sometimes

thought that was a good stopping point, and

he seemed more interested in listening to

we grounded the boat to disembark.

birds. He even stopped rowing to eat Lance crackers and watch the aerial acrobatics of

As the sun descended over the horizon, I had

swallows. If I hadn’t been so busy catching

forgotten all about Bubba and TV fishing

bream on his Beetle Spin, I would have

celebrities—and my dad's obvious need for

corrected him. Strangely, every time I hooked

more fishing lessons.

a bream, I thought it was Bubba. They felt so big on my dad’s little rod that I suspected Bubba had taught them how to pull and fight.

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Ecuador’s Andean highlands are dramatic. A

through the hills. There are nearly 700 species

perhaps the highest naturally reproducing

constant mist hovers over sprawling páramo

of animals living here, including one unlikely

trout in the world. Within an hour of

meadows, thickening as it meets worn

transplant—rainbow trout.

Ecuador’s capital city, Quito, trout can grow

creagan spires atop the ridgeline. Cotopaxi,

to several pounds, especially in the large

one of the highest volcanoes on Earth,

Introduced to Ecuador in the 1960s, rainbow

mountain lakes that dot the landscape.

scratches the sky in the distance at over

trout took well to the region’s small creeks

High in the Andean mountains sandwiched

19,000 feet. Andean condors circle overhead,

and alpine lakes, naturally reproducing and

between two national parks, this is one of the

spectacled bears bed under vegetative cover,

creating wild populations in these equatorial

most uniquely beautiful places in the world to

and mountain tapir follow well worth paths

waters. At over 13,000 feet, these fish are

fish for trout.

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by Ryan Sparks

Trout Amongst the Clouds: Ecuadorâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Highland Rainbows

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Become kind of famous.

Enter the Strung 2019 Photo Contest, get your dog on the 2020 upland cover, and win the Grand Prize Package. strungmag.com/contest

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“Every day a new campsite and a new section

and stood outside next to our young cook’s

of water,” explained Wild Salmon Center

helper Vladimir, joining him for a cigarette. I

not want me to, I am dead.”

President Guido Rahr to our group of celebrity

tried to explain to him what was going on in

clients. This trip we had the owner of a

there. The meeting didn’t end, and we talked

national news network in the U.S., and the

for a long while. When I inquired about his

little droplets of vodka. The owner of CNN was

past president of the World Bank among

pencil-thin legs, he lifted his shirt to reveal a

up, and I asked him if he needed anything.

The next morning I awoke early, perspiring

our guests. Guido went on to explain how

depression in his belly, under the right ribcage.

With a large hand he waved me off, holding a

this operation was not only a fly fisherman’s

It seemed to go all the way back to his spine

satellite phone to his ear with the other mitt.

dream, but also a conservation program

and was big enough to fit a fist into. His chest

His assistant informed me later that he made

funded by the anglers who purchased these

and belly were a mess of twisted skin. He’d

a habit of calling his ex-wife, and good friend,

trips. He explained how the guides were

spent years in a wheelchair, he told me.

almost every morning. I headed over to the

taking scale samples and recording every fish caught, using the most modern methods to reduce harm to these wild rainbows. The

cook tent to make sure the chefs were up and “My friend,” he explained. “He shoot me with

making coffee. Then I hiked down to the river in

Kalashnikov with barrel right here.” He used

my waders with my Spey rod for a morning fish.

data was then sent back to the U.S. to help

his index finger as a barrel and held it close

figure out how to produce a healthy, natural

to his body.

population of fish in our own rivers, damaged by numerous human activities. He was

“God save me. I have reason to live now. If God

The river had disappeared in fog. Standing waist deep and listening to the rolling and

“Ve war young, and drink much vodka.” A solemn

gurgling of the water felt like being in some

presenting slides on a screen, and showing

mood came over him. A bit of anger flashed

kind of sensory deprivation chamber. Giant

all the Wild Salmon Center’s operations

in his eye, and then the expression on his face

flat boulders poked out beneath the fog,

throughout Russia. I exited the cook house

changed. A look of relief swept over his face.

giving the whole scene a very ancient feel.

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by Alexei JD Boyanowsky

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My casting was in perfect form and taking up

slightest, and continued eating, eyes on his

almost all my running line. I was fishing into

soup. Two hours later, I knocked on the door

my backing when a monster took the sunken

of the caretaker’s cabin. I knew the Dimas

fly and tore up the surface of the water. The

liked to hang out in there, secretly drinking

line went slack, and I decided not to fish

vodka and listening to the barely audible

such a long line, because you have to get

radio. The door opened and there was Dima

lucky with the hook-set. Casting again, I felt

One, staring at me as if he wanted my head. I

another take. I stuck the hook and landed one

felt he was ready, at any moment, to pounce

this time, a 22-inch, acrobatic fish.

at me from his seat, prison shank in hand. I made a point of sitting right next to him.

Later, after a long day on the river, everyone

Reluctantly, he poured me a shot of vodka

was exhausted. My boat had caught the

and handed me a slice of meat.

most fish four days in a row now, and the friendly advice and communication from my Russian comrades had all but stopped. I could

“Look,” I told him. “I am not sure what I have done, but I can see you are very upset, and for

tell something was wrong, but when I asked

that I am sorry. I have traveled many places

Dima One, he denied there was a problem

and learned that not everyone does things

but wouldn’t look me in the eye. I wondered

the same way. To overcome this obstacle, we

if my boat’s consistent success was making

must have excellent communication. I am a

him look bad, but couldn’t get more than a

guest in your country, and I don’t necessarily

few words out of him. The clients had dinner,

know all the rules and customs, so you must

and then it was our turn. The Dimas were

help me with this.”

laughing and chatting expressively in Russian, but paid no attention to me.

Within the hour we had finished most of the bottle of vodka, and figured out that the real

“Pass me the salt, please,” I asked, pointing at the shaker. They fell silent and stared at their

issue was that my boat was not sharing the good fishing spots fairly. But Dima One had

plates while Dima Two handed me the salt. I

been too proud to point this out. Of course

added a small amount to my borscht, and as

I didn’t know which spots were traditionally

I put it back on the table it fell over, spilling

considered the best, since it was my first time

some granules on the table.

on the river, and this he finally understood and agreed. Before I left the cabin, he

“Blyad!” screamed Dima One, jumping to his

embraced me in a bear hug and called me his

feet, enraged. “What is your problem?” he

brother for life, and told me that we would

yells at me. His face turned red, and I thought

take care of each other. From that night

steam would start blowing from his ears.

forward, we were as tight as could be.

“I’m sorry,” I replied, trying not to sound frightened. “What is the problem?”

It was our fifth trip on the river, and some old clients of mine had unexpectedly shown up. Dan, his brother Ryan, and their brother-in-law Jamie,

“In Russia you don’t spill the salt! Very bad

all of whom I’d guided in British Columbia, had

things happen now. You have gotten us all

come with their father John and his friends,

killed, Alyosha!” he shouted, waving his arms.

Stan and Steven. The first day, Steven was with

“I will never fly in a chopper again!”

me. He had never fly fished before but was a pretty confident man, and was soon into a big

“I'm really sorry,” I said. “I swear, I had no idea,”

fish. As I coached him through the fight, he

I added, not knowing whether my leg was

did everything he was told and remembered

being pulled. I threw the spilled pinch of salt

the advice I had given him during our drift in

over my shoulder, attempting to right the

the raft. He landed the fish, a 30-inch rainbow

situation before I was thrown in the gulag for

and the biggest of the day. I made sure to

breaking some age-old Russian law. Dima One

carefully take a scale sample and a fin clipping

charged out of the cook tent, leaving his meal

and immortalize the fish with the waterproof

half eaten. The other Dima didn’t react in the

notebook and pencil I kept in my jacket. The

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other, more seasoned anglers weren’t pleased with his catch, and that was the last time

“A kundzha,” I said, holding the fish to show him.

Steven accompanied me in the raft.

night and day, it keeps you on your toes, and the guys were in the raft quickly. We were drifting downstream. I scanned the bank and

“What a monster!” he said. Drifting with Dan and Jamie and Ryan was

swore I saw something behind some bushes that seemed to intentionally move out of

enjoyable as always, and we reminisced

The kundzha (aka Siberian white-spotted

about good days on the river. John, however,

char) is an anadromous char, growing to 20

was sleepless, listening to all the eerie noises

also turned out to be a lot of fun, as our

pounds. They return upstream like steelhead,

of the Russian wilderness.

personalities meshed well and we experienced

and travel very far up from the sea. They

all sorts of adventures together in the raft.

are silver with black, sometimes navy blue

“That looks like a good spot,” John said, eyes

sight. That night the wolves howled, and I

Stories of Russian Bigfoot relayed in broken

backs, and have bars on their sides. They color

English from Dima One replayed in my mind.

greenish during their time in fresh water, but

I pulled the sleeping bag up to my cheek,

aiming downstream toward a flat section

fight well, sometimes dogging like bull trout

but my eyes were wide open. Every broken

below us. The river was wide here, but coal-

and at other times running like salmon. We

twig, every sound outside my cabin painted

black canyon walls rose high above us, making

got a photo, and John was back in the water

the picture of a half-bear, half-ape creature

us feel that we were floating through some

swinging for another.

lumbering through the brush in search of

in clumps, and the black scree walls screamed

I took a walk toward the scree slopes and saw

each other from time to time, and I wanted

Jurassic Park. This place was exhilarating

a pile of something on the ground. It looked

to attribute the day’s discovery to one of

and terrifying at the same time. The beauty

like human remains. I was suddenly terrified.

these occurrences. But the way it was torn

ancient giant’s footprint. The fog hung heavy

its next meal. I knew grizzly bears do eat

of this place was the kind you would find in

I walked up to the gory heap of flesh to get a

apart and turned inside out like that! I tried

an ancient cathedral in Vlad the Impaler’s

closer look. It was definitely a fresh kill from

to imagine how a bear could accomplish

kingdom in the mountains of Transylvania. I

today or yesterday. Organs, intestines, and

this. The sounds outside intensified as bear

brought the raft to shore with the powerful

blood were all I could see. I grabbed a piece

after bear walked the bank past my cabin,

Russian oars, and the guys couldn’t wait to

of driftwood from the ground to use as a tool.

leaping into the river after salmon in the

get out and start fishing.

Hidden underneath were fur and claws. This

light of the waxing moon. Every few seconds

bear had been turned inside out. I imagined

I could hear a small silver body or two splash,

I made sure the raft was secure, then poured

what animal could do such a thing to a giant

and sometimes the grunt of a bear. If there

myself a coffee. I watched John hook into

grizzly, and suddenly felt as though I was

were an animal on this planet that survived

a fish at the top of the pool that took him

being watched. My head snapped up, and I

on bears, it would be here. I thought back

downstream, running. It jumped, looking like

scanned the scene carefully to see if I could

to what Dima One had said earlier, when

a baby porpoise. I dropped my coffee cup and

spot anything.

discussing the subject.

broke toward John. John held his ground at the end of the gravel bar and steered the

Fear engulfed my heart. I thought about

“I have seen it once,” he said, raising a finger.

fish toward the bank, the rod anchored to his

meeting the animal that was responsible for

“The animal does not eat fish or berries. It

inside hip and pulling to one side. The fish’s

this, and decided I did not want that. I headed

momentum was eventually broken and it

back to the raft swiftly, without running or

succumbed to the pressure. John wound his

causing a scene, and told the boys that we

reel and I went out and grabbed the fish.

needed to leave now. When bears are around,

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only eats bears.”

TYLER ROEMER

When we buy a river, it belongs to everyone. Western Rivers Conservancy buys and protects land along the Westâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s greatest rivers. We do it for the sake of fish, for the benefit of wildlife and to improve access to our most treasured waters and the wildlands around them. Most of all, we do it for the river. We count on support from people like you, those who know the value of clean, cold water, healthy rivers and public access. Contribute today at westernrivers.org.

the next generation

T&T Ambassador, visionary Flyfishing guide and Permit aficionado Justin Rea likes nothing more than spending time on the water with his son Ryan. Handing down our knowledge and passion for the outdoors to the next generation is key to the survival and growth of flyfishing. At T&T we see a world of possibilities out there and believe the next generation should too.

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whatever your saltwater endeavor, we have you covered.

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In a world of tightly, efficiently, beautifully spinning tops, I am on a constant wobble and on an unpredictable path, knocking down everything and anyone in sight. I don’t mean for any of it, but I wonder: Jesus, how much damage will I cause? Or, how long before I stop spinning?

It was one of those days. The kind that starts a string of days down a deep, dark rabbit hole. I needed to feel something, yet felt like I was feeling everything all at the same time yet couldn’t pinpoint anything. Or maybe I know and don’t want to think about it because it hurts too much. You feel blank as you get into the car and search for a bit. There’s a song that’s in your head and on the tongue of your consciousness, and you can’t quite place it. It’s maddening, but then it comes to you and you start to get excited. You put the windows down even though the heat is sweltering because it’s the hottest week of the year. You’re fidgeting with the stereo a bit, to get that right sound. There’s a moment when the sweat begins to roll down your brow and the heat is maddening, but your force yourself to embrace it because at least it’s something. That sounds about right, you think to yourself before you gradually max out the volume. And just like the song you slowly accelerate, winding the gears a bit before the crescendo of fifth gear. You can feel the vibration in your chest as the bass beats hard, along with your heart, as you test the suspension. You let off the gas a moment, downshifting into fourth before hitting the gas again and accelerating

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around a turn fast enough to wonder what will happen. You don’t have a death wish— you’re just confidently unflappable in just this instance. There’s a straightaway where the trooper likes to hide out and ticket folks commuting to and from work, and it’s all great because at 36 years old, white, with a clean record and an open road, you just don’t give a fuck and watch as the tachometer slowly travels into uncharted territory. There are still a few minutes of music left so you go past the turn for your house, watching the lines on the road blur. For a moment you feel alive. It feels fucking great. But like everything good as of recent, the feeling is fleeting. You can’t slow down. You have everything in your car that you’d need to fish any hatch on your home water and be successful. And so, you keep going. And though it’s typically a 90-minute drive, you manage to make it in a hair over an hour. Th ere is limited water open on the system, as the water is too warm on most sections and you’ll probably kill every trout you catch, but there’s a cold section of river that you’ll have to yourself. Your mind is going in so many directions that it seems to get lost in a time warp while attempting to put on your waders,

boots, and sling pack before snagging your favorite 5-weight from your rod loft. You go to and from the trunk, completely inefficiently, in preparation and suddenly you have no idea what happened. It’s like momentary amnesia. You’re standing barefoot in the grass with your boots neatly placed and ready for your stocking foots to go into, but you’re just blanking out with your waders slumped over your forearm. How long had I been standing there? Gradually the nearby tributary just beyond the Japanese knotweed comes into sound, and slowly the world exists again. And so you do what you have done one million times and then march along the bank. “Always a safe bet with an Orvis-endorsed guide.” I hear the voice across the water. “Huh?” The stranger in the orange-accented ClackaCraft repeats it, and I utter: “Ohh, huh huh, right.” I remember I have my guide hat on and that my voice sounds like it’s cracking and I’m on the verge of tears. Normally I would have made small talk, but I keep my head down on the path. I’m on a mission to get somewhere, yet I have nowhere particular in mind, just going with the

by John Fabre

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flow which isn’t as easy as it sounds these days. I’m at the tailout of a beautiful pool on a shaded section of river that’s always good for a riser, and yet nary a sign of life. I sit on the bank and rethread the rat’s nest that is my stack of tippet spools so that the tippet goes through the nylon band. Dammit, if something will be in order in this godforsaken life it will be my tippet spools. The hatch is weak. I see a few different kinds of sulphurs, a handful of cahills, two isonychias, and various caddis, but nothing in any numbers to get fish to rise more than once within a 15-minute period. I’m sitting on an exposed root from an old sycamore at the perfect height for my legs to hang down while I’m watching the water. I’m waiting to feel something. Waiting for something to speak to me. Nothing. Getting up takes effort, as it feels like I’ve been standing my entire life and just sat down. I peel off some line and begin banging out long casts and blind casting a cahill comparadun. I raise a few small rainbows, but nothing to write home about. The one large brown I had seen come up intermittently isn’t feeling it, and so I blind cast my way back to the car. The river has not quieted my mind today. And the river has not recharged my batteries. I get into my car for the trek home, but I keep the music off and go the speed limit. Somehow the drive seems to go faster, and I’m transplanted home. I’m exhausted, mentally and physically, but tonight there is no self-medicating for sleep. It comes naturally. I think about the ocean and my guilty pleasure of soaking bait for big red drum in the OBX with my boys.

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A little transcendental meditation to sitting on the beach with some spikes in the sand when I noticed the farthest spike and surf rod tip and motion toward the surf, indicative of a big fish take. No big deal, it’s happened before, a little sand in the reel, I think as I’m running flat out through the wet sand wondering what it could be. I can see the line carving through the sand and into the foamy surf as I pick up the rod. Shocker. It’s not a surf rod. It’s a vintage Heddon bamboo rod that I was having refinished. I see that the base of the rod is badly splintered. The tip sections are intact but separated from the butt. There’s no way I’m using the rod to tame this fish. I’m going to have to handline it. This could be dangerous. What if it’s a shark? The line would cut clean through my hands. I pick up the line and feel the weight of the fish that’s miraculously still there. She pulls hard, creating slack, while I strip frantically to feel her weight. She pauses just long enough to let me know she’s there and then takes off again. Except it’s not a fish. It's everything I want in my life, and it's getting away. I feel helpless. I wake up in a cold sweat, confused, shaken, and sad. My heart is pounding. But my fish is still out there in the ocean, swimming steady and hard away from me, and there’s nothing I can do to bring her to me. But then I realize my rod is, in fact, not splintered, and I will go fishing again.

Northern Fringe Turkeys by Nick Trehearne

Turkey hunting in British Columbia is a unique experience. Being on the extreme northern edge of turkey habitat in North America there are more predators, harsh winters, and less turkeys. Needless to say, it takes some work to find a turkey here, let alone have a successful hunt. In the spring of 2019, Mike Beckman set out to kill his first turkey. Optimism was high, the weather was perfect, the spring mating season was in full swingâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; everything looked ideal. In theory. That theory was crushed after several days without a glimpse, sound, or sign. We questioned if we were hunting a bad area, but it was actually the heaviest bird density in the province according to the biologists we spoke with. So what was wrong? Well, even the most heavily populated turkey habitat still holds relatively few birds on the northern end of their range. Things change quickly in turkey country though, and with a distant gobble, Mike was off. He wasted no time covering the distance, slamming down a decoy, and jumping behind a tree just in time for the bird to investigate what all the commotion was about. 4 days came to an end in the blink of an eye. It was the only bird we saw, but we were thankful for it nonetheless.

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Plantation Proven Performance

Great dogs come from excellent genes. Which is why every Blue Cypress Kennel litter is whelped from 100% champion bloodlines directly from the British Isles. We breed our Labradors for intelligence, drive, conformation and style so they are quiet by your side and explosive in the field. We're so proud of our dogs that we keep a puppy from every litter. Blue Cypress Kennels. A boutique breeder of impeccable, authentic British labs.

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Cabuya Casting Handline What’s old is new again: wood-fired ovens, India pale ale, and fishing handlines. This method predates rod and reel by thousands of years, and people around the world still rely on handlines to feed themselves. This modern version is molded from ABS plastic and over-molded with a rubber handle for comfort. Comes with 75 yards of 10-pound mono and a wooden ball for practice casting. At 6 inches long and 2 ounces, it will fit in your pocket. Take it kayaking or backpacking. A must-have in any survival kit. No moving parts and nothing to break—so it’s perfect for kids, too. $14.99

Simms Dry Creek Z Hip Pack Whether wading the flats, fishing in a down pour, or going deep to reach that fishy looking spot on the other side of the river, Simms Dry Creek Z Hip Pack will keep your gear dry and protected. Fully waterproof and submersible it comes with interior mesh storage pockets, numerous exterior lash points, a centered net holster, and built-in tool storage. The waistband has ample cushion and is breathable for hot days on the water. Available in three colors with a 10-liter storage capacity it’s big enough to hold all your essentials without being bulky. $199.95 Nautilus CCF-X2 Fly Reel 2020 is as good a reason as any to test your

startup inertia as the former CCF. Moreover,

limits and target the biggest shallow water

the oversized reel handle and drag knob are

fish on the planet. The newest addition

perfect for fighting big fish and every model

to the Nautilus family, the CCF-X2 pushes

is fully sealed. The “Silver King” model is the

the boundaries of what big game fly reels

world’s lightest 5-inch diameter big game reel

can accomplish and would be a welcome

and picks up 14-inches of line per handle turn.

companion on any tarpon, arapaima, or GT adventure. The drag system features twice the drag strength (20lbs+) and half the $445-$695

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strung P

magazine

Smartwool PhD Hunt Socks “You don’t sneak up on anything if you’re not light on your toes.” The Smartwool PhD Hunt Socks come in three levels of insulation and are a custom blend of merino wool, nylon, and elastane. This blend yields a sock with excellent comfort, stretch, and durability. Made in the USA, these are some of the highest quality socks you can find. While marketed to hunters, they work equally well inside a wading boot while fishing a mountain stream. $24.95-$28.95

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Banded Lightweight Technical Hunting Pants Whether hunting early season teal, spring turkeys, or September whitetails, Banded Lightweight Technical Hunting Pants are a perfect fit. Their breathable, four-way stretch, ripstop fabric is made with mobility and comfort in mind. Reinforced and waterproof in the seat, shin, and knees, they protect the most vulnerable areas while stalking turkeys on a wet spring morning. With an integrated adjustable waistband, you can dial in the perfect fit. Additionally, their zippered side vents allow you to adjust on the go for a variety of hunting conditions. They are available in four camouflage patterns so you can blend into any environment. $119.99-$129.99

Dave Smith ¾ Strut Jake Decoy If you’ve never hunted spring gobblers with a jake decoy you’ve been missing some of the most exciting hunting in the turkey woods. When used in combination with a hen decoy, the Dave Smith ¾ Strut Jake Decoy will bring in dominant toms looking to show the newcomer who is boss. Unlike other tom decoys, the ¾-strut decoy reduces the chance of scaring off subordinate jakes and more importantly, is easily transported for run-and-gun style hunting. Like all Dave Smith Decoys, the 3/4 Strut Jake is made with A.C.E. technology and is able to withstand years of abuse, including accidental shotgun blasts. $169.95 56

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Hunt to Eat Apparel For many Strung readers, hunting is a lifestyle, a source of pride, and a way to obtain food. Hunt to Eat, with their conservation minded approach to apparel offers landscape-inspired designs for hunters and anglers wanting to display their love of the outdoors. Many shirts are state-themed, displaying the species each state is known for within an outline of the state. Hunt to Eat also collaborates with leading conservation organizations, donating a portion of their profits to conserve the habitat hunters and anglers rely on. $19.99-$45

Emberlit Stainless Lightweight Backpacking Stove After a day on the trail, nothing beats a hot meal, but itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s not always convenient to build a full campfire. Twig stoves have been around forever and can be made from a coffee can. But this stove packs flat for storage, is impervious to corrosion, and at just over 11 ounces itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s strong enough to hold the weight of any pot or pan you can sit on it securely. Comes with crossbars and carry case. $44.99

Goal Zero Sherpa 100 AC Battery Goal Zero has a reputation for products that are robust, powerful, and well designed. Their Sherpa 100 AC Battery is no exception. Sleek and mighty, the system features a 94.72Wh power bank and is equipped with features like wireless charging, high-output power, and a variety of options for charging phones, tablets, DSLR cameras, and even power-hungry laptops. The kit includes every cable you might need for powering your devices and there are three ways to charge the unit including using a traditional wall plug, the included 12V adapter to power from your vehicle, or connecting it to a compatible solar panel. The unit is airline approved and perfect for powering your devices on adventures all over the world. $229.95

SportDog SportTrainer 1275 Spring is the perfect time to start working with your new puppy or to smooth out a few kinks in your veteran bird dog. The new SportDog SportTrainer 1275 is perfect for both the backyard and the field with a Âž mile range, 10 levels of stimulation, vibration and tone options, and a waterproof DryTek coating. The easy-to-read screen displays the selected dog, stimulation level, mode, and battery status. The system can expand up to 6 dogs, is remote beeper and launcher compatible, and available in orange and black. Customizable for every situation, the SportDog SportTrainer can adapt to both your needs and your dogs. $219.95

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Mud River Wine and Spirits Tote Your bird dog’s first point, a personal-best catch, or a day afield with old friends—some moments are best celebrated with a drink, and the Mud River Wine and Spirits Tote ensures you’ll be prepared when it’s time to celebrate. With a stylish nylon-poly shell and leather accents, it’s also ideal for picnics, drift boat floats, or bringing a few bottles to a party. Its padded interior holds up to four bottles of wine and spirits and the outside zipper pocket is perfect for storing a corkscrew, bottle opener, or small collection of cigars. $120

Yakima DoubleHaul There have been rooftop fly rod carriers on the market for several years, but rooftop juggernaut Yakima recently started offering a unique design for the growing number of guides and hardcore anglers who just want to grab their rod and go. Unlike other carriers, the DoubleHaul holds rods on their sides so there is no pressure on the guides and ferrules. It carries four standard fly rods or two standard and two spey rods, locks, and is waterproof. An industry first, the DoubleHaul features a tool-less telescoping design that varies from 6 to 10 feet so you can adjust it to your needs on the fly (pun intended). $699

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Big Agnes Soul Kitchen Camp Table The Big Agnes Soul Kitchen Camp Table is the perfect addition to every outdoor adventure. At just over 4 pounds, it has a fold up UTS waterproof top that easily snaps into the aircraft-aluminum pole base. The table is super-easy to set up and provides a spacious platform that can hold up to 90 pounds or enough dishes for a family of four. Set up your cook station, clear it off for a game of cards, or just kick back and use it to hold your drinks. When you’re done it packs down small into the included carrying case and fits perfectly under the rower’s seat of a drift boat, in your pack on the way to elk camp, or kept handy in the trunk of your car. $129.95

ThinOptics Readers If you’re over a certain age, your ultralight backpacking list will include a pair of reading glasses. ThinOptics combines the world smallest readers with a number of carry options, including cases small enough to fit on your keychain, in your wallet, or on your phone. They’re inexpensive enough that you’ll want several pair, including one to take to work. They’re indispensable on the water for when you need to tie on flies, repair leaders, or for any task that requires near vision. Readers come in four lens strengths and six frame colors. Starting at $19.95

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â&#x201E;˘

*All SportTrainer models available in both black and orange

MOUNTAIN BIKING GALLUP, NEW MEXICO By Robert Annis

IF YOU EVER WONDERED WHAT IT WAS LIKE TO RIDE ONE OF THE CATHEDRALS OF MOUNTAIN BIKING BEFORE MILLIONS OF DIRT-OBSESSED PILGRIMS DESCENDED, YOU MAY HAVE A NEW OPPORTUNITY. If you’ve ever wondered what it would be like

Rosebrough and I originally planned to ride for

to ride an untouched cathedral of mountain

several hours, but he had to take a last-min-

his work truck in search of beer and burritos.

biking before millions of dirt-obsessed pilgrims

ute client meeting, and had to bail. Luckily for

Gallup—along with most of the non-tourist

descended, you may have an opportunity.

me, another local, Greg Kirk, happened upon

areas in New Mexico—is pretty cheap. You can

us on the trail and volunteered to show me

find the typical post-ride refueling options—

After a successful ride, Kirk and I climbed into

Located near some of the country’s most epic

around. The loops—First Mesa, Second Mesa,

we ultimately landed at local favorite the Coal

riding—Moab is only four hours away, while

and Third Mesa—get progressively more diffi-

Street Pub—but no shiny craft breweries or

Durango is less than a three-hour drive—Gal-

cult, with Third Mesa featuring rocky ledges

artisanal sandwich shops. (It can be argued

lup, New Mexico, features trails ranging from

and a bit of exposure. Nothing too hairy

that the best tacos in the state can be found

high desert to alpine within a 40-minute

though. The trails have an entirely different

at a tiny joint called Alicia's tucked inside a

drive. While the region hasn’t reached the

feel depending on whether you ride them

supermarket on Route 66.) If you’re particular

stratosphere of its more famous neighbors

clockwise or counterclockwise.

about your IPAs or vegan options, plan ahead

yet, locals hope an ambitious, nearly $2 mil-

and pack a big cooler.

lion trail-building plan will transform it into a

The trails were pretty sandy in sections, but

singletrack holy land.

much less rocky than the trails I’d just ridden

There aren’t a lot of entertainment options in

in the southern part of the state. The climbs

the city. Gallup isn’t sleepy as much as narco-

In the meantime, it’s more than worthy of a

were mostly mild, leading to small mesas

leptic. Both Kirk and Rosebrough believe trails

long weekend of fun riding. The High Desert

overlooking Gallup and the surrounding area.

can add a much-needed jolt to both the area’s

Trail system located just outside of town fea-

The trails here and the nearby Zuni Mountains

economy and quality of life for residents. (It

tures three loops totaling around 22 miles. I

are very flowy and not too technical, perfect

remains to be seen if the business community

rode the first loop with Bob Rosebrough, a

for weekend warriors.

will jump on board before the tourist dollars

local attorney and (I didn’t learn this until

start flowing in.) Currently, Gallup and the

afterward) the former mayor. As we rode, I

It’s funny; I test ride new bikes with the latest

surrounding area produce about 70 percent

kept seeing animals out of the corner of

technology all the time, but pedaling a loaner,

of the world’s Native American silver jewelry,

my eye; what might have been a cougar

decade-old Stumpjumper was one of the most

making it the city’s leading industry. The Zuni

underneath a rocky overhang, and then a

fun times I had on two (26-inch) wheels this

and Ramah Navajo Indian Reservations sit

hare tucked behind some sagebrush. When

past year. That Specialized bike was just as

just to the south of Gallup; on the weekends,

we stopped at one of the vistas, I caught

responsive and nimble as I remembered, even

the population of the town can triple as peo-

a glimpse of a hawk perched on a rock,

if I was bottoming out on some of the tough-

ple come into town for supplies.

before quickly realizing it was metal. Steel

er sections early on. (That’s going to happen

sculptures like these are littered across the

when the primary rider is a 100-pound wom-

Sportsworld is the closest thing to a “true”

terrain and make a fun distraction.

an and not a 180-pound metaphorical bull in

bike shop in the area, although the Silver Stal-

a china shop.)

lion Bikes and Coffee Shop opened not long after my visit. While they have a limited selection of parts, the owner will let you wrench on your own equipment for free.

About 30 minutes from Gallup, the Zuni

further north along the trail that ancient

Mountains rise above the Cibola National

Native Americans used to color pottery and

Forest. Plenty of camping options can be

create art.

found throughout the National Forest. I was staying in a borrowed cabin, part of an old

The local Youth Conservation Corps are doing

logging camp that eventually became week-

much of the trailbuilding and rerouting. We

end homes for locals. The cabins are basic,

came across one of the program leaders on

but comfortable; in other words, the perfect

our ride as she staked some trail re-routes.

mountain-bike base camp. There’s no wi-fi or

She beamed with pride as I gushed about

cell service through most of the property, so

their work. Perhaps even more valuable

be sure you’re traveling with a good book or

than creating awesome new singletrack, the

friends who are fun to talk to.

program provides local teens with jobs and important skills. Some can even gain a certi-

The cabins and neighboring campgrounds

fication like wilderness first aid that will help

are the ideal starting point for a ride. We got

them find employment in the outdoor-recre-

AT LEAST 65 MILES OF NEW SINGLETRACK

an early start and although we weren’t at a

ation community.

OVER THE NEXT DECADE. THAT INCLUDES A

terribly high altitude the morning air was a

NEARLY $2 MILLION FROM THE FEDERAL AND LOCAL GOVERNMENT IS BEING USED TO BUILD

14-MILE SIGNATURE TRAIL HIGHLIGHTING

bit nippy. My arm warmers and jersey weren’t

If we had more time, Culligan said he’d take

THE ZUNIS’ BEST TERRAIN AND VIEWS THAT

cutting it, so I had to grab an additional long-

us a bit further north to Twin Springs, where

SHOULD BE STARTED THIS YEAR.

sleeve baselayer from my bag of filthy clothes.

we could ride some Moab-like red rock and

It smelled like a hobo died wearing it, which

another 20-plus miles of trail.

wasn’t far from the truth. “You’re riding this deep red rock that overAbout 26 miles of singletrack weave through

looks this gorgeous green valley,” Culligan

the Cibola’s tall pines and lush valleys. Inter-

said. “It’s one of those places that just blow

mediate-level riders who want to spend all

visitors’ minds.”

day in the saddle and not ride the same trail twice will love it. In the coming years its only

I tell him I’m already impressed by what I’ve

going to get better.

seen so far. As we begin our decent back down to the cabins, I think of the fun trails

Nearly $2 million from the federal and local

we rode that day, about the history I discov-

government is being used to build at least 65

ered, and the possibilities for the future.

miles of new singletrack over the next decade. That includes a 14-mile signature trail high-

Will Gallup be spoken with the same rever-

lighting the Zunis’ best terrain and views that

ence as Moab? Honestly, probably not. But

should be started this year, as well as a trail

for a lot of riders, Gallup will be a great stop

straddling the nearby Continental Divide.

on the way to Moab, both metaphorically and physically. It will be a fun spot that road-trip-

Brian Culligan, one of my partners for the day,

ping mountain bikers can hit on their way

has been riding and building these trails for

to and from Utah and Colorado. But perhaps

more than 20 years, back when they were lit-

more importantly, it’ll be a place where they

tle more than cow paths. But the history runs

can hone their riding skills to be able to ride

much deeper through these valleys. Years ago,

those other places.

much of the mountain forest was clear-cut and Albuquerque was built with the Zuni pine taken from the mountains. As we pedaled along, he pointed out ancient indigenous ruins and talked about the pigment mines

and check out You can follow Hank Shaw on Instagram @huntgathercook formation. his website honest-food.net for more recipes and in

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——————————————— RATIONS AND INTOXICANTS ———————————————

——————————————— HUNTER, ANGLER, GARDEN ER, COOK: A CONVERSATION WITH HAN K SHAW PHOTOS BY HOLLY HEISE R

by Ryan Sparks

———————————————

It’s not an overstatement to say that Hank Shaw has changed the way many of us eat, prepare, and think about wild food. Inspiring people to take ownership of what they feed themselves and their family has been a passion for this writer and chef from the outset. On his website Hunter, Angler, Gardner, Cook and in his past four books—Hunt, Gather, Cook; Duck, Duck, Goose; Buck, Buck, Moose; and Pheasant, Quail, Cottontail—he has inspired a new generation of hunters, anield. He’s also shown them how to make deglers, and foragers to take to the f licious meals with what they bring home, earning him a James Beard award in the process. His writing was in-part what inspired me to cook and eat wild food, so I was excited at the chance to interview him. Shaw grew up in New Jersey, the youngest of four siblings in a household irst encounters with wild food were at French and that valued good food. His f Italian restaurants that his parents took him to. While most kids his age were eating hot dogs and hamburgers, Shaw was exposed to duck, pheasant, quail, and squab. He attributes his early appreciation of wild game to those meals. “Because of those experiences, I’ve always associated game meat with spe lected. “Eating game and viewing [it] as something special cial meals,” Shaw ref and good has always been a part of my experience.” While studying journalism in graduate school, Shaw worked at an Ethiopi irst as a dishwasher and eventually transitioning to sous chef. an restaurant, f After graduate school, Shaw left the kitchen to work as a newspaper reporter, covering politics across the country. His reporting required frequent moves with stints in New York, Virginia, Wisconsin, Minnesota, and California. Although ishing and foraging since he was a kid, he never hunted until Shaw had been f moving to Minnesota.

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“I had fished all summer with my friend, Chris

and your family,” he told me. “That coupled with

Niskanen. He had been buttering me up to try

a reaction to an increasingly electronic world made

hunting by giving me pheasants, venison, and

wild food attractive. People want real experiences.

ducks. I finally went with him and it wouldn’t be

People want authenticity. To start hunting is to

exaggerating to say getting in the field those first

create your own authenticity.”

few times was life changing. I had spent a great deal of time in the ocean learning how to read

Since then Shaw has traveled all over North

water—tides, weather, surf—in an intimate way.

America teaching seminars on how to butcher

I didn’t realize until those first few hunts that

and prepare wild game. He’s also written three

hunting did the same thing on land.”

additional cookbooks, each of which takes a deep

While working as a reporter, Shaw’s new

Buck, Moose, which won the Best Book Award from

dive into a specific category of wild game. Buck,

“Eating wild food is not only a rejection of industrial agriculture and the food manufacturing establishment,” he wrote in the book’s introduction. “It is also a celebration of something truly magical: a meal you cannot buy in a store at any price. And what’s more: You brought it home, all by yourself.”

enthusiasm for hunting paired well with his

the Outdoor Writers Association in 2016, focuses

knowledge of cooking and he began writing about

on all forms of venison including deer, elk, moose,

wild food for a variety of publications.

antelope, and caribou. It not only contains recipes for things most hunters are familiar with, but has

“I covered politics for 18 years,” Shaw said. “It could be a grind at times and cooking helped me keep my

an entire section devoted to “the wobbly bits.” Because of recipes like Cajun Boudin Balls, Grilled

sanity. It was my creative outlet. Because I started

Deer Heart with Peppers, and Liver Dumplings

hunting and had always been foraging, fishing, and

there are a lot fewer livers and hearts abandoned in

gardening, I was starting to develop a lot of really

gut piles across the country.

interesting recipes that I hadn’t seen elsewhere.” “It’s really important for me to help people eat more Eventually, Shaw’s culinary ideas were coming

of the animals they bring home,” Shaw explained.

faster than he could publish them so in 2007 he

“There’s less waste, it honors the animal more, and

started his website Hunter, Angler, Gardener, Cook.

frankly there are some amazingly delicious things

Within three years he was nominated twice for a

to make with these bits. They are not only better

prestigious James Beard award, and in 2013 he won.

tasting, but they are way more interesting to me than a backstrap.”

“After the nominations and winning the award my phone started ringing off the hook. It led to my first

His other two books, Duck, Duck, Goose and

book deal and gave me the push to make cooking

Pheasant, Quail, Cottontail concentrate on waterfowl

and writing my full-time job,” Shaw told me.

and small game respectively. Duck, Duck, Goose contains simple advice for basic things like grilled

Shaw’s first book, Hunt, Gather, Cook took readers

duck breast and slow-roasted duck, and also

through the kaleidoscope of the North American

features an array of duck and goose charcuterie

landscape, pointing out delicious things to eat and

as well as advice on plucking, aging, and breaking

telling readers exactly how to prepare them.

down wild birds. Pheasant, Quail, Cottontail is near to Shaw’s heart because of his love of small game.

“I don’t feel the urge to fill the freezer when my freezer is already full. It’s a major reason why I love hunting small game so much. I can hunt more

a meal you cannot buy in a store at any price. And

and fill my freezer slowly. It also gives me a lot of

what’s more: You brought it home, all by yourself.”

options in my freezer,” Shaw commented.

Shaw’s passion for the outdoors, skill in the kitchen,

And what a freezer that is. Shaw works from and

and writing connected with people. Hunt, Gather,

continually builds a treasure chest of wild food. I

Cook was met with critical acclaim and the book

asked him what he has in his freezer at the moment

also came at an opportune time when Shaw was

and how he keeps everything straight.

noticing a shift in the way people were thinking about what was on their plate.

“Its all in my head,” he said laughing. “Right now I’ve got deer, ducks, geese, ptarmigan, turkey, quail,

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“At that time there was a resurging desire to take

snipe, doves, all kinds of fish, some pork a buddy

more control of what you were feeding yourself

of mine in Michigan raises, and shrimp. […] You

can get off the industrial meat chain pretty easily

saltwater the moment they are pulled from the net.

if you are a decent fisherman, a decent hunter, and

Finally, and most importantly, the fish are pressure

a decent gardener. That’s what attracted to me to

bled to remove any traces of blood. This is a step

hunting in the first place. If I could even in a small

almost no other commercial fishing boats do.

way divorce myself from [industrial agriculture] it would be a good thing,” Shaw said.

“It’s the freshest, cleanest salmon you can get,” said Shaw. “and it freezes really nicely as well. […] If

By his estimates Shaw hasn’t purchased meat or

you ate at a restaurant that uses our fish you could

fish from the grocery store in 15 years. When

realistically eat a fish that I had caught the day before.”

I told him I try to do the same, but breakdown and buy bacon from time to time he had an

I told Shaw I thought it was unique that he chooses

interesting response.

to spend a good portion of his summer working on a commercial fishing boat.

“There is a difference between wild and honest food,” he told me. There is “wild food” that’s not terribly

“It’s a job that’s always been near and dear to me.

honest; high fence hunting in Texas for example.

I always feel at home on the ocean. […] It’s an

There is also honest food that’s not wild like things

important part of my year. I like the job because

at the farmers market. […] I’m not hoping everyone

it’s mindful and present. You are fully there and

does what I do. It’s a full-time job and lots of work.

focused on the matter at hand. Almost every other

What I’m asking people to do is to take ownership

job you’re not,” he said.

of what they are feeding themselves and their family. Ideally that’s something from the wild world

While he plans to return to Alaska during the

but it doesn’t have to be. It could be as simple as

coming year, he told me he won’t be spending

understanding that it is quite an effort to raise a

as much time because he is working on two

quality chicken and being ok with paying more to

forthcoming books. He is cowriting one of the

someone who does it right.”

books with his partner Holly Heyser (who does all of Shaw’s food photography).

Shaw’s response speaks to the larger reason why people find his work and writing so attractive. He’s not only presenting a guide to eating wild, but

“It’s our first ‘non-cookbook’ and will be a book of hunting essays. The goal is to explain why

suggests that by eating wild we also live wild. As you

hunters do what we do, and it will hopefully

can imagine, a big part of Shaw’s time is devoted

give new hunters or people interested in hunting

to hunting, fishing, and foraging for the wild

the language to describe it to nonhunters. It

ingredients he writes about. In short, he walks the

will hopefully build bridges between those

walk. I asked what a typical year looks like for him.

communities,” Shaw said.

“Every year is different. It really depends on if I

The second book is a seafood cookbook. Being

have a book coming out or not. Later this month

that Shaw has worked with seafood much longer

I’m heading to Arizona to hunt small game—quail,

than any other ingredient it’s a fitting subject.

squirrels, rabbits—and I’ll also be hunting javelina. […] Arizona is probably my favorite area of the country for wild food because of the diversity

“I’m uniquely in a position to have fished in most of the fifty states, Mexico, and most Canadian

of species. Then I’m headed to Arkansas to hunt

provinces,” Shaw explained. “Having cooked fish

snow geese and in April I’m traveling to Mexico.

for the better part of 40 years I know fish in a way

After that I’m pretty open, I kind of just see where

I don’t know game. I’m able to make connections

the year takes me.”

between species and techniques and create a book

The last several years Shaw has also spent

what fish they have available.”

that someone can use no matter where they live or

“What I’m asking people to do is to take ownership of what they are feeding themselves and their family. Ideally that’s something from the wild world but it doesn’t have to be. It could be as simple as understanding that it is quite an ef fort to raise a quality chicken and being ok with paying more to someone who does it right.”

a significant amount of time working on a commercial salmon boat in Alaska. The boat he

Whatever he does, Shaw artfully weaves his life

works on provides extremely high-quality king,

and culinary experience together. He has a knack

sockeye, and silver salmon to restaurants all over

for transforming a few humble ingredients into

the country. They can achieve such a high level

something meaningful and magical, in short—an

of quality through a labor-intensive process that

honest meal.

involves bleeding and then flushing the salmon in

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CHEF’S NOTES It’s hard to f ind a combin ation better than freshly caught trout, This recipe i freshly picked morel mushroo s an ode to sp ms, and crisp ring: peas, trout, morels, ly fried bac fresh spring on. Trout with mor bacon, glorio herbs. Plus us bacon. They els is a class ic for a rea’r son, with or in e all cooked th e same pan y without bacon: ou cooked the be picked on They can both so you won’t blo b the same trip w up the kitch acon in, outside, and trout fried in en . bacon grease What’s the re is, with or without the m s ul t ? Damn good. orels, one of the great cul nary delights Crispy trout iof spring. skin and baco n. Deep, chew savoriness fr y Everything in om the mushroom this recipe i s, balanced with sweet pe s easily obtained — exce as and fragrant, pt for the mor bitter herbs slightly els. Those you have to f . A splash of ind, or buy le m e v on erything up. brightens at exorbitant in a fancy mar You f rates ind yourself ket. Or, do as di f fe re choosing nt bites with e plement a meag I did, supach forkful: er days’ haul an d a m ushroom, baco Trout of morels wit small shiitak n and peas, t h onions, et e mushrooms, rout and which are me c. ier than more atls and work we ll as a backu player. I served this p with simply c ooked wild rice, but any rice, or whe at berries, or hell, bread, or new f ingerling pot would be f atoes, ine. Enjoy! 70

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TROUT WITH MORELS HANK SHAW INGREDIENTS:

ideally thick cut - 4 slices bacon, sliced root to tip removed) - 1 medium onion, d (guts and gills de ea beh or e ol wh - 4 small trout, - Salt lour ine cornmeal or f - 11/2 cups f s mushroom - 1/2 pound morel ms e or other mushroo tak - 1/2 pound shii ozen peas - 1 cup fresh or fr ley inely chopped pars - 1 tablespoon f or fresh thyme - 1/2 teaspoon dried - Juice of a lemon INSTRUCTIONS:

ok the bacon eally cast iron, co id n, pa ng yi fr into bae 1. In a larg spy. Remove and cut cri l ti un t hea ow t a wire over medium-l en to "warm" and se ov e th rn Tu . ide trout tons and set as is is to keep the th e; sid in eet sh rack over a baking de and out. warm. salt the trout insi g, in ok co is n co ine cornmeal. 2. While the ba ish in f e f th at co , ne do is good and When the bacon m-high. When it's iu med to n pa the are crispy and Turn the heat in batches until they in t ou tr e th y e. You will hot, fr 8 minutes per sid to 6 t bou — a gh, rou cooked th ish at some point on the f t ea h the er w t lo jus uld sound likely need to The frying trout sho en: st li refulto is y ke the en they're done, ca Wh le. zz si y pp ha do this with like the bacon. A ck in the oven. I ra e th to ut tro e ly move th few mintwo spatulas. n and sauté for a pa ing y fr e th in Add 3. Put the onions to brown a little. in beg d an en ft so l they begin utes, until they combine. Sauté unti to ss to and oms ro then jack the the mush ut 3 minutes, and abo er, t wa ir the to get a to give up sit for a minute ng thi ry e ev et L . gh heat up to hi n toss to combine. toss bit of a crust, the ley and thyme and rs pa , ns to ba n co the ba , about a min4. Add the peas, l the peas are warm ti un st ju ok Co . squeeze some to combine for the trout and bed a as is th l ute. Serve al rve. ng right as you se lemon over everythi while I like om you prefer, and ro sh mu any e us n illets — or pretty NOTES: You ca ainly use f ert c n ca u yo , ne d it would trout on the bo In a perfect worl . ke li eel f u yo h is , try it with much any other f springtime, but hey in t gh cau u yo ish be any f ish you like. whatever f

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- 3 times brighter, yeastier, and at rned tu n tio es qu t irs f t ne. With Answering tha funkier than industrial wi ught. There tho I n tha r de har be dividuality to in out natural wine there is an al tur na of n tio ini def e ret in most isn’t a conc and liveliness not found s wine it ree ag ld wou t mos t bu wine, conventional wine. thing taken with nothing added and no wine was made t natural wine away. I had assumed that Before I knew exactly wha ’t Isn t. tha was t tha and nted to from grapes s, all I knew was that I wa wa I se rpri su my t question I all wine natural? To drink more of it. The nex ly ct rfe pe 70 r ove e ar ind ere ld f discovered th d to answer was where I cou de nee r, fu sul ke li ind a natural legal additives. Things more. You likely won’t f lic fo n, lati ge te, spha ermarket, diammonium pho section at your local sup ne wi ts ien gred in r city there acid, and lots of othe but if you live in a major ed us rly gula re e ar st li al wine too long to e probably specialty natur ar or, lav f , lor co s t exclusively to manipulate a wine’ stores and restaurants tha the kes ta ne wi ral tu Na menu. If, and texture. ry natural wine on their car s er emak win th a major opposite approach wi like me, you live outside in nd (a s ape gr the et l worldtrying to l ban area, there are severa ur r fo ak spe ) roir t also turn the land or ter class natural wine shops tha as ne wi al tur na of ink Th is the themselves. l online. Personal taste sel of ws la ty ri pu similar to the German inding varieties biggest aspect of f n ca beer t tha y sa ch whi to check beer making, you enjoy, but one tip is barley, and er, wat th wi e mad f inding the be ly on the importer. If you keep ape gr of e mad is ne wi y, you’ve hops. Natural me name on bottles you enjo sa e win e th as or e juice and little els se taste aligns ral found an importer who tu “na d, sai has g rin Fei ind their writer Alive your own. Now when you f th wi t.” i in p cra getting a wine is wine without name on a bottle it’s like friend. ommendation from a trusted rec ne, wi of y tor If you look at the his w phenomenon. status “natural wine” isn’t a ne ural wine goes against the Nat al tur na l cal le think In fact, what we now quo, challenging what peop 00 6,0 r fo e mad was ne wi aking wine is how as “good wine” and even bre of of n io zat ali tri dus ications. Yet, years before the in regional wine classif s tion ven in e th th wi ly On . d thing. agriculture my opinion this isn’t a ba in d an , des enjoy of herbicides, pestici Wine is “good” because we me beco ne wi has ery hin mac l holds agricultura inking it, not because it dr ng inki dr to med nted by a what we are accusto up to a set of rules inve ly vi hea ies rel ne wi de ma s many today. Mas dful of critics. In fact, han se au bec ves iti ixes and add natural wine on quick f wine writers have called me sa the y enc st nsi co for because it it strives a return to authenticity ry eve make to try the actual way fast food chains generally tastes truer to ral tu Na me. sa the te tas r e from. cheeseburge ste of the grape it’s mad ta cers du pro ll sma a devoted wine makers are often Natural wine has gathered t tha nes wi e qu uni ke ma to r lf, because who endeavo following, including myse y. it nal so per and ion the core represent their reg it represents a return to run to ed ow all is re tu na ngs fall That means ments that made human bei ele e mad nes wi ns mea irst place. its course. It also e in the f iltered in love with win unf are t tha sts yea al with natur iles that are lavor prof and have f - 3 -

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——————————————— WHAT’S OLD IS NEW: THE RISE OF NATURAL WINE ———————————————

- 9 NOTHING I’D FIRST SIP. IT WAS LIKE THE AT ME HAD NE WI L URA NAT PPY WITH Y, FRUIT-FORWARD, AND SNA OUD CL E; OR BEF ED TAST EVER IVE. MY N ANYTHING IT TASTED AL THA RE MO Z. FIZ OF T HIN A JUST IT, DRANK IT, ALSO IN LOVE. WE SMELLED E WER NS ANIO MP CO NER DIN DROP (WHICH WE HAD FINISHED THE LAST IL UNT IT OUT AB KED TAL AND BOTTLE, THE WE TRIED TO ORDER ANOTHER EN WH . NG) LO E TAK N’T DID LAST IN THE LAST. AND NOT JUST THE THE WAS IT US D TOL SS WAITRE E FRENCH THE TWO DOZEN BOTTLES TH OF ST LA E TH BUT , ANT AUR REST PRIOR ED. SHE TOLD US TWO YEARS DUC PRO EVER D HA KER MA WINE THE YEAR PES TO MARAUDING BIRDS. GRA HIS OF ST MO ST LO D HE HA NE. WE GRAPES SPOILED ON THE VI THE CH MU SO D INE RA IT AFTER WINE ANY OF LAST BOTTLE OF THE BEST THE NK DRU GLY WIN NO UNK HAD FIND OUT WHAT SENT ME ON A MISSION TO IT . ED TAST EVER HAD US I COULD FIND MORE. NATURAL WINE IS AND WHERE

by Ryan Sparks

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ns are an tural wine, these selectio If you are interested in na irings. I've also included food pa excellent place to start. - 4 2018 RATATUJA BIANCO FRIZZANTE , $23.95 .5% Carolina Gatti, 750ml, 11 family run vineyard Carolina Gatti is a small rthern Italy. Besides in Veneto, a region of no rn and hay to feed grapes, they also raise co re enriches the soil. their animals whose manu s yeast of the grape They use only the indigenou process and let skin in their fermentation the cellar. nature take its course in ural wine made Ratatuja is a sparkling nat grape varietals—Glera, from a blend of several ardonnay, Tocai—hence Pinot Bianco, Verduzzo, Ch nch dish of stewed resembling the famous Fre Ratatuja is an intense vegetables, ratatouille. nged skin contact golden color due to prolo of exotic fruit, and has an incredible depth This is a badass wine salinity, and piecrust. t would also pair that stands on its own, bu or wild turkey. nicely with quail, grouse,

tion, which brings out using spontaneous fermenta their grapes. Love the natural expressions of made from a blend White 2018 is a white wine Grenache Blanc, and of Marsanne, Roussanne, is a supple, lightPicpoul grape. The result le yellow with notes bodied white wine that is pa s a spunky acidity of pear and apricot. It ha milky cheeses or that pairs well with young, od, ish such as halibut, lingc delicate, white f es would be a welcomed or yelloweye. A few bottl ish camp. addition to any Alaskan f LA BOUTANCHE GAMAY 2018 .5%, $23.95 Olivier Minot, 750 ml, 12

SPLASH PET NAT 2018 l, 10%, $25.95 Château Barouillet, 750m coming a poster child Château Barouillet is be The entire estate for the natural wine scene. 13 and currently grows has been organic since 20 tend to keep planting 14 grape varieties. They in irst in the are the f old varieties until they variety. area with every traditional form of pétillant Pet nat is the abbreviated ns, “naturally naturel which literally mea ampagne-style of sparkling.” Before the Ch w French farmers winemaking, pet nat was ho is white pet nat from produced sparkling wine. Th e from 100% Semillion Château Barouillet is mad in Bergerac, France, grapes grown organically alive and fresh, near Bordeaux. It tastes , pineapple, and sour displaying notes of lychee and zippy. Quaff it apple. The palate is crisp ish. ied f down with oysters and fr LOVE WHITE 2018 , $23.95 Broc Cellars, 750ml, 11.5% lars, a vineyard in All the wines at Broc Cel lifornia, are made the Madera foothills of Ca

c French winemaker who Olivier Minot is an organi st and spontaneous makes wines using native yea iltered with no are unf fermentation. His wines a red wine ites. La Boutanche Gamay is added sulf e Beaujolais region made from grapes grown in th d red wine displays of France. This light bodie rry, and raspberry with notes of strawberry, che tanche Gamay is a a slight earthiness. La Bou ring. Put together versatile wine meant for sha your closest friends, a wild game feast, invite and drink with vigor. FRISANT ROSSO 2018 $24.95 Il Farneto, 750ml, 11.5%, te (less than 20 Il Farneto is a tiny esta magna, Italy. Founded acres) located in Emilia-Ro 90’s, the estate by Marco Bertoni in the 19 biodynamic, and low is farmed using organic, sant Rosso is a red intervention methods. Fri style from organic and wine made in the pet nat in color with aromas biodynamic grapes. Ruby-red tastes like cherry of berries and clover it (think, not ined for an adult palate soda ref izz, crisp, and ht f sweet)—fresh acidity, tig a is a region famous refreshing. Emilia-Romagn tion and Frisant for its rich culinary tradi h the two dishes Rosso should be enjoyed wit r, Tortellini di the region is most known fo Bolognese. I recommend Modena and Lasagne alla k traditionally used replacing the beef and por on to compliment the in these dishes with venis wine’s “funk.”

- 4 -

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To learn more about natural wine, Alice Feiringâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s excellent book, N atural Wine for the People is a great place to start.

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The origin al pheasan t tail nymph was created by legendary English fl y tyer and fisher man Frank Sawy er around 1930. He d esigned the pheasa nt tail to imitate Baetis mayfly nym phs on the southe rn English river Avon , where he was riv erkeeper. Sawyer’s o riginal pattern us ed only pheasant t ail fibers and fine c opper wire instead of normal tying thre ad, to giv e the patter n extra weight. The modern variants of the PTN that we are fam iliar with, incl uding the one illust rated here, bear little resemblanc e to the original. Although this moder n version is an exce llent imitation of the swift swim ming baeti s nymphs, in larger sizes it a lso works as a gener ic nymph for blind fishing. With only three materials and the

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tying thre ad needed for this p attern, it still help s to choos e the right materials.

the flies you intend to tie. Ex amine the feather: i s the tip dirty and worn? If so, it pro bably came from a dom esticallybred bird. The best tail feath ers are generally from wild birds. Che ck if the feather is clean and has a nice glossy sheen to i t and that all the fi bers are i n place.

At first g lance, one pheasant t ail feathe r looks like any other phea sant tail feather—or does it? Take a loo k at a few cock pheas ant tail feathers s ide by sid e, and you wi ll see the y are very d ifferent! Not only d oes the background color and You should shading on also avoid each tail tail feath differ imm ers with ensely but insect dam the black age. This chevrons can easily vary from be seen light to as a thin dark and f t ransparent rom thin t o line that thick. runs 90 degrees fr om the feather st But probab em through ly the mos t the fibers important , where the factor is insect has the fiber eaten the length. feather ba Normally t rbules. he best marked fea thers with Watch the the longes fly tying t fiber v ideo by sc length are anning the found following center top c o de: of the cock bird tail.

So remembe r when buying phe asant tails, don ’t just take the f irst one you see in the shop: look throu gh them al l and find t he best fo r

MATERIALS Hook: Mustad S82NP #8-18 Thread: Olive

IL NYMPH A T T N A S E PHEA KE TYING TH ORD CLAR Y R R A B WITH

Tail: Cock pheasant tail fibers Abdomen: Cock pheasant tail fibers Rib: Fine or medium copper wire Thorax: Peacock herl Wing case: Cock pheasant tail fibers Legs: Cock pheasant tail fibers Excerpted from The Feather Bender’s Flytying Techniques by Barry Ord Clark (Merlin Unwin Books and Skyhorse Publishing, 2019)

pheasant nce, one At a gla ks like ther loo tail fea nt tail r pheasa any othe it? As or does feather— rials, ral mate u t a n l l with a me. The e the sa r a o w t no rkings, olor, ma c d n u o r backg d fiber sheen an , g n i l t t mo ifferent ill be d r. length w y feathe and ever h c a e n o tails, pheasant g n i y u b When factors ze these i n i . t u r c s purchase ng your i k a m e r befo

“…NO TWO FEATHERS ARE THE SAME…”

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STEP 1. Secure your nymph hook in the vise so that the hook shank is horizontal.

STEP 2. Attach your tying thread and run a foundation over the whole hook shank, until the thread hangs approximately vertically with the hook barb.

STEP 3. Firstly find a cock pheasant center tail feather with nice markings and long fibers. To get all the points of the pheasant tail fibers lined up evenly for the tail, take a small bunch between your finger and thumb and slowly pull them away from the shaft of the feather until all the points are level. Then still holding the bunch tight so the points remain level, cut them away from the feather shaft with one swift cut.

STEP 5. Cut a 10 cm length of fine copper wire. Tie in the copper wire along the whole length of the hook shank, finishing just before the tail base.

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STEP 4. Tie in the tail fibers on top of the hook shank. Three turns of tying thread over the tail and two under. The tail should be approximately two-thirds of the hook shank length.

STEP 6. Before you start to wind over the abdomen, take your copper wire and swing it under and onto the back side of the hook, as shown. Before you begin wrapping the that pheasant tail fibers to form the abdomen, make sure g crossin or d twiste not and l, paralle are all of the fibers over each other!

STEP 7. Once you have wrapped the fibers two-thirds the length of the hook shank, tie them off as shown with four or five tight turns of tying thread over the fibers and two in front of the fibers on the hook shank. This will lock the tying thread and stop it from slipping.

STEP 9. Trim off the tuft of fibers and cover the bare copper wire with a few wraps of tying thread.

STEP 11. Cut two or three peacock herls from just under the eye of the peacock tail feather. The herl found here is much stronger than it is lower down the tail feather.

STEP 8. Take hold of the copper wir e and make one turn in the opposite direction you wou nd the pheasant tail fibers, around the tail baseâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;then four or five open turns to form the rib. When you come to the remaining tuft of fibers at the thorax, make severa l tight turns of wire along the remaining hook shank, stoppin g about 3mm from the hook eye.

STEP 10. Now cut another slightly larger bunch of tail fibers and tie them in a little way into the abdomen on top of the hook shank.

STEP 12. Trim off the excess fibers from the wing case. Tie in the peacock herls, butt ends first, and cover the ends with tying thread towards the hook eye.

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STEP 13. Take the peacock herl and wrap them over the whole thorax making sure they donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t twist and cross each other. Tie off behind the hook eye and cut off the excess.

STEP 15. Trim off the excess fiber and repeat step 14 on the other side of the thorax.

STEP 17. Trim off the fibers over the hook eye, about the same length as the hook eye and whip finis h. Remove the tying thread and coat the whippings with a small drop of varnish.

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STEP 14. Cut a small bunch of pheasant tail fibers and tie in as shown, just behind the hook eye on the side of the thorax.

STEP 16. Now take a bunch of pheasant tail fibers you tied in for the wing case, and fold them over the thorax. Again take care to make sure that all the fibers are parallel and donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t cross over each other. Secure with a few turns of tying thread.

STEP 18. . The finished pheasant tail nymph as seen from above wing body, tail, the in etry symm and tions propor Note the case, and legs.

by Dalton Johnson

ALPINE REFLECTION

I blink my eyes open, and my thoughts begin

of awareness. Climbing was creeping into my

racing: That was a short night. Why does my

daily practice. I became aware of how I would

left knee hurt? I’m excited to make the sum-

hold objects, studying guidebooks became a

mit push. Deep inhale. An extended exhale.

nightly routine, and friendships were tied together with a rope.

It’s time. “Hey, Scott, I think we might be off route! Can I crawl out of the comfort of my sleeping bag

you look at the photo and tell me where you

and tent and into the frigid alpine air. The sky

think this climb might go?” I shout, lost.

is dark, but the weather looks like it is going to hold. “Hey, Scott, it’s time to wake up— time to begin the fun! How did you sleep?” “Hmmm….” Scott isn’t much of a 3 a.m. wakeup call kind of guy, but for some reason he’s THE BEAUTY OF THE ALPINE MORNING

willing to suffer alongside me.

IS BREATHTAKING. AND SOMETHING

face climbing.” Climbing a little farther I shout down, “All right, I’m at a good stance now. I’m going to bring you up here and then go for an exploration pitch to avoid rope drag.”

IN THE AIR TAKES ME BEYOND THE

While I boil the water, my gaze lands on the

REFLECTION IN THE LAKE AND INTO

distant reflection of the peak in the alpine

MYSELF. CLIMBING IS NO LONGER ABOUT

lake. Wow—if only I were a poet. The beauty

REACHING THE SUMMIT—CLIMBING HAS

of the alpine morning is breathtaking. And

BECOME A WAY OF LIFE.

“Um, yeah it looks like a corner and then some

“Sounds good to me!” Before long Scott is at the top and I am

something in the air takes me beyond the

off again exploring splitter cracks around

reflection in the lake and into myself. Climb-

a corner. Well, this kinda looks like the

ing is no longer about reaching the summit—

guidebook. So I set off again, in the general

climbing has become a way of life.

direction of the top. The day moves quickly. In the back of my head I hear, Efficiency is

“Man this air…is pretty…thin, …huh?” I smile

key: Move slow to move fast. The top is only

from below my layers as I look over at Scott,

halfway. Another pitch comes and goes. Then

frozen buff covering his face.

another. Our pace has picked up; we’re still lost, but we’re moving in the right direction. I

“Yeah,…I would say…it is something like that.”

turn another corner. I can’t see Scott, and he can’t see me.

At the base of the Class 5 terrain, we flake the rope and begin our safety checks. “Your knot looks good. I’ve got a figure-eight with a

“How is it going over there?” Scott yells to me when I haven’t moved for a few minutes.

Yosemite finish through both hard points. You locked and loaded?”

“Uh, good. I think. It looks kinda hard, so keep me tight, please!”

“I gotcha, man—locked and loaded!” “Yup, yup—I gotcha, man!” “Sweet.” We slap hands and fist bump. “Climbing.”

Scott and I have been climbing together for two years now. He has caught me on

“Climb on!”

gear-popping whips and has become my best friend. About eight months ago, I shared my

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This climb began three years ago with a

desire to summit all of the 14ers in California.

question: How many 14,000-foot peaks are

We had just finished a successful climbing

there in the United States? As the thought

road trip, and Scott listened to me as I ex-

developed and I began climbing on a regular

plained how much I wanted to explore these

basis, curiosity overtook me. How strong a

wild places to gain experience for bigger

climber do I have to be to summit all of the

mountains. One step at a time is important,

peaks safely? In which style do I want to

but having a direction in the distance has

climb them? Why? Each answer added a layer

helped me continue along my way. We were

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on a winding road headed back to Santa Cruz

of climbing tests your risk comfort level: Do

when Scott looked my way and said, “If you

you trust your equipment? Do you trust your

need a partner, I’d like to give it a shot. I know

partner to catch you on belay when you fall?

I have a lot to learn, but I’d like to give it a go. If that’s okay with you.”

Do you trust yourself? Sure, you’re confident.

As it turns out, I don’t fall on that section

10,000 times before. Are you willing to make

striking fear into me. We are two pitches

that move unroped, risking a 2,000-foot fall?

Sure, you’ve made easier moves than this

away from the summit, and it’s just past noon. The penultimate pitch is long—almost

This risk comfort level translates into every-

a full rope length. The anchor placements

day life: Will you strike up a conversation with

are not good, but they will have to do. Scott

a stranger? Or will you hide in your phone?

makes quick work of the pitch, and we both

Will you invest? Will you follow your passion?

look up to the summit just out of reach.

Or will fear prevent you from trying in the first place?

“The guidebook says 4th class blocks to the summit. Go for it. I’ll coil the rope and head

I sit down and look over at Scott. He is terri-

up after you,” I say.

fied. “You want a bite to eat?”

Scott takes off.

No response.

A few minutes later I catch up to him. “How’s it going?” I ask.

“The registry is over here. You want to write your name in it?”

“Where do we go?”

“I just need to sit for now.”

“Up,” I reply, unsure myself. We both begin

“Okay. We have about 5 to 10 minutes. Then

our search for a passage to the top. I make

we need to head down so we make it onto

a committing move that could cost me my

easy terrain before dark.”

life if I mess up. Without thinking twice, I tell Scott this is a good way. In terms of pure

I receive a nod.

climbing strength, Scott puts me to shame. Focused with tunnel vision on the summit, I

On our way down, I realize I failed Scott. My

fail to read the uncertainty in Scott’s tone of

desires outweighed my responsibility to him.

voice and facial expression.

Yes, I was aware of the fleeting time. Yes, he is stronger than I am, so I assumed he could

“Hey, man, could we get the rope out?”

make those moves with confidence. I did not, however, support him as I should have.

“You got it, Scott—just make the move!” With our headlamps guiding us, we close in on “No, man—can I get the rope?”

camp. Soon we will cook dinner.

“I’ll make a handline for you.” Quickly slotting

Before I crawl into my warm tent and sleep-

a few pieces, I make a handline and continue

ing bag, I gaze at the peak’s dancing, moonlit

up the route.

reflection in the alpine lake. We got back safe. The weather held. We pushed our limits. To-

Another easy but committing move comes

morrow, we don’t have to wake up at 3 a.m.

and goes. Looking over my shoulder, I don’t

Tomorrow, we’ll share tea and then pack out.

see Scott. “Yo—this view is epic! Where are

Tomorrow, I will apologize for my lapse and

you, Scott?”

lack of support. Tomorrow, we will remain best friends.

Some are willing to risk their lives to push their envelope; others are not. Every aspect

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“EVEN CAUGHT a Snake River Cutthroat?” “Yep”, I said. I hauled another load of second-hand furniture up the hill. “Even seen a grizzly?” “No,” I said while I double-fisted two garage sale lamps and went back up the hill. Later, a neighbor saw me struggling with a used beige couch and came to my rescue. “Jonas, why don’t you help?” he said. “Don’t just stand around doing nothing.” Jonas went skating up Ninth Street, toward the old hospital. I heard the plastic wheels of his skates grind over the hot asphalt. The neighbor and I sweated and grunted up the incline with the couch. I asked him if he wanted a beer. It was, after all, almost noon. I had no AC, just two fans that pivoted and nodded over the bare hardwood floors. “Heavens no.” he said. “It’s Sunday.” He offered to help with my gun safe. He said he was a hunter and a fisherman. He, too, was puzzled by my quiver of fly rods. I told him I had just come from Laramie where it was eighty-degrees all summer, and forty-five at night. “No humidity,” I added. I nearly launched into some revelry about fly-over thunderstorms and the little rodeos held weekly at the city fairgrounds. But I held off. That evening I sat on my porch and watched the bats swim through the thick, muggy atmosphere. Sprinkler systems choked on and men emerged from the air conditioned houses to survey their lawns. I heard Jonas coming way before I saw him. He had a towel draped over his shoulder. He was heading to the municipal pool. When he saw me on my porch he did a wide circle reminiscent of a figure skater. He stopped below on the street. “Why did you move here?” he said. I told him I had been hired at the community college. He told me that he was a farm kid, that his grandparents ran a sorghum operation outside of town. He said the smart money was on sorghum. “Out there I can do whatever I want. Shoot guns, shoot bows, set traps. And there’s a pond with ten pound big-mouth bass.” Everything he said sounded like an argument. He told me his sister was enrolled at the college and that I’d probably have her in class. He said that the rollerblades were hers, but she landed a boyfriend and didn’t need them anymore. He asked me again about the fly rods. He said the

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S E D A L B R E L L O farm kid on R by Dave Zoby

Buddy Holly glasses, buzz cut, big-for-seventh-grade, Jonas let me know straight away what he thought of my fly rods. “You can’t catch nothing with those ol’ things except small fish,” he said. It was over one-hundred degrees and I was unloading my U-Haul at my new rental in Concordia, Kansas. Jonas had skated down Elmhurst Street, and when he discovered my Wyoming plates he stopped. His knees were scabbed over and bloody from adventures around town. He quizzed me about why I was moving to Kansas. He was suspicious. He leaned on my truck, but never offered to help. Each time I came back down the grassy slope of my rental, he hit me with another question.

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Kansas bass would snap a fly rod. He said the

I didn’t let the trash talking of a thirteen-

fish wanted frogs and little fish, and that

year-old get to me. With my fat chocolate Lab

they’d never fall for a fly. Then he asked me

riding in the bed of my truck, I explored the

about Wyoming. I started telling him about

abandoned farms east of town. There were

the Snowy Range and how I had three of four

old foundations of farmhouses that had paw-

guys always willing to go up there evenings

paw trees bursting through the floorboards.

and cast to the wild rainbows and brook trout.

There were forsaken wells, dangerously un-

We sank and few beers in the stream current

marked and eerily black. My dog stared down

so they’d be cold when we were done fishing.

into the wells and blinked. Occasionally, we

I was just beginning to describe the herd of

discovered farm pounds unencumbered by

cow elk I saw each summer on French Creek,

No Trespassing signs. If no one was around,

when Jonas remembered the time.

I’d put up my seven weight and cast a large streamer into the floating duck grass. Most of

“Crap,” he said. “The pool closes in a half

the time, nothing happened. But a few times,

hour.” And with that he power-skated up the

something large swirled behind my fly, and on

hill, gaining speed as he went. His thick legs

the next cast I was into a hard fighting bass

propelled him uphill like a forward from the

that felt like a snag at first, but ran drag and

Denver Avalanche.

leapt as soon as she learned she had been

Jonas was wrong about so much it’s hard to

almost two pounds, and were thick-backed,

hoodwinked. I caught black crappie that went know where to begin. For one, the bass did

greenish and speckled. These fish were es-

take flies. There were farm ponds where, as

teemed by locals, and Sundays I often kept a

an experiment, farmers stocked crappie, three

few here and there to fry, or to give away as

species of sunfish, Florida-strain bass, and, on

gifts. The locals were not convinced by my fly

occasion, blue catfish. I fell in with a tribe of

rods, but they accepted my offerings of fresh

college employees who were less interested

fish, especially if I cleaned them first.

in climbing the ladder, and more interested in what we might glean by searching out wild

The people of Concordia invited me to church.

areas. We played a version of noon-ball at the

And I went, surprising myself, my dog, and

junior college that can best be described as

anyone who had known me these past twen-

inelegant. After pick-up games we planned

ty-five years. Between attending church and

weekend adventures into the vast and roll-

teaching farm kids at the college, my access

ing country that made up Cloud County and

to ponds and watersheds grew until I found

beyond. Often, with my fly rods tucked under

myself overseeing an empire of possibilities.

my arm, I saw Jonas going up and down the

On any given afternoon I might drive out

Ninth Street. His arm was in a cast. When I

to Carlson’s ponds and prospect for large

asked him if the rollerblades had finally done

mouths, or bushwhack through the vines

him in, he told me he broke his arm at foot-

and see if I could get a river cat to take a

ball practice. But he was still playing. He wore

streamer on the river. I found myself often

his jersey to school on Fridays.

alone, with only my dog and a few hours to burn before nightfall. The abandoned farms

“They can’t block me even with one arm broke,”

grew daunting as the sun sunk into the west.

he said. He told me his grandparents drove all

I heard wild turkeys, and often, the staccato

the way in to town to watch his games. When

of a barn owl. The air cooled on my bare arms

I told him I was catching black bass and big

and I knew then why Jonas liked to be on his

redbreast sunfish with the fly rod he balked.

grandparent’s farm. By the time I made it to my truck I was delighted and thrilled by the

“I’ll believe that when I see it,” he said.

fear the landscape gathered. Whitetails burst out of a grove on walnut trees by the ruined

I showed him my scarred thumbs, the nicks

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farmhouse. I watched their white flags glow

and abrasions where the hard palate of bass

in the night as the deer sprinted across a field

had cost me some skin. He wasn’t convinced.

of winter wheat.

By November I had permission to shoot mal-

It was June when I was packing my U-Haul in

lards on sections of the Republican River. I

front of my rental. This time, no one stopped

hung tree stands on farms out near the

to help me. I was just about ready to shove

wildlife refuge. And the skies over town sung

off, to leave Kansas for good, when I heard

with migrating geese. Everything was working

the sound of plastic wheels on the pavement.

out, and yet, I missed Wyoming. I tied flies on

Jonas did an elegant circle and then jumped

weekends. Not bass flies, but little stonefly

the curb into the grass.

patterns that would be deadly at Six Mile Gap, if I ever got back. I looked at BLM maps of the Medicine Bow Range, tracing with my finger

“You couldn’t catch nothing, so you’re going back to Wyoming,” he said.

the little streams that I just knew had to hold brook trout.

“You’re right. I’m headed back.”

I rarely saw Jonas. If I did, he’d stop and say

He told me I should have listened to him and

something about shooting a ten point buck on

used minnows. Then he said his sister liked

his grandparent’s farm. Or he’d ask if I finally

my class. She was going to K-State in the fall

gave up and fly fishing and learned to fish with

and he’d finally have the house all to himself.

minnows. He was not the only one who held

He told me his grandfather, as soon as he

these beliefs. The townsfolk believed that fly

gets out of the hospital, was going to stock

fishing only took place in the Rockies. Many of

the farm pond with walleye and Northern

my students were sportsmen. They said the

Pike. He told me he wasn’t going to go to col-

only way to catch a “dandy” bass was with a

lege because he wanted only to be a sorghum

plastic worm or a live minnow. And they had

farmer like his grandfather. He already knew

proof. They had pictures of stringers of crappie

how to drive the tractors.

and bass that were truly impressive. I found myself holding my old five weight. It I congratulated them and hurried home to

was the starter rod and reel combo I began

check my mailbox to see it the double bunny

with. I offered Jonas a box of used Deceivers

and meat whistle streamers had arrived. If

and some poppers for top water.

these folks don’t want to fish with flies, who am I to force them to? There was one guy,

“Hold on to this stuff until I come back.”

however, who noticed the severe bend in my seven weight, who saw me hook six bass in

He took the rod out of the case. He spun the

eight casts one warm February Sunday. With-

reel. The line interested him immensely. With

in a week he had a seven weight and we were

his thumb, he examined the deer hair flies,

terrorizing bass at a watershed pond ten min-

and took a close look at the barbell eyes. And

utes from town.

then I saw him decide something. Something about the fly rod challenged his farm kid be-

A life like this could go on forever. When

liefs. He pushed the rod back into my hands.

I wanted to eat fish, I tied on a size eight Deceiver and caught five or six crappie. Was

“Naw, I can’t take that.” He looked up Elm-

it possible, I thought sometime as I filleted

hurst Street to where he lived. He seemed

these great trembling slabs on my tailgate,

oddly defeated. He gathered himself. “Besides,

that these farm pond specimens had never

the bass in my pond would snap that thing

seen natural deer hair flies, and were thereby

like nothing,”

susceptible? Was I taking advantage of their vulnerability? And if so, who do I confess to,

He did a wide circle and went skating away.

the moon perched above the black skyline of gnarled hardwoods? To the Republican River, which after rainstorms, revealed sandbanks littered with pottery chips from the Kickapoo and Kiowa? I kept my confessions to myself and ate fried fish at night while I perused the job market. I was restless to set off again.

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THE GROUNDS SURROUNDING THE LODGE

Bears made their presence known in a variety

were calm then: no generator running, no

of ways. On one visit they might break into

rowdy guides telling lies over mugs of whiskey

the fish smokers, which I could never fault

mixed with iced-down camp juice. Evenings

them for. Muddy claw marks might indicate

were quiet, perhaps even eerie if you found

they tested the outside walls of the kitchen

yourself alone down by the boats and away

tent to find—or create—a way in. Occasionally,

from the safety blanket provided by the lodge.

they might even climb into the boats in search of a meal. Staff responses to the bears

A handful of steelhead-sized lodge rainbows

also varied. One labor-intensive response

patrolled the waters near those boats,

was to dig a new drainage trench under the

refusing to accept that no one was throwing

lodge’s raised kitchen structure. The new

salmon carcasses their way anymore. One

trench led the kitchen’s used water away

night I shamefully drifted an egg pattern

from the source and was meant to mask its

through the pod of giants and held on. After

presence. If any food or other bear-attracting

landing a rainbow downstream from the initial

scents were detectable in that water, grizzlies

hookup and snapping a quick photo, I briskly

would follow them to the source. Salmon

migrated back upstream to the boats—feeling

carcasses were also no longer disposed of in

the entire time as though something were

the river near the camp, and the lodge’s jack-

watching each stage of my dishonorable act.

of-all-trades employee stayed up well into the evening on scheduled bear watches. Because his objective was the scare rather than kill the intruders, he shot rubber bullets or birdshot at the uncooperative bears that he chased out of camp countless times. At least, that was the plan.

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SHE HAD VISITED THE LODGE AS A SUBADULT WITH HER TWO SIBLINGS DURING THE SUMMER OF 2002. TWO YEARS LATER AS A GRIZZLY BEAR SOW SHE WAS ON A RETURN TRIP WITH HER OWN CUBSâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;LOOKING FOR AN EASY MEAL. HER THREE OFFSPRING, ROUGHLY THE SIZE OF MATURE GERMAN SHEPHERDS WHEN THEY BEGAN TO SHOW UP AT THE LODGE, APPEARED AROUND DUSK AND HUNG AROUND THE PERIMETER OF THE CAMP UNTIL THE COVER OF THE ALASKAN MIDNIGHT SUN WORE AWAY ANY THOUGHTS OF FEAR.

by Jeff Mickiewicz

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My father visited both summers I guided in

One evening I was working my way across

Alaska. I will never forget greeting him as

camp to visit my father when I glimpsed some

he got off the plane: His excitement was

movement down by the river and watched

contagious, his smile blinding. The guests

the cubs running along the rocky shoreline

stayed on a different side of the grounds

about 75 yards away from me. I immediately

from the guides; there the accommodations,

wondered where their sow was. Spotting me,

though still rustic, were made more

the cubs took off, and no one else saw them

comfortable by accoutrements like heaters.

or their mother that night. We learned the

During his stays I often joined my father in

next morning, however, that they had all

his tent in the evening, his heater providing a

returned well past midnight. The cubs had

welcome warmth on the cool nights while we

attempted to push in a few startled guestsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;

embellished the dayâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s catch over drinks.

doors by rearing up on their hind legs and applying pressure to the entries with their front paws. The guests who had received these nocturnal visits joked about them over breakfast, but we guides knew not to take bear visits lightly.

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101

The next night the lodge owner ordered an

As it turns out the sow had indeed been

The villagers were entitled to their subsistence

all-night watch, and sure enough, the jack-

wounded by a round of buckshot and was

hunt, of course, but I’m still not sure that we

of-all-trades fired his gun. I did not hear the

consequently bedded down near the lodge.

who had first injured the sow should have

gun go off, but at breakfast we realized we

Her cubs became more and more vocal as

been cleared of wrongdoing. For some time I

had a problem on our hands: Rumor circulated

the morning progressed, and we also heard

struggled to make sense of the incident. Why

among the employees that the mother grizzly

the mother as she struggled to stay alive.

had the gun not been loaded with birdshot or

had been injured and was probably still alive

Eventually a group of villagers arrived

rubber bullets? Buckshot was supposed to be

nearby. The guests, of course, heard a kinder,

armed with underpowered 22-caliber rifles

a last, just-in-case, load. I had been trained by

gentler story.

and proceeded to finish off the sow and kill

the lodge’s head guide when I first arrived: If

the cubs. They took the sows’ claws and

necessary, shoot the bear with non-lethal loads

a few other items and then distastefully

first; use buckshot only to kill. Why did this

dumped her in a secluded boggy area where

occasion merit a change in protocol?

her remains would never be found. They kept the cubs to eat.

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My questions were never answered. We were

At the same time that they provide patrons

One can only hope that Bristol Bay fares

instructed by the lodge owner to say nothing

with an opportunity to experience the real,

better than did that ill–fated sow and her

about the incident, and the camp’s isolation

wild outdoors, Alaskan lodges highlight their

three cubs.

helped us in hushing up events. But I had

commitment to environmental conservation

gained a new understanding of the complexity

and the preservation of the ecosystem upon

of our relationship with apex predators like

which they utterly depend. Indeed, lodge

the grizzly bear. I was also struck by the

owners, guides, and countless others who rely

abruptness of death: One night the cubs were

on Alaska’s fabled salmon runs are currently

playfully running along the riverbank; by the

engaged in a pitched battle against the

end of the following day they had witnessed

relentlessly viable Pebble Mine Project and

their mother’s agonizing last breaths and

its endless list of negative environmental

then were shot dead themselves.

impacts. The mine is another load—the mother lode—of buckshot, this one aimed not at a single grizzly sow but instead at the entire Bristol Bay ecosystem.

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103

By Land or By Sea: Versatile Dogs on the Retrieve

An Essay in Photos by Nancy Anisfield

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PHEASANTS …want to see my picture on the cover Wanna buy five copies for my mother Wanna see my smilin' face  On the cover of the Rollin' Stone —Songwriter: Shel Silverstein; Cover of the Rolling Stone lyrics © T.R.O. Inc.

When it comes to retrieving, especially

As exhilarating as it is to watch a rooster

waterfowl, it seems like Labs and Chessies get

launch skyward then follow through with

all the press. Even on long-distance pheasant

a well-placed shot, most hunters will agree

marks, the breeds classified as “retrievers”

that the retrieve rivals all for a heart-

are the media stars. It’s time for versatile

expanding moment. Shifting gears from

dogs—the pointing breeds developed for

staunch point to an exuberant lunge through

pointing, tracking, and retrieving on land or

thick cover, the versatile dog uses smell,

water– to share that spotlight.

sight, and the strength of a superior athlete to complete the sequence.

Unlike dogs bred with just flushing or retrieving in their job description, the

On land, released from the point to fetch the

versatile dog partners with the wing shooter

fallen bird, the dog tears out, muscles at max,

start to finish, helping to find, handle, and

keen for the game. Brought to the hunter’s

deliver game. Versatile breeds can scent on

hand, the pheasant is presented with pride, a

water as well as in the air or on the ground.

tribute to breeding and lineage.

They learn to use the wind to their advantage. And they learn that when they are sent to

DUCKS

find downed game they must retrieve it and bring it back to the hunter, completing their

Steady in the blind, the versatile dog holds

work with efficiency and intelligence.

tight—although imperceptibly quivering—until the command to fetch lights the charge that

Training a versatile dog is a multifaceted

explodes into the water. Spray subsides into a

process. On any given day, the dog may

rhythmic surging as webbed toes and strong

practice an independent duck search in

legs pump towards the downed goose softly

a broad lake laced with vegetation, hone

bobbing in thick reeds.

steadiness on point over a field-planted chukar partridge, track a released pheasant

Early morning in the marsh, the slanted light

into thick brush, and retrieve to hand in each

and shimmer of fog sets a perfect backdrop

of these drills. Every aspect of a versatile

to the muffled snuffling as the gun dog

dog’s training closely addresses demands of

searches for the duck that pinwheeled out of

the hunt. Instincts such as nose and drive are

sight towards the levy. Blind retrieves are no

put in the service of the wing shooter’s needs.

problem for a versatile dog whose astonishing

Obedience and cooperation blend with an

ability to track on water can work even the

equally important measure of independence.

most general mark.

Then, when it all comes together before and after the shot, there’s nothing more rewarding for hunter and dog.

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IT WAS TWILIGHT, and I had just shooed away

swayed toward the bear, waving my rifle. He

in the pit, eat near it, and burn any leftovers

a scrounging black bear from the scout camp-

retreated into the bush with only a quick

completely before putting all their food in the

ing area—part of my job as chief ranger. He

glance over his shoulder. Good! No need to fire

van. That included those soothing bedtime-

hadn’t wanted to leave, perhaps scenting the

even a warning shot. I was much relieved: the

away-from-home Jujubes. I watched them,

pepperoni sticks and Cheesies a 12-year-old

sound of a gun, especially a high-powered rifle,

chuckling that I had never seen a gang of

had been laying out on the picnic table for a

raises hackles all around.

adolescents scurry faster to do my bidding.

before-dinner snack. The bear suddenly reappeared and the scout sprinted to join his gang

1 14

At that moment the supervising parent, full Those novices already had enough on their

of squeaky-voiced bravado, belatedly started

cowering in the van. Making myself as big

minds for their first overnight camping trip.

tossing out orders—and probably wished he

and scary as I could, hands held high, I slowly

I told the troop to build a decent-sized fire

was on a golfing holiday.

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by Ehor Boyanowsky

Facing Your Demons: Lessons Learned from Bears

After that white knuckler, I began to relax as

slowly toward the wall, I willed my hand not

toes were pouring in. For a second time that

I entered the darkened ranger’s cabin, and

to tremble as I opened the propane valve of

night, I exhaled in relief. I reckoned the bear

laying the Winchester .30-30 on the sofa,

the wall sconce. I could smell—even feel—his

had nosed aside the unlatched door, it had

rummaged around in my pockets for a match.

breath on my neck. The match stayed lit, the

slammed behind him, and as he heard me

And then I smelled it—the unmistakable

gas hissed and ignited, and the room glowed

coming up the path to the living room door,

rancid odor of a mature bear. What now? My

in the pale cast of propane flame. I turned

he had bolted—right through the screen, leav-

brain switched to autopilot. I managed to

slowly and looked down the hall to the kitch-

ing nothing but a telltale stench.

strike a match, but unlike those dramatic

en: The screen door had a hole in it the size

flares that emanate from movie matches,

of a wheelbarrow. The evening breeze and

the room remained cloaked in gloom. Moving

an attack squadron of bloodthirsty mosqui-

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1 15

I had kissed the ground two months earlier

lived in the house, soon trained to a sandbox

when we had arrived in the park, Ontario’s

and bedded down in some old blankets.

northernmost drive-to destination, frequent-

THAT NIGHT I SLEPT WITH THE .30-30 LOADED. I FIGURED A BEAR WITH AN ACQUIRED TASTE FOR RABBIT WOULDN’T GO AWAY UNPERSUADED. SURE ENOUGH, THAT NIGHT I HEARD A TREMENDOUS POUNDING ON OUR BEDROOM WINDOW.

ed by Iowans and Minnesotans chasing after

That night I slept with the .30-30 loaded. I

the walleye and big pike of Pakwash Lake. My

figured a bear with an acquired taste for

wife and I were in college down south, and

rabbit wouldn’t go away unpersuaded. Sure

with our 18-month-old daughter in tow, we

enough, that night I heard a tremendous

felt we had won the lottery. Rather than hav-

pounding on our bedroom window. I sprang

ing to work in the gold mine for another sum-

up, grabbed the carbine, and rushed to the

mer, and paying rent in my rough-and-ready

window to stare into the beady eyes of a bru-

northern bush town—living with my loving

in that squealed in surprise and then roared

but mercurial mom had proved too taxing the

and ripped off the screen that his claws were

previous summer—we were set. After sending

caught in. He vanished into the woods while

an application on a long shot to the Forestry

I stood there jaybird-naked and bemused. My

department, we unexpectedly both had jobs

nights of teenaged, dead-man-like sleep were

along with a house, outboard motorboat, pick-

over. Forever.

up truck, and gas 33 miles from town. And no need for a babysitter. Forestry was pleased,

From then on I would wake at the slightest

as the post usually attracted guys with

sound, including a deer mouse playing with a

drinking problems and wives who after a few

marble Jen had lost under the fridge. As I sat

weeks wanted no part of the bush. And Jenni-

there groggily listening in the dark one night,

fer could wander around in the high grass or

the marble came rolling out chased by a car-

accompany me on my rounds to clean camp-

toon fuzz ball that looked up at me before

sites and collect garbage while she stuffed

proceeding to roll the marble back under the

her cheeks with treats from the campers. And

fridge and resume his soccer game. Appar-

so our summer played out.

ently kids aren’t the only creatures that play street games.

In the evenings while my wife read—her greatest passion—Jennie, slathered in mosqui-

A week later I was awakened by a much more

to repellent, would ride along with me while I

serious clatter in the living room. Grabbing

trolled the reefs for walleye. A little saint, she

my rifle I rushed from the bedroom. Illumi-

never complained or grew bored; she watched

nated by a pale ray of moonlight streaming

the ducks, watched me unhook fish, and

through the window, the bunny had its fore-

opened the minnow can to point out the big-

legs on Jen’s clicker pull toy and was pushing

gest, fattest one left. From my sister, Jennie

it around the room. The critters had taken

had acquired two white rabbits that we kept

over the cabin.

in a cage, and she frequently took one out to pet it and to soothe herself. Whenever we

*****

went to town for groceries we put the bunny cage behind the back steps and under the

I suspect a child’s fight-or-flight response is

house. Returning from one such weekly trip

formed early in life. In my case, at age six.

to town, Jennie scampered off to check on her

One afternoon I was savoring the aroma of

pets—and screamed. I ran to her to find the

wild blueberry pie my mother had baked and

cage smashed and the bunnies gone. As she

left cooling on the sill of the open kitchen

called for them I spotted a tiny severed rab-

window when I was startled out of my reverie

bit’s foot in the grass and quickly stuffed it

by the dark form of a bear ambling out of the

into my pocket. Thumper’s luck had run out.

woods. I hollered to let my mum know. To my amazement my mother burst out the door,

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Our fairy tale idyll was over. The bears were

broom in hand, and whacked the startled

back. I held Jennie’s solid, chunky little body in

three-year-old—probably just having been

my arms, and she demanded to know where

turfed out by his own mum—all the while

the bunnies were. As if on cue, the second one

calling for my father. Dad burst from the

came hopping up to us. I scooped him up to

woodshed shovel in hand. No need: the bear

a barrage of Jen’s chortles. From then on he

had sized up the situation and hightailed

it back to the woods. Though in some ways

to all fours and streaked for the woods—

quite ferocious, my mother was usually filled

woods so thick, a machete wouldn’t easily

with trepidation for bears, strangers, and

get you through. What now? A wounded bear,

children wielding axes. (In one of my earliest

panicky campers, and me—The Man, sworn to

memories, my sister had split open her an-

protect the public. What to do?

kle.) So her full-out assault on the bear was not what I would have predicted. But it stuck

I chose not to enter the forbidding thicket

with me: in the face of threat, in the face of

of young willows, poplars, blackberries, and

fear—attack.

rose thorns—blinding, clinging Northern bush. Was I a coward or just responsibly cautious?

Well, maybe not always. In my 14th year walk-

I wandered around the periphery, checking

ing back from Kelson’s Bay after nightfall one

every hour and warning the campers not to

summer evening with my brother-in-law, full

leave food out. By early evening the crows, ra-

of post-success ebullience and reliving several

vens, and a few buzzards had begun to circle.

hooked pike and walleye, we cut through the

Rifle in one hand and machete in the other, I

town dump rather than cautiously circum-

took a deep breath and ventured in, brambles

venting it. Bad idea. As we rounded a corner

cutting up my hands and tearing my shirt. I

in the pitch dark, a bear, a giant over nine

realized this was a crazy idea, and I had just

feet tall, reared up. I froze and—predictably,

talked myself into backing out when about

according to Murphy’s Law—Steve’s tackle box

fifty yards inside I spotted the bear I had

inexplicably flew open. As he gathered the

shot: dead.

treble-hooked lures without a single one snagging him—good thing, as he is a dentist—the

I have always thanked my lucky stars—my

bear and I stared at each other. When Steve

ferocious mum, my calm dad, and maybe

stood up the bear dropped to all fours and

Orion the hunting god—that I was able to

ambled away. I thought I had exaggerated its

finish the job that night, to make certain the

size until I read that exceptional male blacks

unfortunate, marauding bear wouldn’t be on

can stand nine feet high or more on their

a midnight rampage producing fodder for a

hind legs. He was my Godzilla.

teen horror movie. That was one bear I was happy to bury deep in those woods. I was

Though not of such colossal size, my park

lucky that the ground was soft and muskeg-y

bear became increasingly habituated to hu-

right there—but it still took two hours. I felt a

mans. Too bad. The next day as I drove around

little sad as I shoveled dirt over that scruffy,

checking the campsites, a panting, towhead-

summertime bear—not a sentiment shared

ed 10-year-old boy came streaking down the

by my campers. The park was a more peaceful

access road, leapt onto my running board, and

place that night as we entertained an intimi-

shouted: “There’s a bear at our campsite, and

dated couple from Minnesota happy to spend

he won’t leave!” I pulled him into the cab and

an evening in the cabin.

gunned the motor. Parking some distance away, I picked up the rifle behind the seat

THAT WAS ONE BEAR I WAS HAPPY TO BURY DEEP IN THOSE WOODS. I WAS LUCKY THAT THE GROUND WAS SOFT AND MUSKEG-Y RIGHT THERE—BUT IT STILL TOOK TWO HOURS.

*****

and approached the campsite. I saw a woman in her thirties holding her young daughter,

Eventually I moved west to British Columbia

pleading with her husband to be careful. He

and became besotted with steelhead fly fish-

was shouting at a bear circling their camp

ing, and within a couple of years I was beside

stove, eventually throwing a piece of firewood

myself with joy to be invited to fish the Dean

at him. The bear, the same one I had run off

River by a friend who was a member of Totem

(or a reasonable facsimile thereof), ignored

Flyfishers, BC’s first fly fishing club. It was

the man and lunged at the bacon frying on

during an August heatwave that we landed

the stove. He yowled as the hot fat sprayed

in a helicopter at the Totems’ spike camp on

him and stood on his hind legs. I had no

the Dean, and I would normally have been ex-

choice. I pulled the trigger, and he took what I

hilarated: Finally, to be on the world’s premier

thought should have been a killing shot in his

steelhead stream! Instead, this moment was

left chest. He dropped like a punctured Bobo

fraught with ambivalence: We were warned by

doll. To my dismay, a moment later he sprang

the departing group that a cheeky black bear

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had been hanging around, even making a run

makeshift pantry table. Lying next to the tent

at any food left unattended for more than a

flap, I was able to quietly pull it apart. And

rivers and lakes near Red Lake catching any-

couple of minutes. A disquieting welcome.

there, only four feet from me, was our medi-

thing that moved, shooting grouse and even

um-sized bruin, sifting through various cans

ducks with a .22 rifle and tracking moose with

My companions were, perhaps, just a little

on the table. Without making a sound I picked

the intrepidness of a Chingachgook. Unfortu-

more concerned than I—all except for John,

up the Klaxon horn sitting on the ground and,

nately I was long gone, finished with graduate

an Irish adventurer who seemed excited

reaching out behind our oblivious nocturnal

school in Madison and living in Nova Scotia.

about the prospect of fending off a bruin.

visitor, released a long and blood-chilling blast.

Pity. We caught up a little when he came to

His girlfriend Cathy, by contrast, wasn’t sure

My companions bolted upright in unison, prac-

live with me in British Columbia, and tried to

that this was what she’d signed up for when

tically cracking their heads on the tent’s cross

get into graduate biology, having given up a

filling in for a fourth camper who couldn’t

pole, while our furry intruder let out a bleat-

very successful career in exploration geology.

make the trip. Bob from Colorado, a paunchy,

ing screech and turned tail, running straight

stuffed-toy sort of fellow my wife had dubbed

up the mountain. We could hear rocks rolling

Mark attracted near-death experiences like

Paddington, was decidedly trepidatious. So

and bush crashing for many seconds. I was

Al Capp’s Joe Btfsplk. At age two while vis-

the first order of business was to hoist the

disappointed that my friends didn’t appreci-

iting us at Pakwash, my three-week-older

fresh food up the tree in the camp backpack.

ate my courageous initiative to the degree I

and much-sturdier Jennifer had accidentally

Just in time, as a mid-sized black bear came

had expected. After all, I was protecting them

pushed that weedy, fragile waif into the

roaring out of the bush and tried to snag it.

from a bear. Cathy, however, did give up the

campfire. He had bandages on his hands for

We quickly lifted the backpack out of reach

Jujubes she had stashed in her sleeping bag.

days. At age 10 the family bluetick hound

and chased off the bear. Finally we could relax, making some gin-and-tonics with ice we

went berserk and attacked him, ripping off *****

chipped from the block stashed with the dry ice cache and sitting in the rickety aluminum

his scalp; he was saved only by a passing neighbor and was in the hospital for months.

Watching what a bear is capable of does

At age 14 he was struck by a taxi while driv-

lawn chairs on the cobbles overlooking the

inform you about what kinds of reactions

ing a Ski-Doo and had his leg broken. And so

river—all a time-tested tradition in Dean

will—or won’t—work. On a trip a few years lat-

it went. Not surprisingly he chose to be a

River camps. The ubiquitous .303 Lee Enfield

er, we were enjoying the twilit mauve evening

hockey goalie—everyone’s target—though his

provided with the camp leaned against a tree

when an apparition materialized on the far

parents objected.

close to the generous wall tent we would be

shore—an adult grizzly who proceeded to fish

sleeping in.

the camp pool. My friend Gary, visiting from

While a student doing geology work for the

his spike camp, thought he might dissuade

government in the Arctic, Mark awoke one

Over the fire, my friend John prepared a

the poaching bruin by throwing a stone that

morning and upon opening his tent saw a

delectable beef tenderloin dinner with pota-

didn’t quite make it across. To our amaze-

grizzly lying in wait a few feet away. He pan-

toes wrapped in aluminum foil and baked in

ment the bear, thinking a fish had swirled,

icked and ran into the cook tent, where his

the coals. Asparagus was the side dish and

walked into the raging, chaotic current as if

shouts were greeted with ennui by the assem-

a California cab sauv the wine. The denoue-

he were Moses, completely ignoring our ef-

bled coffee drinkers. What he didn’t know was

ment was a wee dram of Aberlour single malt

forts to chase him away. The river, to us cer-

that while he slept, a grizzly had been nosing

Scotch—something I had only lately devel-

tain death at that spot, was a mere triviality

around his tent; the team leader had finally

oped a taste for. When I had tried my dad’s

to him. River? What river?

Scotch as a teenager, I could have sworn it

1 18

and fishing. From age 10 he would haunt the

decided to shoot it. Mark had slept through it all like a baby.

was kerosene. As a last resort, I had mixed it

Some people seem to be born to attract cha-

with ginger ale. Sacrilege! And that was the

os. And not only the bear kind. It was amazing

last time I had been offered a Scotch, until

that my nephew Mark had been born at all.

king certain quadrants and gathering rock

now. Now I savoured the heathery warm glow

During her pregnancy my sister had nearly

samples. Dropped in by helicopter one early

Later, Mark was assigned the job of trek-

on my palate as we stared into the Rorschach

died, completely paralyzed by Guillain-Barre

morning he made his way back to camp on

flames looking for omens of tomorrow’s fish-

syndrome. Of the team of doctors attending

foot. The land was desolate, rolling plains

ing and John related another story in melodic

her, only one—the senior member—argued

marked by eskers and loaded with wildlife.

Irish tones.

for allowing the pregnancy to come to term;

While walking an esker he heard earth-shak-

the rest felt the child would be unspeakably

ing roaring and saw two grizzlies doing battle.

Soon we crawled into our camp beds, aching

damaged. Mark was fine: a little underweight

Scurrying down the other side, he saw anoth-

with the exhaustion of a long day, and every-

and fretful but of above-average IQ and de-

er grizzly heading toward him. Now slightly

one drifted off into dreamland. Suddenly I

velopment, though not the superstar student

perturbed, he walked the trail along the ridge

was awake. Had the human buzz saw next to

his two older sisters and brother were. Very

of the esker avoiding the bears on either side.

me shattered my sleep? No, there was some-

sweet and handsome and the only one who

Rounding a corner, he came face to face with

thing outside lifting various objects off the

was completely passionate about hunting

a mother grizzly and her cub. She charged.

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WATCHING WHAT A BEAR IS CAPABLE OF DOES INFORM YOU ABOUT WHAT KINDS OF REACTIONS WILL—OR WON’T—WORK.

ROUNDING A CORNER, HE CAME FACE TO FACE WITH A MOTHER GRIZZLY AND HER CUB. SHE CHARGED.

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1 19

Fortunately he fainted, and she grabbed him

but we found our spot way up the road and

by his backpack, shook him, and threw him

began to fish a pretty riffle. Unfortunately

20 feet. Mark regained consciousness, some-

Vicky lost her footing and went for a short

what shaken but unhurt, his backpack full of

ride downstream, so we called a timeout and

rocks now shredded. His mum’s only comment

while she wrung out her waders and set them

upon the retelling was, “Why didn’t you get a

to dry in the warm spring sun, we broke out

picture?”

the lunch.

“Mum, she was so close I could smell her breath.”

After much crunching of bone and sucking of marrow, we decided to fish a productive

“Okay, but you knew you were going to die—so I HEARD ALEXEI SHOUTING. I TURNED

why didn’t you take a picture?”

run 200 yards downstream split into two by a back eddy in the middle. Vicky declined saying she would prefer to soak up the sun

TO SEE WHAT HE HAD HOOKED, BUT HE WAS POINTING FRANTICALLY

Mark gave up the outdoor life to become a

AT THE UNDERBRUSH. AND THEN I

funeral director. He still faces death every

lars. Alexei chose the head and started to pay

day—someone else’s. He is clearly meant to

out a long line in his elegant Spey style while

live to a ripe old age.

I walked downstream to catch the current

SAW HIM: A GRIZZLY IN FULL GALLOP HEADING RIGHT FOR ME.

like a snake and watch through her binocu-

just below the back eddy. Thompson started *****

working the underbrush near me hoping to roust an early spring blue grouse. We could

The Squamish, a winding glacial stream that

hear their booming mating sounds in the hills

is often crystal clear in the early spring, has

nearby.

a fabled run of late winter steelhead with a predilection for chasing flies. The stream’s

Just as I had lengthened my line to an easy,

bordering mountains, the Tantalus Range,

languorous cast covering the holding water,

soar to 8,000 feet and in the sunlight become

Thompson reappeared and sat next to me on

luminescent, a setting created for swinging a

the shore staring into the bush while I waded

Spey-cast fly. On occasion, the silence is shat-

waist-deep. Odd, but I thought no more of it

tered by thundering roars that transform the

as my senses prepped for the first pull.

valley into an amphitheater for a rising and falling cascade of sound and snow and rock on

I heard Alexei shouting. I turned to see what

a monumental scale: the symphony of spring-

he had hooked, but he was pointing franti-

time avalanches. After driving up the logging

cally at the underbrush. And then I saw him:

road for 30-some miles several springs ago,

a grizzly in full gallop heading right for me.

far from civilization, we were surprised to

Somewhat bizarrely, my first thought recalled

stumble upon a film crew in the middle of

my sister’s words: “You knew you were going

nowhere. It was Leonardo Di Caprio and com-

to die, so why didn’t you take a picture?”

pany filming The Revenant, a movie renowned for its horrific bear encounter scene. Couldn’t

So I did—although now I wish I had waited

have been more apt.

until he got even closer. Then I quickly came out of the river shouting, “Whoa, bear! Whoa,

A few years ago, my son Alexei and I decided

bear!” while I raised my rod over my head and

to fish the river on a pleasant Sunday morn-

waved at the charging bear. Thompson, think-

ing. Because my wife Cristina was studying for

ing we were playing monster, started shuck-

an exam and could not come along, he asked

ing and jiving and jumping about.

whether his mother, an accomplished fly

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SPRING 2020

caster, could join us. Neither Cristina nor I ob-

“Leave him, he’s a goner,” shouted Alexei,

jected so Alexei, our English setter Thompson

thinking I was trying to save our faithful

S. Hunter, and I piled into Vicky’s Land Rover

setter. It hadn’t occurred to me. I had seen

drove up the valley provisioned with a fine

bears sprint to 35 miles an hour and practi-

shore lunch of smoked meats, Brie, brown

cally walk on water across a roaring river, so I

bread, garlic dills, apples, white chocolate

knew running—or even worse, trying to float

cookies, and a chilled bottle of BC pinot gris.

downstream—were not options. I was merely

It was fairly busy with anglers and ATV riders,

trying to show him I was more old city coot

than succulent young mountain goat and prayed it was a case of mistaken identity. Sure enough, he put on the brakes and stood up, swiping a paw at Thompson who, suddenly chastened, came to stand close to me. As the grizz rocked back and forth sniffing the air, I felt a heavy hit on my shoulder. It was Alexei. He had very unwisely swum the back eddy in his waders and was now beside me. “Okay, I’ve got the spray,” he said in a very calm voice. So the three of us abreast walked slowly and deliberately around the bear who swiveled as we passed within ten yards and began to follow us at a distance. By the time we got to the logging road, he was only five yards behind. In the meantime Vicky had watched the whole episode through her binoculars, and had run to the road to flag down a pickup and call 911. I smiled to myself: The good news? A bear was going to get rid of her ex. The bad news? Her son was in danger as well. As we reached the road we became a small knot of six, and the bear, thinking better of it all, decided to head for the swamp in hopes of snagging some early season skunk cabbage. ***** That summer, with some trepidation, Alexei headed for Kamchatka in eastern Russia—perhaps one of the last great unknown wildernesses—to work as angling director for an NGO leading expeditions on its rivers. He carried an AK-47, but between my experiences and his own, he had learned when not to pull the trigger. And he never had to.

THE GOOD NEWS? A BEAR WAS GOING TO GET RID OF HER EX. THE BAD NEWS? HER SON WAS IN DANGER AS WELL.

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D I A YD I Y WW Y YO MOI N M I N G G

LAST OCTOBER, WHEN I WAS INVITED TO ACT AS CAMERAMAN ON A PRONGHORN ANTELOPE HUNT, I REALLY DIDN’T UNDERSTAND WHAT I WAS GETTING MYSELF INTO. I WAS FAMILIAR WITH ANTELOPE, OF COURSE, AND WITH THE TECHNIQUES FOR KILLING THEM. SO WHEN MY FRIEND MIKE, HIS TWO BOYS MARSHALL AND MICHAEL, AND THEIR GOOD FRIEND HIRAM PROPOSED A WEEKLONG DIY ANTELOPE HUNT IN NORTHWESTERN WYOMING, I COULDN’T REFUSE. I THOUGHT I KNEW WHAT I WAS GETTING MYSELF INTO, BUT I WAS UNPREPARED. BY JESSE MALES

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1 23

Upon arrival we enjoyed two days of perfect weather. Hiram was the first on the gun, so we began glassing some large tracts of open land that first afternoon, hoping to spot a mature animal for the next day’s hunt. Glassing for antelope in open country sounds easy: Spotting an animal with a white backside in an open field? Piece of cake! With the terrain’s tiny draws, washouts, and canyon areas, however, three dozen antelope can be within a quarter-mile of you, and you may not be able to spot a single one. So hunters must sit in one area and glass for an hour or more, giving animals that may be bedded down in a washout time enough to start moving again—and consequently give away their position. We spotted several quality animals a few canyons away on that first afternoon, so we decided to return the next morning in the hope of spotting those same antelope again. The next morning dawned crisp—25 degrees crisp—so we figured the antelope may be off to a slow start. We were lucky that the wind had died down a bit, so we took our time making our way into the basin where we had previously spotted a few nice bucks. Knowing the antelope would take a few moments to get moving, we set up in some rocks and began glassing the fields hoping one of them would show. After only a few hours of glassing, we saw some does and smaller bucks moving out of the draws and onto the sunny side of the hills to graze. Sadly the two bucks we had seen the day before appeared to be hunkering down a bit longer than we had expected. As strange as it sounds, one of the greatest challenges of the day for me was the sitting. I wanted to stalk every animal I saw, but the experienced hunters in our group knew when to move and what animals were worth pursuing. After the long morning sit we decided to make our way back to the truck for some lunch. A few sandwiches and bottles of water later, we were back on our feet with high hopes for the afternoon. Air temperatures hovered in the low 60s. We made our way back into the basin with jokes and camaraderie and settled into position for a long afternoon of glassing.

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Antelope can spot movement up to three

With a hot sun overhead and great air

miles away, so it is important to find a good

temperatures, we had plenty of antelope

wasn’t our best option; we took a few

backdrop from which to glass: Structure in

bucks and does out in front almost all

minutes to analyze the layout of the valley

front of you helps with concealment, but even

afternoon. Finally our patience paid off, and

and look for any possible draws, cliffsides, or

more important is to make sure that your

we locked on to the shooter bucks we had

river bottoms that we could use to close the

Obviously running out there Rambo-style

silhouette does not stick out over any ridge

spotted the day before. They seemed to be

distance and stay hidden. Creeping slowly

lines behind you—a sure way to get yourself

alone, grazing on a hillside about 700 yards

through a bottom area we continued to peek

spotted by every antelope within eyesight

from our position. Now all we had to do was

over every 50 yards or so, maintaining an eye

almost instantly. In our case, some large

put a stalk on them and make the shot.

on the antelope’s position and making sure

sagebrushes before us and big rocks behind

we had our bearings correct. After 45 minutes

gave us a great spot from which to glass and

This is when I learned that spotting an

remain hidden. As long as we moved slowly

animal in open country is only half the

popping up just 150 yards from the antelope.

and stayed low, this structure concealed us

battle. Getting into position to make a shot

At this point, the two bucks had joined up

when we grabbed a drink or a snack.

we were only one small ridge away from

without your prey—or other nearby animals—

with a small herd of does, which meant even

spotting you is a whole different challenge.

more eyes would be on us once we popped up and into shooting position.

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SPRING 2020

Hiram and I moved over the ridge, leaving

As the sun began to set we moved over

Mike behind in the river bottom as we moved

the ridge to glass another valley closer to

into shooting position. We were in wide

where we had left our truck. Sure enough,

open country and crawling on our stomachs

Hiram was presented with a chance to

through thorns and thistles—not an easy

redeem himself: A buck a bit smaller than

task to accomplish while carrying a camera,

the morning’s target showed up with a few

tripod, and 400mm lens. To our surprise, we

does and provided us with a great broadside

made it into shooting position and Hiram

opportunity at just over 100 yards. With all

squeezed off a shot.

the kinks out of the way, Hiram squeezed off a round—and the rest is history! The animal

His bullet missed high, sending the bucks and

fell right in his tracks. We looked at each

does fleeing over the ridge and out of sight

other in amazement that we were able to

in what seemed like only a matter of seconds.

harvest one of these beautiful animals on

Needless to say, Hiram required a high-

our first day in the field. Before our week in

quality pep talk to keep his head in the game,

Wyoming drew to a close, Mike and his boys

and we delivered: Not one of us was an

all tagged out on nice antelope bucks and a

expert at this, and getting off an accurate

few mature does.

shot from 150 yards after jogging half a mile and crawling 100 yards into position would

For myself, I learned that hunting and killing

be a challenge for any hunter. We decided

mature antelope on a consistent basis

that with the few hours of daylight left we

requires a lot of time, patience, and practice

could continue and hope to find another

in the field. Successful hunters—those who

buck before dark.

are serious about killing a solid antelope each year—take the time to discover what areas

These wide open areas in antelope country

may be productive at different times of the

offer challenges that good old boys from

day and throughout the year. With a little bit

the south don’t typically face. For example,

of dogged research—studying the area you

unless they’re hunting power lines or large

plan to hunt and acquiring the proper tags

open farmland, whitetail hunters are

and licenses—a determined hunter could pull

generally not required to take more than a

off a DIY antelope hunt like ours.

100-yard shot. Here in Wyoming, however, we found ourselves constantly presented with 200-plus-yard opportunities—and making them count was proving to be difficult.

STRUNG MAGAZINE

SPRING 2020

1 29

CAPT. SHANE SMITH

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CHRISTIAAN PRETORIUS PHOTOGRAPHER/OUTDOORSMAN Photo : Knox Kronenberg

Strung Magazine - Vol. 2 - 1: The Fly Fishing Issue

Articles inside

Two Hearted

Rations & Intoxicants: A Conversation with Hank Shaw

Surviving Kamchatka: Part 2