magazine
ISLAND OF MISFIT DOGS REBUILDING A LEGEND STRIPERS IN THE SURF THE ART OF FLUIDITY BEYOND SALMON WHITE WING
Summer 2021 INDEPENDENT, PASSIONATE, UNCOMPROMISING STRUNG MAGAZINE
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“When a man is part of his canoe, he is part of all that canoes have ever known.” —Sigurd Olson, The Singing Wilderness Ethan O’Brien walks his canoe back upriver after a highly successful (and beer-filled) day casting small dry flies to fussy rainbow trout in Central Oregon. Photo: T. Nolan
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“A wild trout is magic enough for me. I want to see sunlight slicing a shaded pool and a jeweled fish arrowing up from the bottom for my little fly. The apparition is as quick as a camera’s shutter and as slow as life. Dark water. Slanting ray of sun. Trout flashes, moment passes. Image lasts.” —Datus Proper, Running Waters A wary rainbow trout moves in to inspect Ryan Brenneke’s fly in the shallow, crystal-clear water of a Central Oregon river. Photo: T. Nolan
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Contents
WHENCE IT CAME: REBUILDING A LEGEND Keith R. Crowley “If you press him hard enough, Damian Wilmot might tell you he’s a pretty fair fishing guide on a pretty fair trout stream in northwest Wisconsin. He’ll likely also tell you he’s an itinerant trout bum and bird hunter. He may even mention some of the incredible furtrade era artifacts he has pulled from the Bois Brule, a river that was crucial to French voyageurs three centuries ago. But he will surely tell you about his meticulously restored Joe Lucius Guide Canoe.” SHADOWS, SPOKES, SURF, AND STRIPERS Jerry Audet “Without a light I have no thoughts of “next,” only of “now” because the terrain becomes visible only a fraction of a second before it’s already behind me. Make a wrong move in this rocky terrain and the consequences are high and usually painful. It pulls all your focus to the present. It would certainly be faster (and safer) to ride with a light, but being seen would defeat the purpose of the bike in the first place: to be alone, in the dark, fly fishing for striped bass.”
WHITE WING A Photo Essay by Russell A. Graves “The South Texas sun was still searing as it sank over the small town of Hondo. For most of the day, temperatures had hovered in the upper 90s—not unusual for the first of September in Texas. Still, the brutal heat did little to deter the hordes of hunters who look forward to this day all year. Around here, the opening day of dove season is a holiday of sorts. After a long, hot summer, hunters are finally able to dust off their shotguns and put an end to the off-season.”
RESERVOIR DOGS Dave Zoby “Lately I’ve been trying to convince myself that skulking off into the obscure landscape with my two dogs and a fly rod is a threshold experience equal to globetrotting for exotic fish. Pretty early in the experiment, my feigned enjoyment became actual enjoyment.”
FROGGER Bryan Gregson “I’ve seldom had the opportunity to photograph any type of bass, and I had never been on a shoot where smallmouth were the target. Still, a native fish in its native habitat gets me excited. Schultz explained that Huron smallmouth eat a variety of things—small bluegill, salamanders, insects, baitfish—but during the summer when they’re eating frogs, it’s all about frogs. Frogs and smallmouth go together like French fries and gravy.”
THE SURVEY PARTYAndrew McKean “An old rancher told me about this place, just as he told me about the ridge studded with stone teepee rings farther south, but he let me find both for myself. It took almost 10 years of looking before, one gray afternoon with biting snow in the wind and a mule deer tag in my pocket, I found the graves.”
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BRETT FERENCE’S ISLAND OF MISFIT DOGS Tom Keer “My friend Brett Ference collects dogs that no one wants. On his string, only one came from good lines, but take a look at his Vermont kennel and you’ll see bright eyes and cracking tails that aren’t indicative of their origin. Ference has never made a call to find a dog; they just sort of wind up with him. I should know—several years ago I placed one with him.” THE SUMMER GRAB-AND-GO GEAR GUIDE Strung Staff You never know what summer is going to throw at you, but this grab bag of gear is perfect for every summer trip. RATIONS & INTOXICANTS Jenny Nguyen-Wheatley “Vietnam’s signature sandwich includes an assortment of thinly sliced cold cuts, generous amounts of pork liver pâté, and full-fat mayonnaise, and it is always garnished with plenty of carrot and daikon pickles and fresh herbs for balance. Making Vietnamese cold cuts isn’t something that I’ve delved into yet, so for this issue’s recipe, I’m mirroring another classic: grilled pork bánh mì. Pork is used heavily in Vietnamese cooking, and luckily, I just recently came into some wild boar meat from Texas.” NIGHT Words by Kevin Kennedy, Illustrations by Tim Ryan “The song of those badlands coyotes, that frigid Montana night, and the sensation of wellbeing as we packed that deer remain with me, as do the individual voices of my hounds, the delicate clicking of crawdad claws in a tin pot, the distant talk of migrating geese, and the bugling of elk, in tight or a ridge away. Those memories are like the smiles and laughter of old friends: unseen, unheard, but vivid and indelible, and enhanced by darkness.” BEYOND SALMON: FISHING OUTSIDE THE BOX IN ALASKAN SALT WATER Words and Photos by E. Donnall Thomas Jr., Additional Photos by Lori Thomas “As much as I love fly fishing for salmon at sea, salmon come and salmon go—that’s just their nature. And when they’ve gone, it pays to have a Plan B.” BRETT JAMES SMITH AND THE ART OF FLUIDITY Ryan Sparks “What is important in these outdoor paintings is mood, a feeling of how things were and still can be,” he says. “The idea is to convey the natural ruggedness of the sport without missing the subtle nuances that make the experience personal.” OF SECRET TAPES AND SOCKEYE LAKES Words by Reed Knappe, Photos by Jay Beyer “If the struggle to keep Pebble undeveloped and preserve Bristol Bay fails, the costs will be incalculable. Much of the damage inflicted on the natural world over the last 200 years was inadvertent, shaped by ignorance of earth’s fragile ecosystems and finite natural resources. No such excuses exist in Bristol Bay. We know better.”
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Publisher: JOSEPH J. BALLARINI
Editor-in-Chief: RYAN SPARKS
Creative Director: SCOTT MORRISON Photo Editor: SAMMY CHANG
Big Game Editor: ANDREW MCKEAN
Conservation Editor: REED KNAPPE Fly Fishing Editor: DAVE ZOBY Upland Editor: TOM KEER
Waterfowl Editor: E. DONNALL THOMAS JR.
Wild Foods Editor: JENNY NGUYEN-WHEATLEY Editors At Large: EHOR BOYANOWSKY
ALEXEI JD BOYANOWSKY JOE DOGGETT
MARK HATTER
Copy Editor: LEILA BEASLEY
Website: MICHAEL DUCKWORTH
ALEXA SPARKS
CREATIVE CONTRIBUTORS Jerry Audet
Kevin Kennedy
Jay Beyer
Toby Nolan
Keith Crowley
Tim Ryan
Russel Graves
Brett James Smith
Bryan Gregson
Lori Thomas
Brian Grossenbacher COVER
“Barring love I’ll take my life in large doses alone—rivers, forests, fish, grouse, mountains. Dogs.” —Jim Harrison, Wolf: A False Memoir Trigger Dawes riding shotgun on the Henry’s Fork with Jim Hickey and Mike Dawes on the oars. Photo Brian Grossenbacher
Strung Magazine is a quarterly outdoor lifestyle publication focused on fly fishing, upland hunting, big game, waterfowl, wild foods, and conservation.
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Photo: Scott Morrison 8
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letter from the EDITOR This is an exciting time for Strung. In the fall of 2020, we announced a fleet of new department editors who have since brought a depth of outdoor knowledge and powerful storytelling to our magazine. It has been a pleasure to get to know them better over the last several issues. Jenny Nguyen-Wheatley’s approach to wild food is both lyrical and grounded—a hard line to walk, but something she does issue after issue. Take, for example, her recipes for Grilled Wild Boar Bánh Mì and Plum Brandy in this issue. Every time she sends me her work, I quickly compile the ingredients, cook the thing, take a bite, and wonder how she does it.
a deadline approaching, he makes me lose sleep at night. I might get a text saying, “I’m camping in the desert researching the mating behavior of Gambrel’s quail and won’t have cell service or internet access for a month,” or “Can’t talk right now. I’m on the Trans-Siberian Railway somewhere north of Mongolia, and the Russian soldiers on the train are questioning the taxidermied boar’s head I have with me.” Then at the last possible minute he turns in writing that is incredibly well researched, beautifully written, and thought provoking. How he does it remains a mystery.
By contrast, our Upland Editor, Tom Keer, is a scoundrel. Don’t get me wrong: I mean that in the best possible way. Somewhere along the line he figured out that turning a journalistic eye to the outdoors results in writing that is humble, insightful, and refreshing. If he could shoot as well as he writes, the grouse and woodcock near his home would be in serious trouble. Our Conservation Editor, Reed Knappe, is aloof. I never hear from him, and he doesn’t answer the phone. When we have
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From there, McKean worked for Montana Fish, Wildlife & Parks before becoming the Hunting Editor for Outdoor Life. McKean served as Hunting Editor for four years and as Outdoor Life’s Editor-in-Chief for another four years before beginning a career as a freelance writer and editor. He has been a finalist for an American Magazine Award (ELLE), won a few state conservationist awards, and is a hunter education instructor as well as a high school track coach. I look forward to getting to know McKean better, but I can already tell you one thing: The guy is a hunter. He’s hunted five continents, taken all but a handful of North American big game species, and is perfectly at home in Eastern Montana, where other, more citified folks might lose their minds. “I came for a job and stayed put for the last 20 years because the hunting and fishing are so good,” he explained. Although he has hunted Spanish ibex with a crossbow and paddled through British Columbia in search of moose, his first contribution to Strung is about hunting in his backyard. In it he explores the deep sense of place that hunters develop after years of burning boot leather and surveying their hunting grounds.
It seems whenever I speak to Strung’s Waterfowl Editor, Don Thomas, he is either heading out or coming back from a hunting and fishing trip. To say Thomas is well versed in the outdoors is the understatement of the century. He lives a life we mere mortals dream of: hunting with a bow; fly fishing for everything that swims; loading dogs, decoys, and shotguns; or following his pointing dogs around. He’s also the only person I know who has caught a halibut on the fly. It doesn’t hurt that the guy is also a damn fine writer. Speaking of writers, I am continually amazed by Dave Zoby’s ability to produce the most meaningful and nuanced writing in the outdoor space. In an industry fueled by ego, his work is both brutally honest and hauntingly beautiful. We are immensely fortunate to have him as our Fly Fishing Editor.
a week—and then spend the other week roaming his beat with a fly rod and an eager dog.
When we announced these new positions, many readers noticed a gap. Where, they asked, is the Big Game Editor? Are you still including big game content? It was a big hole to fill, and we were waiting for the right person to fill it. I’m happy to say it was worth the wait. Andrew McKean has been writing about the outdoors for more than 30 years, and I’m excited to introduce him as Strung’s Big Game Editor. McKean grew up on a Missouri farm but followed the pull of the West to Eastern Montana, where he began working for weekly newspapers for his first “real jobs” before joining the staff of the defunct Fishing & Hunting News. He found he could compile content for the biweekly in the span of
When I asked McKean what else I might add to this introduction, his response was fitting: “I don’t know what else to add. That sounds like a decent obituary to me.” I am humbled to work with such authentic and talented people. Keep casting,
Ryan Sparks Editor-in-Chief
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JERRY AUDET
Jerry Audet is a writer, photographer, lifelong fisherman, and general adventurer. He writes on a variety of Northeast angling topics, across multiple disciplines. Specifically, the philosophy and psychology of fishing. He has fallen in love with photography, and strives to capture exceptional images to accompany his written pieces. While Jerry is most well-known for his dedication to shore-based striped bass angling, affectionately known as “surf fishing,” Jerry is also a passionate backcountry bass and trout fisherman and an accomplished trail runner and mountain biker. He also holds academic degrees in Biology (B.S.) and Physiology (PhD). Jerry is enthusiastic, intensely driven, and highly curious. He brings these traits to all his professional and personal pursuits. He currently resides in south-central Massachusetts with his wife and two schnauzers. You can find more about Jerry at www.indeepoutdoors.com
JAY BEYER
Jay Beyer never planned on being a photographer. He didn’t go to a fancy photo school and he didn’t study under an artistic mentor. He picked up a camera one day and started taking it on trips. It didn’t take long, and his photo business was keeping him so busy he had to quit pounding nails and just shoot photos. Now, he travels the world capturing stunning imagery of skiers, snowboarders, hunters, bikers, climbers, runners, and fly anglers doing what they love. When he’s home he spends as much time as he can with his amazingly understanding wife and overly energetic son who are the fuel behind his motivation.
KEITH CROWLEY
Keith Crowley is an award-winning writer and photographer and the author of three full-length books on the outdoors: Gordon MacQuarrie: The Story of an Old Duck Hunter, Wildlife in the Badlands, and Pheasant Dogs. His wildlife photography appears in many national and international publications, including National Geographic Explorer, The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, Paris Match Magazine, and The Times of London. When he is not traveling in search of new stories and images, you can find him at his home on a lake in northwest Wisconsin with his wife, Annette, and a collection of old dogs and old boats. You can see more of his written and photographic work at CrowleyImages.com.
RUSSEL GRAVES
If you’ve read any Texas-based magazines over the past 25 years, chances are you’ve seen some of Russell’s work. Since 1989, he’s been traveling the state telling authentic Texas stories with his camera and his words. A graduate of Dodd City High School and East Texas State University, Russell was an ag science teacher in Childress, Texas, for 16 years where he was named Texas Agriscience Teacher of the Year on three occasions. After leaving in 2009, he continued to photograph, write, and speak. In 2010, he began delving into television production. His first documentary film, Bois d’Arc Goodbye, was filmed entirely in Fannin County and chronicled his and his brother’s traversing the creek by canoe before a lake forever changed the landscape. The film aired to a prime-time, national audience. Recently, Russell’s focus has pivoted to leading educational photo tours. In addition, he’s writing two books scheduled for release in 2021. Russell lives on a small farm north of Dodd City, Texas, with his wife ,Kristy, and their two children, Bailee and Ryan. While he spends a considerable amount of time creating content for clients, he still finds passion in working and developing the land.
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Brian Grossenbacher has shot commercial campaigns for Yeti, Orvis, Simms, Costa, Shimano, Mossy Oak, and Case Knives. His work has taken him off the beaten path through Central and South America, Russia, New Zealand, Mongolia, Myanmar, the Bahamas, and many locations in between. He is a regular contributor to Field and Stream, Outdoor Life, Grays Sporting Journal, Covey Rise, Shooting Sportsman, Gun Dog, The Drake, and many more outdoor publications. He has provided all of the photography for The Orvis Guide to Upland Hunting, Training Bird Dogs with Ronnie Smith Kennels, and is currently collaborating with Tom Rosenbauer to create The Orvis Book of Trout.
BRYAN GREGSON
Bryan Gregson is an accomplished independent photographer and cinematographer specializing in creative visuals. Based in Bozeman, Montana, he travels the globe working on assignments and commissions in some of the most remote corners of the planet. Known for his unique vision and storytelling abilities, Bryan is the humbled recipient of numerous awards and today is a leading source of outdoor imagery. Bryan’s work has been featured internationally in publications and ad campaigns for Patagonia, Volvo Cars, National Geographic, Yellow Dog Flyfishing, Orvis, Yeti, Sage, Trout Unlimited, American Angler, The FlyFish Journal, The Drake, and the Big Sky Journal, among others.
KEVIN KENNEDY
Kevin Kennedy loves to hunt and fish throughout the West, yet still enjoys the opportunities available within a day’s drive from his lifelong home in the Puget Sound region of Washington that he shares with his wife, Laurie, and their Cesky Fousek, Colton. Kevin’s enthusiasm for new adventures has hindered his progression toward being an expert in any outdoor discipline. But, as an adequate game cook, a so-so fly caster, a reasonable bird dog trainer, an okay shot with a recurve, rifle, or shotgun, and a passable hand in the stern of a canoe, he continues to have plenty of opportunities to find new and fun ways to aspire to be “not bad” at the next thing.
BRETT JAMES SMITH
For the last 30 years Brett Smith has been known for his authentic depictions of sportsmen in the outdoors. They are authentic because he’s lived the experience. His paintings have a classic style that harken back to simpler times when people hunted and fished for sustenance as much as the pleasure of being out in the woods. Brett’s oils and watercolors are collected by those who recognize their own experience through his work. As Brett explains his success: “I have been fortunate to have found a place in the market that allows me to develop my skills and gives me a reason and a subject to paint every day.” See more of Brett’s work at brettsmith.com
CONTRIBUTORS
BRIAN GROSSENBACHER
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Rebuilding a Legend By Keith R. Crowley If you press him hard enough, Damian
He has a special affinity for Lucius and his
Wilmot might tell you he’s a pretty fair
handmade guide boats. Wilmot believes
fishing guide on a pretty fair trout stream in
the Lucius boat he rescued is circa 1900,
northwest Wisconsin. He’ll likely also tell you
maybe even as early as 1895, and handbuilt
he’s an itinerant trout bum and bird hunter.
by Lucius on the banks of the great river.
He may even mention some of the incredible
Resuscitating the craft and making it Brule-
fur-trade era artifacts he has pulled from
worthy didn’t happen easily.
the Bois Brule, a river that was crucial to French voyageurs three centuries ago. But
It was part luck that brought this boat to
he will surely tell you about his meticulously
Wilmot—and it was part destiny. He had
restored Joe Lucius Guide Canoe.
helped restore another Lucius boat with local boat builder Stub Swenson a few
Wilmot is immensely proud of that boat,
years back and loved the way it handled
and he should be. He spent two years
the swift Brule waters. “There is nothing
resurrecting the 100-plus-year-old Lucius
like fishing out of a wooden boat,” Wilmot
boat from certain doom, and now it’s a thing
exclaims. He enjoyed it so much that he
of aesthetic and functional beauty. Most
was on the lookout for more of the wooden
important, it’s back ghosting over the Brule,
canoes. When he learned about this one,
serving as Wilmot’s guide boat. Calling the
he immediately went to check it out.
20-foot canoe lovely is an understatement
Lucius was a prolific builder, even if not
akin to calling Wilmot a decent fishing
many survive. “Those boats got used hard,”
guide.
explains Wilmot, “but this one was really in a bad way. It was literally on its way to the
With a snow-white beard and an even whiter
dump at one point.
shock of tousled hair, the cigar-chomping,
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50-something Wilmot looks the part of
“Once I got it home and looked at it closely,
an Old Brule guide. He speaks with quiet
I thought there was no way it could be done
reverence about the river, the fish, and
right. I was going to turn it into a planter
especially the rivermen who came before
in my yard,” says Wilmot. “Seriously. I was
him: men like Joe Lucius, Johnny LaRock,
going to fill it with dirt and put flowers in it.
George Babb, and Johnny Degerman.
But Stub reminded me that anything can be
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fixed, and Lloyd convinced me we should try
materials later, Wilmot guides out of it daily
made it a natural and efficient corridor for
to bring her back.
and sometimes runs the river just to run the
commerce—primarily furs in those days—
river. “There’s no point leaving it sitting on
from the center of the continent to the
“I can’t begin to describe the condition it
the trailer,” Wilmot explains. “It was built
Atlantic and Gulf coasts.
was in when I got it,” says Wilmot. “It had
for this river, and it’s tough enough to take
been stored in a boat shed where the roof
whatever the Brule gives it.” The Brule has
Joe Lucius came to the Brule region in the
had collapsed. The hull had caved in, and
been “giving it” to boats for a long, long
early 1880s. He was a settler, a builder,
there were massive breaks on both ends
time. More than one modern canoe made of
and a fishing guide on the Brule and St.
of the boat.” All the ribs, the planks, the
aluminum, fiberglass, or even Kevlar has had
Croix rivers. Lucius Lake and Little Joe
decks—everything needed replacement
its spine broken on infamous Brule boulders.
Rapids on the Brule River are named for
or major repairs. According to Wilmot, “It The 44-mile-long Brule draws people from
from the Brule in his adopted hometown
new one from scratch. No one in their right
around the world and has for centuries.
of Solon Springs. He was a handy guy to
mind would have looked at that boat and
The first European to travel the Brule was
have around, having learned much about
said, ‘let’s fix it.’”
Daniel Greysolon, Sieur du Lhut, in 1680.
building things that float at the shipyards
Duluth, Minnesota, was named for this
in Superior, Wisconsin.
But that’s exactly what he did.
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him, as is Lucius Woods a few miles away
would’ve been so much easier just to build a
French soldier and explorer. Sieur du Lhut discovered that the headwaters of the Brule,
About the time Lucius arrived, lumber
Wilmot removed the shattered hull from
flowing north to Lake Superior, came within
barons discovered the vast tracts of old
a riverside shed and carted it to his friend
a mile of the headwaters of the St. Croix
growth white and red pine. Iron ore was
Lloyd Hautajarvi’s workshop in Duluth,
River, flowing south to the Mississippi River
also discovered nearby in both northern
Minnesota, 40 miles away. Two years, 700
and the Gulf of Mexico beyond. This short
Michigan and northern Minnesota. Railroads
man-hours, and several thousand dollars in
portage from one watershed to another
crisscrossed the region, and commerce was
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Seriously. I was going to fill it with dirt and put flowers in it. king. Somehow, however, the Brule River
fishing holes are found throughout the
Everyone used Lucius-built boats back then.
Valley was left unscathed. Perhaps because
central section of the river. Just mention
Wilmot estimates that about 90 percent of
of the region’s unique beauty, early settlers
May’s Rips, Rainbow Bend, Lucius Lake,
the boats on the river during the end of the
and anglers fought to hold back the forces
Wildcat Rapids, or McDougall Springs to
19th and first half of the 20th centuries were
of industry, and they succeeded: The Brule
the Brule faithful, and their heart rates will
built by Lucius. LaRock apprenticed under
Valley looks much as it did in its primordial
climb and their casting arms will start to
Lucius and eventually began building a few
beginnings as the last ice age glaciers
twitch involuntarily.
of his own guide boats, too. But if you saw
retreated north.
an angler in the front of a canoe, sitting in a As it has been for more than a century,
high-back chair, with a stoic guide standing
What the ice left behind was the perfect
the middle section of the Brule is home to
in the rear directing the proceedings like a
recipe for trout: Clear artesian springs feed
numerous old estates owned by wealthy
Venetian gondolier, chances are they were in
the Brule headwaters with cold, pristine
families from Duluth, St. Paul, Chicago, and
a Lucius boat.
water. The sinewy upper river winds through
beyond. For most of its modern history
wide bogs, alder-studded marshes, and
the Brule has been a summer getaway for
To build these immense summer lodges
upland swales until it narrows and begins a
families with names like Rand, Ordway,
required a certain level of ingenuity by
35-mile-long descent toward Lake Superior.
Congdon, and Weyerhaeuser. Originally they
the local tradesmen. Joe Lucius was one
Mucky bottoms and shallow gravel runs
came for the clearwater springs, the cool
of the most sought-after builders, and he
lead into broad, still pools. The river darts
summer days, and the brisk nights, but
determined that the most practical way
between boulders and skips over ledges
when they discovered the trout fishing, the
to move the required lumber up and down
until it begins a steeper, faster run for its
legend of the Bois Brule was born. As word
the river was using big, wide canoes. Since
last dozen miles, where it dives through clay
spread among the wealthy elite, big rustic
no one in the region was building such a
cliffs and slick passages to Lake Superior.
lodges and compounds were constructed
craft in the late 1800s, he did it himself,
In its upper reaches it is ideal trout-rearing
along the banks of the river. And they
perfecting a design stout enough to handle
water, and where there are trout there are
hosted some famous visitors.
the rocks and ledges of the river but nimble
trout anglers.
Five U.S. Presidents have fished the Brule:
enough to maneuver through tight chutes
Ulysses S. Grant was first, coming to the
and shallow riffles. For more than 20 years
In years past, the Winneboujou Train Station
river in 1870. Grover Cleveland was next in
of building riverside lodges, Lucius boats
platform, situated close to the midpoint
1880. Calvin Coolidge, Herbert Hoover, and
carried tons of construction materials
of the river, was the busiest station on
Dwight Eisenhower all fished the “River
through the treacherous Brule rapids and
the river. Set on the rail line built by the
of Burnt Wood.” Today, celebrities and
across countless shallow rock bars. When
Duluth, South Shore and Atlantic Railway,
VIPs still fly into a private runway just up
the work was done, Lucius converted the big
the Winneboujou Station saw thousands
the hill from Stone’s Bridge and another
canoes into guide boats, complete with thru-
of anglers and countless trout cross its
downstream at Cedar Island.
hull fitted livewells.
platform from the late 1800s through
Most of them come for brief fishing
the mid-1900s. The Winneboujou Station,
sojourns, but when President Calvin Coolidge
The lodge owners saw the newly minted
named for a mystical Anishinaabe (Ojibwe)
came in June 1928, he stayed for three
Lucius fishing boats and turned Joe loose to
prophet, is long gone, and now a steel and
months, making the Pierce Estate on the
build a fleet of them. By the turn of the 20th
concrete bridge crosses the river there. But
Brule’s Cedar Island his “Summer White
century, the big Brule lodges had dozens of
the landing itself is still a popular put-in and
House.” Legendary Native American Brule
Lucius custom canoes in their boathouses.
take-out point on the river.
riverman Johnny LaRock guided him that
Just upstream from Winneboujou lies the most storied part of the river. Famous
summer, and Coolidge fished with LaRock
That’s when Lucius transitioned from
out of a Lucius canoe named “Beaver Dick.”
local guide and contractor to full-time professional boat builder. He set up his shop
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in Solon Springs and streamlined his boat-
extravagances. For one thing he used
building process. Many of those shop-built
mahogany for most of the secondary woods.
canoes survive in various states of repair—
“Lucius used what he had, which means
or, more commonly, disrepair—throughout
a lot of painted white pine for seats and
the region. The few Lucius boats still in
decks,” explains Wilmot. “But if he could
existence sit idle in long-term storage. “You
have gotten his hands on mahogany, he
still see them in boathouses up and down
would’ve used it.” The planks and ribs and
the river,” Wilmot laments, “but they never
keel are the same materials as the original:
get used anymore.”
white cedar, white oak, and white pine, respectively. The results are exquisite.
The earliest Lucius boats, like the one Wilmot restored, were built by hand on the
Like Lucius before him, Wilmot wasn’t a
banks of the
boat builder in the
Brule. “You can
beginning—but
tell those early
he is surely the
boats,” Wilmot,
world’s foremost
a machinist by
expert on Lucius
trade, explains,
boat construction
“because the
now. Born in
rib spacing
Ohio, Wilmot’s
varies just
family brought
slightly. The
him to northwest
later boats are
Wisconsin as a
all precisely
boy; he’s been
measured
on the river ever
and dead on.” Wilmot still marvels at
since. “My dad was a fly fisherman,” says
the workmanship in the original Lucius
Wilmot, “and he brought me here early.”
canoe. “The stem and stern were the real masterpieces. They were the only pieces
Wilmot is inescapably connected to the
we didn’t really have to fix,” Wilmot says.
history of the river, and tradition is a crucial
“Lucius used tamarack knees. Incredibly
part of the Brule experience for Wilmot and
strong stuff, and you don’t have to bend it
the people he guides. Silk may no longer
into shape.” The knee is the natural flare
be the fly line of choice, but split bamboo
where the trunk transitions into the roots,
rods and vintage Hardy reels combined with
and as Wilmot explains, “It was a favorite of
traditional Brule fly patterns like the Rat-
wooden boat builders for a reason.”
faced McDougall are always ready for use in Wilmot’s boat.
Wilmot did take a few liberties when he rebuilt this boat. You might call them
That interest in history was mirrored by
Brule River fishing guide Damian Wilmot nets a brown trout on the Brule with angler Matson Holbrook in a 1895 Joe Lucius guide canoe Wilmot meticulously restored over the course of two years. STRUNG MAGAZINE
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President Calvin Coolidge (below) fishes the Brule River in Douglas County, Wisconsin, with Native American guide John LaRock in 1928. The canoe, built by local boat builder Joe Lucius, is named "Beaver Dick” and in the middle is Coolidge’s white collie, Rob Roy.
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Wilmot’s friend and frequent companion
Holbrook, who prefers bamboo to graphite,
in the front chair of the boat, Matson
rolls onto an 18-inch brown, just as the sun
Holbrook. Holbrook has been coming here
dips behind the towering pines and Wilmot
with his family since 1945. Pilgrimages to
reaches out with a handmade net. A few
the river still intoxicate Holbrook, especially
quick photos and lasting smiles see the
the scent of a sultry summer evening:
trout disappear back from whence it came.
“It takes me right back to my childhood,” he says, as he eases a dry fly onto the
Wilmot’s infatuation with the Brule
flickering surface of the river. In the back
convinced him to buy a small cabin just
of the boat, Wilmot silently maneuvers
a shout from Stone’s Landing, a famous
the craft through the misty water with
put-in. From his front stoop he can throw
deft touches of the pole. It is an ethereal
a shotgun under his arm and follow his
experience to witness, and it’s easy to
German shorthairs, Woof and Casper,
believe that this scene has replayed a
into the grouse and woodcock coverts in
million times on this bend in the Brule.
autumn. Or he can wander down the trail to Stone’s Bridge, often just to watch the
There are no false moves from Wilmot.
clear waters pass by.
His skill at placing the boat in exactly the right place has been honed by decades
For generations, Stone’s Landing has
of experience and near daily excursions
been a favorite put-in for Brule anglers,
on his beloved river in the restored boat.
including famed outdoor writer Gordon
MacQuarrie, who grew up in Brule Country
creels. Although MacQuarrie was already
Today Wilmot takes anglers out in the
and was the outdoor editor for the
espousing the virtues of “putting them back
historic Lucius canoe as often as he can.
Milwaukee Journal from 1936 to 1956.
alive” in the mid-1950s, “catch and release”
“Sometimes they get it,” he says, “and
He knew all the Brule regulars, including
didn’t truly catch on for Brule anglers until
sometimes it’s just another wooden boat
Lucius, whom he called “one of the finest
late in the 20th century; by then, few big
to them.” Not surprisingly Wilmot has an
old gentlemen in the north.”
native trout remained.
affinity for those people who “get it.” And he is especially pleased when a brookie
MacQuarrie did much to popularize the Brule
For decades, a brook trout over 9 inches was
grabs a fly with the species’ famously
in the first half of the 20th century through
a noteworthy event, but through years of
reckless attitude.
his stories of the Old Duck Hunters (and
careful management of the river the fish
Fly Casters) Association in Field & Stream,
are back. Now, Wilmot regularly releases fish
Brook trout are what brought anglers to
Outdoor Life, and other magazines of the
twice that long. Browns over 20 inches are
the Brule in the first place, and those early
day. Beginning in 1931, MacQuarrie wrote
common, and they get much, much bigger,
sportsmen and women used Joe Lucius
about the immense brook trout found on
too. Bragging-class rainbows live there as
boats. Wilmot uses them now. I believe “full
the Brule in the early days, even letting on
well. “Kitchen Sink Fish” is what MacQuarrie
circle” is the proper phrase.
that there might still be 22-inch native trout
called them.
lurking in certain holes. But MacQuarrie was not the first, or only one, to do so. In 1846,
Salmon and steelhead make spawning runs
a passing land surveyor wrote, “It surpasses
each autumn from the big lake, too. Yet for
all other streams in its brook trout, some of
Wilmot there’s particular satisfaction in
them weighing 10 pounds.”
sliding the net under a nice Brule brookie, lifting it over the gunwales of the Lucius
Because of those brookies, the Brule was
canoe to admire it for a moment, and then
fished hard—exploited, some might say, as
returning the speckled gift to the river.
You can contact Wilmot through his website, Fly by Night Guide Service at fbnguideservice.com
countless trout went home in fishermen’s
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SHADOWS, SPOKES, SURF, AND STRIPERS By Jerry Audet
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Riding a bike at night is a visceral experience. It necessitates a level of concentration not required when riding during the day, particularly off-road. Normally mundane terrain becomes technical and punishing, and the feeling of speed, even at a modest pace, intensifies in the finite beam of a headlight. Yet I go without a light on most nights because it gives away my fishing spots. Without a light I have no thoughts of “next,” only of “now” because the terrain becomes visible only a fraction of a second before it’s already behind me. Make a wrong move in this rocky terrain and the consequences are high and usually painful. It pulls all your focus to the present. It would certainly be faster (and safer) to ride with a light, but being seen would defeat the purpose of the bike in the first place: to be alone, in the dark, fly fishing for striped bass. I use my bike in the relentless pursuit of stripers along the coast of New England. Catching stripers with a fly rod from shore is as much about combating the elements in which they live as it is actually hooking and catching them. Stripers love nasty weather and rocky, boulder-filled shorelines, which in combination makes reaching, hooking, and landing fish a tightrope walk of skill and luck. And yet despite all there is to appreciate about striped bass, the thing I love most
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about shore fishing for them is the necessity
week. The collateral damage isn’t fun, but
of fishing at night. Small stripers can be
you have to accept it.
caught almost around the clock, but large
Striper fishing, especially from shore, is a secretive affair. The ocean may be the
fish—those over 15 pounds and topping out
A huge contingent of anglers comprise the
last great wilderness, but the New England
around 60—are easier to fool in the dark.
“dawn patrol”: Those who head to the surf
coast is highly developed, clogged and
They use the dark as camouflage to ambush
as the sun is rising, retreating shortly after
choked by mega-mansions and privately
their prey and are nocturnal masters of the
full light. By contrast, I love the night and
owned shoreline. It can be hard to access
New England inshore waters.
everything that comes with it. At night,
stretches of fishy shoreline, and as a result
our primary sense—sight—is stripped
competition for the remaining space, and
Catching stripers involves sleep deprivation,
down to a small fraction of what it is in
the fish that occupy it, can be fierce. The
endless blind casting, and long hours spent
daylight. Without sight, the experience of
first rule of surf fishing is, Don’t talk about
alone in the night. Compared with sight
fishing becomes more enveloping; all our
where you surf fish. If I find a productive
fishing for bonefish or technical spring
senses must work together to make up
slice of shore, I guard it like a precious jewel.
creek trout, nighttime fishing for stripers
the difference. Fishing at night is textured
Only my closest friend knows where I fish,
is barbaric. It’s all about maximum casting
and rich and has an edge of fear to it. I still
and even he gets a handful of lies every
distance, huge fly profiles, and mental and
get nervous in the dark surf, even after
season.
physical fortitude. To many anglers, fishing
thousands of hours doing it. Particularly
at night is lonely and uncomfortable. It
on inky new-moon nights, dense with fog, I
Despite substantial development and
can be frustrating, with countless tangles,
fight the sensation of being watched. And
angling competition, pockets of solitude
snarls, and broken bits of gear. I once broke
I’ve had things bump into me in the water.
persist along the Southern New England
six rods in a single season. Three in the same
Big things. Finned things.
coast. They are the last semblances of
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what the shore was like before humans
uncomfortable ride. On virtually any climb,
identity. Standing alone on the edge of a vast
encroached–diamonds in the rough. Some
the weight of the tires is an anchor dragging
abyss, in the dead of night, blindly hucking
are open sandy beaches, with rolling
you down. Fat bikes might look cool, but
12-inch flies into the dark, churning surf is an
dunes and pounding surf. Others are
many who buy them discover too late that
experience with no equal.
rocky coastlines, studded with barnacle-
they aren’t made for normal riding.
encrusted boulders and threaded with
I am not a fisherman who loves the feeling
strong tidal currents. Still others are quiet
However, my riding is hardly “normal,” and
of “fighting” and reeling in fish. It may be
shallow bays, placid and serene. Like an
my fat bike is a surf-fishing machine, a tool
thrilling, but it’s not the reason I spend
addict, I hunt these places; they are some
of singular purpose, with a custom-built rack
hundreds of hours a year wandering the
of my favorite places on Earth, not just
to hold my gear and rods. I could never use
coast in the middle of the night. For me
to fish, but simply to be. What most of
a normal bike to ride the terrain I take my
fishing is a collection of adventures and
these places have in common–the reason
fat bike on. It handles sand with relative
experiences; undertaking a series of mental
they remain relatively untapped–is that
ease. On harder, low-tide intertidal zones, it
and physical challenges; and relentlessly
the majority of anglers are unwilling to
flies. The upper limit of what I can roll over
competing with an adversary I will never
walk the distances required to fish them.
is staggering: My bike can tolerate even
control, conquer, or understand. It is the
Adding eight miles of walking to four
bowling-ball-sized rocks for short sections,
justification I use to immerse myself in the
hours of steady blind casting feels more
if the fishing spot requires it. Consequently,
wild and forge a relationship with the natural
like an ultra-marathon than a typical
the fat bike excels in the dark, where I can’t
world. All of this to simply say, it is so much
night of fishing.
always see what I’m pedaling over. Just keep
more than a tug at the end of my line.
the momentum going, and those bulbous I bought a fat tire bike (a “fat bike”) about
tires will keep you upright. The bike is a
Fishing for stripers under the glowing
seven years ago in an attempt to break down
plow, my body the ox, and with my mind I
cascade of the Milky Way is spiritual. Under
access barriers, seek more solitude, and
happily crack the whip.
that curtain of stars, any given night may
hopefully catch more fish. What I found is
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evolve into a meditation on life. Then–in
that a fat bike is a cumbersome, superfluous,
Following stripers into the depths of the night
almost perfect juxtaposition–finding,
inefficient behemoth of a bike. With gigantic
on my bike is an intoxicating experience. I have
casting to, and battling striped bass is
5-inch off-road tires, it doesn’t excel under
become devoted to what feels like a sanctified
a heart-pounding, raw, and exhilarating
normal trail conditions. On smooth, packed
purpose. Fishing is something we do and
contest of physical power and mental
trails it feels sluggish and numb. If the
not something we are, but I do believe that
endurance. And when it is finally time to go
trails become rough, the lack of suspension
certain passions match certain personalities
home, I get to bump through forests, over
on most fat bikes induces a bouncy,
so perfectly that they become part of our
dunes, and along unseen paths on my bike.
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white wing A Photo Essay by Russell A. Graves
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The South Texas sun was still searing as it sank over the small town of Hondo. For most of the day, temperatures had hovered in the upper 90s—not unusual for the first of September in Texas. Still, the brutal heat did little to deter the hordes of hunters who look forward to this day all year. Around here, the opening day of dove season is a holiday of sorts. After a long, hot summer, hunters are finally able to dust off their shotguns and put an end to the off-season. As the sun rises, shots ring out as swarms of white-winged doves zip past hunters concealed behind hay bales and under the cover of elm and mesquite trees. There’s no way to know for sure, but the best guess is that most hunters shoot ten times for every dove they hit. Translated, that’s nearly eight boxes of shells for a limit of doves. That’s okay, though; days like this are about more than shooting. A South Texas dove hunt is a grand social scene. For most, fun, laughter, and friendship are more important than a bag limit, and the opening day of dove season is a venerable tradition that spans generations.
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On the evening of August 31, you’ll find
Dove hunting is popular all over the state,
throngs of white wings spill from their
local restaurants and watering holes
but it would be fair to say that Hondo has
roosts and head to agricultural fields to
filled with eager hunters from all over the
a storied reputation for sheer numbers
feed. Along their route, hunters wait with
state and many parts of the nation. The
of birds. One particular ranch, Paloma
plenty of shells, ready to be humbled by
excitement is palpable as anticipation
Pachanga, is legendary for dove hunting.
these winged rockets. It’s some of the best
builds for sunrise the next morning.
Until you’ve seen thousands of birds in the
wingshooting to be found in North America.
September 1 is Game Day in Texas.
air at once, you’ve never experienced a true Texas dove hunt. Just before the sun rises,
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Of the two species of dove in the state,
gather in huge flocks: A single migratory
the shoot was over just half an hour after
mourning doves are more geographically
group may include as many as 4,000 birds.
sunrise. Those in my small party had their
distributed, fly in smaller groups, and are
It just so happens that Hondo is where
limits and spent the rest of the morning
an extremely popular game bird in their
hundreds of thousands of white wings
catching up on old times. It’s social
own right, but you come to Texas for white
amass before migrating.
networking the way social networking was
wings. More of a tropical bird of the Rio
meant to be: people talking face to face,
Grande Valley and the desert climes of
In Texas, legal shooting light begins 30
plenty of good food, and a few drinks to
the Southwest, white-winged doves are a
minutes before sunrise. Because of the
wash it down. Long live the dove hunt.
favorite among wingshooters because they
number of birds in the air that morning,
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Reservoir Dogs By Dave Zoby
My whole life I dreamed of finding myself in a position where I could fish every day. My philosophy leaned toward Tom Sawyer, with a bit of Holden Caulfield thrown in for good measure. And then, in the early spring of 2020, my dream came true. Or at least, it felt like that initially. My classes at the local community college were forced online. In the gray light of the early morning, I checked in with my students, graded essays, and posted instructions. Then I had the whole day to explore Wyoming with my dogs. Henderson is four years old and can best be described as burly. Rocket, now 16, is so old and decrepit that by the time you read
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this he will most likely be gone, hustled off
With loads of time suddenly on my hands,
moments when you are standing in the
to wherever it is that sweet, white-faced
I became a regular at the Gray Reef Dam,
river and you think you hear someone call
black Labs go. An outdoor brewery far in
the place where I began to learn about
your name. It wasn’t so bad to go back and
the distance? A wooden dock frequented by
trout in the first place. For a week or so
retrace my steps. Perhaps all of the travel
swimmers and their colorful towels? Rocket
I scuffed the linoleum floors at the Reef
writing I had been chasing lately came with
can’t hear, and he can’t see the prickly pear
Fly Shop to talk trout, to buy a handful of
a hidden cost. And now I was free of it.
that grows all over Natrona County, so I
seasonal flies, and to sample the occasional
often have to stop and pull the spines from
six-pack; they had installed a refrigerator
After all, my editor recently suggested some
the webbing between his toes.
case and were offering interesting IPAs.
of us refocus our literary interests on our
I bought a few flies. Then I reacquainted
home waters. But after a week or so, the
Rich Chiappone, a writer friend from
myself with the stretch of the North Platte
big hen rainbows moved into the shallow
Alaska, warned me about writing about
from Government Bridge to Grey Cliffs. I
water and began to build their redds. The
the pandemic. “Everyone with two fingers
fished the usual tailouts and eddies, the big
scene at the dam became lousy with pup
is going to be writing about this stuff,” he
water below the sandbars, and the islands
tents and guys who stood in the same
said. I took his advice.
populated by pairs of courting geese. It
run for half a day making the same drift.
felt like déjà vu, or one of those strange
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Worse, though, were the self-contained travel trailers and their raucous generators. Men stalked the runs I used to view as my own. I wondered how this was affecting the spawning fish. Try as I might, I couldn’t avoid catching these large, colored-up trout even when I moved away from the obvious spawning grounds and fished the deepest runs. Same for the lovely stretch of water that runs through the tiny hamlet of Alcova, Wyoming, a town that is no more than a general store and inn, which rents rooms to visiting anglers. Alcova consists of an elementary school, a fenced-off area near the hydroelectric dam, an odd collection of abandoned travel trailers, and some twotracks where you can access the river. Mule deer often lie down in the city streets to doze. Laid-off and furloughed trout aficionados drifted up from Colorado those first few weeks of April. They camped in the parking areas. I didn’t blame them. I smelled pepper
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bacon frying in a Jayco trailer that had
his career as a geologist for the petroleum
seen better days. The cook emerged, a bit
companies. On one side of the road, he said,
disheveled, and headed to the river to where
the rock formations were millions of years
he had been hammering the same fish for
old, and on the other side, billions. I was
days as if trout fishing had become his new
never able to commit the specific details to
career; he was good at it. I waved and he
memory, but let’s just say Herb impressed
waved back, but the pandemic made it so
me mightily with the chaos and beauty of
we couldn’t actually meet and exchange
what most of us simply call rocks.
fishing stories or swap flies. If I had been closer, I might have pointed out the breeding
This is Cheyenne, Arapaho, and Shoshone
pair of ospreys that had made some recent
Country. It doesn’t exactly scream fly
upgrades to a nest of sun-bleached sticks.
fishing. If I wanted some anthropological
Because I had nowhere to be, I loitered
adventures, it would not be out of the
under the great nest. I noticed the spines
question to hike through these draws to
of trout picked clean and gleaming in the
discover ancient fire pits where hunters
sagebrush directly below.
squatted and worked their chunks of obsidian into deadly broadheads and bird
I moved on. There was a Tom Waits CD
points. First you find the soot of a 300-year-
playing on my stereo, the very same CD that
old campfire, then you sift through the
got me from Tok, Alaska, to the Canadian
chips.
border a year ago in better times. Why change it? I drove through the granite
The hardscrabble country just outside of
landscape that looks like shapes of animals,
Alcova seems unlabeled, undefined. This
or gnomes, or whatever you want. One
whole watershed was once explored by none
series of boulders reminded me of a column
other than John C. Fremont—The Pathfinder,
of elephants walking in a straight line. Scrub
as he was known. Fremont, and his guide Kit
oak and cedar trees festooned creases in
Carson, came through in 1842. Their goal
the rock faces. Banks of this winter’s snow
was to survey the Oregon Trail. His group
held on in patches of shade—held on despite
also collected data and wrote descriptions
the recent string of nice days in the 70s.
of the flora and fauna they observed. In
The thought crossed my mind that a guy
those times, the North Platte and the
could thrust a couple of beers into that
Sweetwater rivers flowed freely. There
snowbank and return hours later to drink
were no trout. Rather there were sauger,
one of the coldest beers in history. I recall
shovelnose sturgeon, pike minnows, plain
driving through here years ago with the late
pocketbook mussels, brassy minnows, and
Herb Waterman, an octogenarian who spent
other species that have all but disappeared.
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Now the drainage is a coldwater fishery. The
Reservoir with my dogs. The fish cruise the
large fish cruising the nooks and coves of a
wild, trophy-sized trout that lure thousands
shorelines this time of year. You can pick
shoreline on which I had never stepped foot.
of out-of-state anglers each year are only
them off with crawdad patterns and wooly
They were mirror carp coalescing for the
made possible by bottom-release dams built
buggers. You can sight cast to them like
spring spawn. But on closer inspection, I saw
in the early 1900s. These tailwaters have
I’ve seen anglers cast to bonefish in the
other fish gliding along. These were shaped
been made famous, while the reservoirs that
magazines that litter my dusty bedroom.
differently. They were trout.
When I drive through the landscape I like
The walleye guys were going full tilt, even
These lake-dwelling rainbows imitate
to squint and imagine herds of bison, the
on a Wednesday morning. The parking
spawning rituals in the spring. They pair,
unruly North Platte swollen and turbid with
area was full of late-model trucks and
chase each other, and carve out redds
springtime snowmelt, the skies exploding
empty boat trailers. I heard the verve of a
in the gravel with their broad tails. But
with whooping cranes and widgeon.
distant engine. Lately I’ve been trying to
their efforts are in vain. Without moving,
make them possible go largely unnoticed.
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convince myself that skulking off into the
oxygenated water, the eggs won’t hatch. If
There were fly fishermen in all of the
obscure landscape with my two dogs and
you wanted to keep a trout for the frying
conspicuous runs in the Cardwell section, a
a fly rod is a threshold experience equal to
pan, the guys at the fly shop say these lake
fly-fishing-only section known for 20-inch
globetrotting for exotic fish. Pretty early
specimens are the ticket. The making of
fish that seem fools for size-18 midges and
in the experiment, my feigned enjoyment
redds is what scientists call fixed behavior,
nothing else. I saw the sheriff shaking down
became actual enjoyment. One only needs to
predestined by instinct. Sort of like the way I
a couple of guys standing beside an SUV
watch an aged waterdog ply over the stark
feel compelled to climb the granite boulders
with Colorado plates. A cooler was on the
and painful granite slabs that form Natrona
around Pathfinder and Alcova Reservoirs
ground with the lid thrown open. The men,
County to realize that there is something
and peer into the water’s glare. Or, perhaps,
including the sheriff, looked down gravely at
worth pursuing close to home. Rocket
the way my counterparts drift up from
the contents. My plan was always to eschew
wheezed and panted but never left my side
Colorado.
the crowded rivers and crawl into some
when we ventured further into the hoodoo
rarely visited cove on Alcova or Pathfinder
rocks. Then we saw them: Dark shapes of
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For weeks I ground over the stark landscape
nearly every day. I had to time my casts
do at least some damage? I have an ongoing
savor a few more trips into the unknown. I
between floating panes of lake ice. I watched
fund in which I stash 20-dollar bills to pay for
wanted to make it last a little longer.
legions of carp glide underneath the rafts
the eventual day when Henry breaks a fishing
of floating ice. The trout hit everything
buddy’s prized five-weight. I’ve rehearsed the
Henry crashed in to investigate my trout,
from weighted nymphs to hothead leeches.
apology.
and I had cross words for him. Rocket used
But that eventually dried up and the trout
to do the same. He used to run 100 yards in
became tight-lipped. Suddenly, it was
I discerned a shadow just where the lake
front of me, and when he spotted brookies
crawdad patterns only. The carp wouldn’t
water darkened from clear to opaque. I made
or cutthroats in a pool, he’d cannonball into
touch the streamers, but the trout zoomed
a cast that, under most circumstances, would
the stream. He was, quite possibly, the worst
up from the ledges and drop-offs to inhale
be thought of as unredeemable. But the fish
fishing dog ever to trot the national forests.
the flies.
turned and chased the fly. One strip and I
These days he’s content to snooze in the
came tight to a rainbow that didn’t run like a
sage a short distance away, his dream feet
I walked the shoreline, thinking of John
river fish but seemed to stand upright in the
kicking ever so lightly. He lets Henry harass
Fremont, and stopped occasionally to help
water column and wag its head. These lake
my fish.
Rocket find passage through the sage and
fish, truth be told, don’t fight like riverine
buck brush. I pulled the spines of cactus
trout. But I wasn’t looking for parity as much
The rainbow rolled until my leader was
from his swollen feet. Henry, spotting the
as I was looking for someplace to ride out the
thoroughly twisted. Henry leaned in as if
carp, surged forward and crashed into the
pandemic and remind myself why I moved to
he wanted to touch his nose to the trout’s
water, costing me many opportunities. But
Wyoming in the first place. And, also, now that
snout. Having not put up much of a fight,
have you ever met a fishing dog that doesn’t
my waterdog is on his last leg, I wanted to
and seeing the large face of my Lab, the
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fish finally realized its freedom was on the line. It went berserk, snapped my leader, and departed with my four-dollar crawdad pattern still in its maw. I cussed mightily, but there was no one to hear. A Great Northern Loon bobbed just offshore. As if on cue, it let out that eerie cry for which loons gained their reputation as arbiters of wilderness. The call of the bird must have shaken my old dog from his sleep. He climbed upon a rock that looked like a giant’s face and stared down at me. The white whiskers on his face made me wonder where the time had gone. I never intended to spend most of my life in Natrona County, but it somehow happened that way. I remember being a clerk in the fly shop in Laramie and hearing the great tales about the North Platte River and the lights-out fishing there. Some of the other clerks and I packed up our tents, a grill, and a cooler of weenies and light beer and drove north in a clunker Chevy Blazer with no idea what we’d find. We left Laramie late because one of the guys had to mow his parents’ lawn. We felt like early explorers setting off into the void. By the time we got to Casper it was dark. Worse, though, was the fact that we had a slow leaking tire and didn’t have a spare. We found a service station where a young mechanic said he could fix our problem for 10 bucks. I asked him if we were close to the river and the camping spots. All I could see through the darkness was sagebrush and rolling, elephantine hills. We saw car lots, defunct hotels, and fastfood joints. Where could we camp? How did we find the river? He was startled by the question. It stunned him. “The North Platte?” he said. His arms were tattooed and covered in oil and grease. He spread them wide, and then wider. “Why it damn near surrounds us.”
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FROGGER Story and photos by Bryan Gregson
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In Michigan’s Huron River, an abundance of smallmouth bass and frogs is a sign of change. The forests east of the Mississippi divide
not what I pictured when I left my home in
their fake hockey teeth (a badge of honor
are thick. To a Western mind like mine,
Montana. It’s more countryside than urban,
around these parts) and place them on the
they are daunting. Nature hugs the roads
a place where people offer a genuine smile,
table before sharing a meal and a beer. As
in a tight hallway corridor and envelops
where locals politely wave as we pass each
my truck rumbled across the ramshackle
everything. This isn’t the industrial Detroit
other on the backroads. Here, I would later
bridge spanning the Huron River, and I
suburb outsiders imagine, and it’s certainly
find out, it’s customary for locals to remove
looked down at the water for the first time,
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I wondered what the fishing would be like. The name of the park across the street from the fly shop should have been a clue: Frog Island. I had come to fish with Mike Schultz of Schultz Outfitters in Ypsilanti, Michigan. His shop sits on the banks of the Huron, a premier smallmouth bass fishery. I’ve seldom had the opportunity to photograph any type of bass, and I had never been on a shoot where smallmouth were the target. Still, a native fish in its native habitat gets me excited. Schultz explained that Huron smallmouth eat a variety of things—small bluegill, salamanders, insects, baitfish— but during the summer when they’re eating frogs, it’s all about frogs. Frogs and smallmouth go together like French fries and gravy. Frog season is a special time of year for anglers around these parts. The thrill of seeing a fish eat your fly is something any angler can relate to, but it just so happens these flies are 3- to 5-inch deer hair bass
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Frog flies mean summer: Big smallies eating on top, cracking cold beers as you drift downriver, and good times with friends. This time of year is as close to a fishing Valhalla as you’re going to get.
bugs—some of the most enjoyable flies to fish on the planet. Frog flies mean summer: Big smallies eating on top, cracking cold beers as you drift downriver, and good times with friends. This time of year is as close to a fishing Valhalla as you’re going to get. As we launched the boat into the Huron, I looked into the dense woods and thought about how this landscape has changed over the last several hundred years. I wondered what the first Algonquian peoples thought of this place 9,000 years ago. I thought of the wars, the fights for the right to exist on this small parcel of land—how Native peoples saw the influx of European settlers, and how the dams they erected and the pollution they brought changed the river. I watched a few painted turtles slide off a log and splash into the water, spooking a frog. As a trout angler, I had stereotyped smallmouth as aggressive eaters, but these big smallies sipped our oversized flies like a big brown trout would delicately take a mayfly. What had struck me as
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A clean river with healthy populations of fish tends to attract anglers who in turn start to care about keeping the river healthy.
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inconspicuous coloring—plain earth-tones
that read “No Swimming” and “Do Not Eat
of olive green, bronze, and brown—became
Fish” sprouted up in communities across
a highly evolved, ornate pattern upon closer
Michigan decades ago. (Problems persist
inspection in the net. Their vintage army
in many places: Witness the recent water
camo paired with a sleek yet robust body
crisis in Flint.) Both frog and smallmouth
and translucent fins that seemed to change
populations declined due to industrial and
color depending on the light. Their deep red
subdivision development; poor water quality;
eyes are what frog nightmares are made of.
loss of habitat; and contamination from pesticides, herbicides, and other pollutants.
As tough as these fish might seem,
To anglers it became clear that bass and
they’re highly intolerant of pollution. The
frogs are linked: If one goes, so does the
same is true of frogs. Over the last few
other. Both need clean water to survive.
hundred years, they’ve fought to survive in the Huron. In the 1880s, the Huron was
Thanks to the efforts of the Huron River
intensely exploited for power: 17 separate
Watershed Council (HRWC) a pollution
dams on the river provided power to flour,
control program was created in the 1960s
timber, and woolen mills, changing the
to protect the watershed. Today, the Huron
flow of the river and transporting pollution
is considered the cleanest urban river in
downstream to Lake Erie. By the twentieth
Michigan, and is the only river in Southeast
century, the water had become toxic. Signs
Michigan to have a state-designated Natural
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River District. A clean river with healthy
both money and awareness for the Huron.
is rejuvenating. The Huron’s recovery over
populations of fish tends to attract anglers,
Schultz knows that it only takes one local
the last 50 years demonstrates that change
who in turn start to care about keeping the
kid to make a difference: He himself grew up
begins in our communities. Thanks to the
river healthy. Now the Huron has dedicated
less than 20 miles from where his shop now
efforts of the HRWC and conservation-
anglers who work to educate the community
sits on the Huron. Today he works to bring
minded anglers, the next generation of
about the cultural, economic, and ecological
new anglers from all walks of life into the
smallmouth bass, frogs, and anglers have a
importance of the river. At the center of
sport of fly fishing.
healthy Huron to enjoy.
that effort is Schultz Outfitters. Through a
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direct partnership with the HRWC they host
Catching big smallmouth on frog flies is fun,
numerous events and presentations to raise
but seeing a small fly shop lead by example
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The Survey Party
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Considering the mystery of unmarked graves in a desolation of antelope, sage grouse, and wind By Andrew McKean
Out in the BLM ground off Cutbank Road, beyond alternating strips of fallow and pubescent winter wheat and past the abandoned bentonite plant, there’s a low hill in the prairie that’s only slightly higher than the scoria knobs around it. On its scraggly south slope are scattered cairns of prairie rocks—I count seven mounds for sure, though another two are probably part of the collection. I take them as hasty graves: Maybe 200 head-sized rocks covering each human body, either because at the time of interment the ground was too frozen to delve or because there weren’t enough remains to bury properly. They’ve been here long enough that lichens have ossified on the prairie stones like lithographic liver spots, and stunted wild roses somehow survive in the clefts between larger rocks. An old rancher told me about this place, just as he told me about the ridge studded with stone teepee rings farther south, but he let me find both for myself. It took almost 10 years of looking before, one gray afternoon with biting snow in the wind and a mule deer tag in my pocket, I found the graves. I wasn’t sure what they were at first, the irregular mounds only slightly more ordered than the litter of granite, chert, and fieldstones flung across this former seabed. In a horizontal wilderness like this, any human invention, whether a corner post or a skylined pickup, is magnified, and the more I looked the more I saw in the strewn stones. I laid my rifle across a rock and walked down the ridge, inspecting each mound of rubble with reverence normally reserved for an Arlington or a Gettysburg.
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Who were these people? Death can’t come
benchmarks” for the original section lines
“If you’re thinking of taking one of those
easy anywhere, but somehow it seems more
and townships.
points, go right ahead,” he said deliberately,
elemental in a place with no escape from
casually. “I probably wouldn’t miss one or two
the sky, wind, and yawning emptiness. I
Would there be belt buckles and brass
of them. I’d probably just figure that I had
finally shouldered my rifle and continued
buttons buried under those rocks, I
misplaced it or forgotten to put it back in its
my hunt, but I couldn’t shake the question:
wondered. Shattered femurs and staring
case. I’d go about my business, on to my next
What happened out here in this desolation
skulls? I admit to having been tempted a
presentation, and I wouldn’t think of it again,
of prickly pear and bitterbrush?
time or two to exhume a grave simply by
or if I did, I’d blame my own forgetfulness.
tipping enough rocks away to have a look
You might think that you got a real prize, but
“Nobody knows for sure,” my rancher friend
beneath. No one would know. Although I
every time you looked at it you’d be reminded
said when I finally told him I had found
might be able to see the lights of town 20
that you’re living with a thief.”
the spot. I asked what he knew about the
miles off to the north from the crest of
graves. Nothing resolute. A couple of old-
the ridge, this forgotten cleft in the prairie
That memory is enough to make me a sort
timers had shards of information, passed
would be my secret. And my knowledge
of protector of those graves.
down from older-timers, he said.
would make it mine.
“The best guess is that it was a survey
But every time I was moved to violate a
during sage grouse season, when I’m
party, and the word I heard is that they
cairn, I recalled the squirmy feeling I had
bouncing between desolate prairie washes
had a guard of a couple cavalry out of
as a sweaty kid. Our 4-H club had invited
and the hardpan flats where grouse dance
Fort Keogh. But whether they all got sick
a fellow from town with an extensive
in the spring, and again in October, when
and died out there or Indians got them
arrowhead collection, and he must have
antelope season opens and it’s cool enough
or they got trapped in a blizzard, nobody
known I was tempted to pocket one of those
that rattlesnakes and mosquitos are
knows—or has ever told me, anyways. I’m
elegant black points. The collector’s gaze
dormant, though both might be roused by
guessing that was in the 1880s, maybe
stopped on me only briefly as he addressed
the sun of a warm afternoon.
1890s, back when they were laying down the
us booger-eaters.
I visit them at least twice each year: once
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I’m surprised every time I encounter this place, though it’s my destination and I’ve been expecting its arrival for miles on faint two-track trails, over cattle guards, and through wire gates cinched with lever-action closures whose arms can snap up and punch you in the jaw if you’re not careful. I climb the ridge to glass for sail-white pronghorns out on the alkali flats, but each time I count the cairns and wonder again what happened out here.
Middle of Nowhere When people ask me where I’m from, I’ll ask them how well they know Montana, and then help them out. Nowhere near the mountains or the postcard parts of the state, I say. I live in the northeastern corner, bounded by Saskatchewan and the Missouri River Breaks. West Dakota, it’s been called. It’s mostly unbroken prairie, and it’s 300 miles to the airport in Billings, but we have mule deer and whitetails. Elk, antelope, bighorn sheep, and even moose drift south from Canada. We have pheasants and prairie grouse, the best waterfowl hunting in America, plus all the coyotes and gophers you can hope to shoot. And don’t get me started on the fishing. But there’s no escaping the sky. Beyond my house, two million acres of same-looking sagebrush—nearly all of it unremarkable public land—tip into the Missouri Breaks. This is gumbo country, coulees that summer a few cows and hardpan flats that were used as a gunnery range for freshly commissioned B-24 pilots stationed at the now-defunct Glasgow Air Force Base. All that ground holds relics: fossilized bones of baryonyx and triceratops, petrified pines, spear points and buffalo skulls embedded in the cutbanks of dry washes, the shattered remains of homestead shacks, rusted frames of Model As and proto-Jeeps that were abandoned in sucking gumbo crossings. Crumbling .44/40 cartridges in neat piles on ambush ridgelines, and the rare .50 shell shucked from a World War II trainer. And,
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every now and then, a bone that doesn’t look like it belonged to a pronghorn or mule deer. “You have to assume that every prairie stream big enough to grow a cottonwood around here was an Indian graveyard,” says my friend Eric Albus. His family settled here with the first wave of homesteaders, in the years before the First World War, and he’s found enough bones beneath scarred old prairie trees to recognize them as funeraries. Sioux and Assiniboine and Gros Ventres built scaffolds for their swaddled dead, which were hoisted to the limbs and eventually pecked by magpies and eagles and scattered by winds. I’ve often wondered about the mechanics of raising a freshly dead father or grandmother into the leafy boughs, fighting both gravity and decomposition to elevate a carcass to the heavens, where at least it wouldn’t attract grizzly bears and wolves. Who wouldn’t want to hasten the passage to the afterlife after that sort of ordeal? But the dead beneath those heavy stones? That must have been a different sort of interment. In my imagining, those surveyors died from an unseasonal blizzard that pinned them on the lee side of the ridge, huddled together hoping for a break in the horizontal snow. Later, after the storm, there would be wolves and coyotes to fret and spread the remains. No scaffolding trees for 10 miles in any direction. Their bodies were discovered weeks or even months later, maybe because they didn’t report to a duty station, or because a tatter of uniform or glint of a sextant caught the eye of a drover in the spring. Authorities were called, and the decision was made to bury whatever remained of the survey party under these prairie rocks.
Nothing in the Record Live in one place long enough, and you work into its grain. The ladies at the Pioneer Museum out on the highway recognize my
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55
affection for the past and welcome my
“I rode that country on horseback for the
spring moon, the stones seem to generate
questions. No, they hadn’t heard of any
better part of my life, and I think I know
their own light.
graves, and couldn’t recall any mention in
what you’re talking about,” he says. “If
the archives.
they’re off that Cutbank Road, I don’t think
Are they simply collections of rock, prairie
they’re graves. Back in the ‘30s, there was a
stones gathered for a pedestrian purpose?
So I resort to a softer line of questioning:
CCC (Civilian Conservation Corps) crew using
Or are they tombs, the last evidence of
What can you tell me about the graves out
a dragline to dig reservoirs out there. I know
nameless folk who tried to tame this
south? I ask anyone whom I trust for both
because my uncle was a foreman for one
featureless prairie with math?
their knowledge and their discretion. Most of
of the crews, and he had his men gathering
the time, I get blank stares.
prairie rocks to be used as rip-rap on the
I woke up before sunrise to a herd of twitchy
dams of those reservoirs. I think you came
antelope grazing along the bottom of the
on one of his rock piles.”
ridge. They flushed when they saw me, and
But Billy Uphaus, one of those oracles of local history who savors the obscure, dwells
56
for all I know they’re still running through
on my question. After a few days, he calls
I revisited the cairns last week, camping on
back.
the ridge above them. In the glow of a feeble
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this empire of sagebrush and dust.
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Brett Ference’s Island of Misfit Dogs By Tom Keer
Gambling seldom favors the meek, so to win big you’ve got to go hard or go home. Had I trusted my gut and gone big on American Pharoah, I’d be retired by now. I didn’t, and six years ago I wagered such a pittance that when Pharoah crossed the finish line and won the Kentucky Derby, my winnings were just shy of 50 bucks. I didn’t think he’d win; I knew he wouldn’t win. How could he? Pharoah was sired by a second-place Kentucky Derbywinning stallion and a mare that never raced. He had no pedigree. But Pharoah won big. He went on to win the Preakness, and then the Belmont, and became only the 12th horse since 1919 to win the coveted Triple Crown. He then won the Breeder’s Cup Classic, which made him the first horse to win the Grand Slam of Thoroughbred racing. All that from a non-pedigreed horse.
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We’re raised on those kinds of rags-to-riches
author of 23 books and the classic story
Ference came to mind because he and his
stories, the ones where the underdog wins.
“The Road to Tinkhamtown”? Yeah, him.
wife, Kristine, had lost a dog in the spring
There’s David and Goliath, Robin Hood, Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday—even Tom
and a second one a few months later. Yet I called up Legh.
Brady, the 199th draft pick who sat on the
placing that call was a gamble because I didn’t know if they’d be jubilant or if I was
bench until Drew Bledsoe’s injury catapulted
“I hear you have a three-year old you need
picking at the scab left by loss. Losing two
him into the driver’s seat. He’s now
to place,” I said.
dogs within a few months is tough, so I
considered the Greatest of All Time. Each one overcame the impossible to win. Stories
flipped a coin for the answer. It was heads, “I do,” Legh said. “I placed her as a puppy
and I set down the phone.
like that tell us that good does in fact triumph over
Later in the day I belled
evil. They rejuvenate our
my own string for a run.
souls. When it comes to
I watched all four cast
dogs, pedigrees tell us
through the woods, jump
that an animal has been
over deadfall, and wind their
given a gift. How that gift
way down to the seep, tails
is used is what dreams are
cracking the whole way.
made of. But those strong
There were a few bobs by the
pedigrees matched with
back edge of the grass, and a
a bad attitude can easily
point was followed by a back
become nightmares.
and then another. The dogs seemed to tell me to quit
My friend Brett Ference
screwing around and pick up
collects dogs that no
the phone. I called Ference
one wants. On his string,
when I got back.
only one came from good lines, but take a look at
We chatted about sports,
his Vermont kennel and
fishing, shotguns, and a
you’ll see bright eyes and
whole bunch of other stuff,
cracking tails that aren’t
and when there was a
indicative of their origin.
pause in the conversation,
Ference has never made a
I mentioned the setter dog
call to find a dog; they just
up for adoption. He called
sort of wind up with him.
me three days later with an
I should know—several
answer, and if you’re into
years ago I placed one with him. I learned about the setter dog the same
numerology then you’ve with a bird hunter, and she’s broke all the
got a story: three for Trinity, three for
way through. She’s three and in perfect
resurrection—call it divine. And here we
health. And she’s free to the new owner.”
are, three years later, talking about the
way I learn of most good things: A friend
happiness that spread throughout his valley.
of a friend gave me a call. “Do you know
We talked for a while, but one question
anyone looking for a started dog out of
nagged at me. “Why would anyone give
Ference is a Pied Piper of unwanted,
Legh Higgins’ Coronation Kennels?” That
away a broke dog of good lines when she’s
giveaway dogs. They come into his life, listen
dog turned out to be the first pup of good
knocking on the door of the prime time in
to his tune, and follow him everywhere.
breeding that Ference has owned. Higgins’
her life?” I asked. “There’s gotta be a catch.”
Every time he wants to pick up a pup with a
family has been in the setter breeding “She’s a good dog, and there are no
didn’t want. There is a page of adages on
grandfather placed Cider and Tober with
problems. If the new owner doesn’t like her
this topic, including “one man’s morsel is
the late Corey Ford. You know, Corey Ford
they can send her back to me,” he reassured.
another man’s meal,” but Ference’s dogs
of Field & Stream’s Lower Forty column and
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pedigree, along comes another pup someone
and training business for so long that his
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aren’t morsels. They’re biddable, they hunt,
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and they perform. His dogs handle well in
Dogs are like potato chips, and since you
Bonnie came from Legh Higgins, and her
Vermont grouse covers, on Montana prairies,
can’t have just one, Ference picked up
previous owner didn’t work her much. “One
and on hallowed, Red Hills quail plantations.
another: a five-year old in his prime. “A
of the reasons the owners didn’t want her
They are second rate in no regard other
few years later, another dog came on the
anymore was because she didn’t get along
than perhaps their bloodlines.
scene. He was a well-bred setter from good
with their older dog. Bonnie runs differently
lines, but for some reason the owner didn’t
than Wyatt and Doc, and her range is in
“I was always a big game hunter, mostly
really like him. He was broke, but after
between the two. Bonnie needed the same
for whitetail, elk, and mulies,” Ference says.
that training he spent most of his time in
thing that all of my other dogs did, and
“The first bird dog I hunted over was a
the dog run. At that point I was hell-bent
that’s an opportunity to shine. I give them
quarter century ago when I was in college.
on getting a puppy, but when I saw this
that, from training on spring woodcock to
That was in Montana, and my buddy had an
overweight dog with rough teeth that the
regular work and a long, aggressive hunting
English pointer named Huck. Huck ran big,
owners had kind of given up on I took him
season. What they give me in return is
he had style, and he had a great pedigree.
for a run. His range was big, he listened
immeasurable.”
He was fast, and he had a great nose and
well, and he was happy to be out of the run.
a head packed with
One day Ference intends
birdsmarts. I always
to own a dog with a
figured I’d have a
stacked pedigree, but
string of dogs like
don’t bet on it. “If
him, but life just
things line up for me to
didn’t work out that
get a puppy with great
way.”
genetics, then so be it. But the odds are that if
Ference’s first bird
there is a sad hunting
dog was a drop. The
dog somewhere in the
drop wasn’t the result
world that crosses
of an accidental
my path, I’ll bring him
lock but a half-
home. None of my dogs
cocked deliberate
have been loved the way
experiment, a planned
they should have been
breeding between a
in their past lives, but
Brittany spaniel and
who really is? Maybe
an English setter. “I
that’s the biggest factor
got this dog when
in my choices; I don’t
he was about two
know. All I know is that
years old,” he said.
I’ve been lucky and
“He had dominant
blessed, and we’ll see
setter genes, and from looking at him you’d
Given half a chance he’d make a nice dog, so
never know he had any Brittany genetics.
I brought him home to show my wife. That
The previous owners mostly hunted quail
surprise didn’t go over so well. I slept on the
The late writer Thom Jones once said, “Dogs
on their plantation, and he ran shorter than
couch for three months.”
have a way of finding the people who need
they preferred. I hunted over him, and he
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what happens next.”
them, filling an emptiness we don’t even
had a moderate range that was perfect for
“Because that setter had more speed and
know we have.” When it comes to Brett
grouse and woodcock covers. I liked that
a bigger range than Wyatt, I wanted to
Ference’s kennel, you would want to bet
he was cautious around birds, so I brought
run them as a brace. He needed a different
that it goes both ways.
him home. I’m a sucker for Westerns so I
name, so I called him Doc Holliday—call
named him Wyatt Earp, with Wyatt as his
name Doc. At the time I lived in Wisconsin,
call name.”
so we were in the woods every day.”
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2021
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GOPRO STORM DRY WATERPROOF BACKPACK $99.99 (GOPRO.COM)
When adventure calls, it’s important to be ready. Enter the GoPro Storm Dry Waterproof Backpack. This pack is the perfect size for holding all your essentials with room to spare. Its rolltop design is more durable than zippers and allows you to find what you’re looking for quickly. Its welded seams make it watertight to ensure your gear and valuables stay protected no matter what the weather brings. A front waterproof pocket with key fob keeps your phone, wallet, and keys protected and in easy reach. For those who want to capture their adventure, the pack comes with a GoPro shoulder mount for hands-free filming.
GEAR GUIDE
VR TRUTTA PERFETTA CLASSIC TITANIUM FLY REEL $750-$835 (VR-REELS.COM)
This is the sexiest click-and-pawl trout reel we’ve ever seen. The Trutta Perfetta is a full-cage frame with integrated axle and a one-piece spool, all fully machined from aerospace-grade bar stock titanium. The whole thing weighs just six ounces. The Asymmetrical Pawl System provides lower resistance on the retrieve and a noticeably louder outgoing click. (The reel is easily changed from left- to right-hand retrieve with a flip of the pawl and spring.) A textured palming rim allows for increased sensitivity during a run. Including the hand-polished screws, the reel has just 22 parts, making it absurdly easy to disassemble. An optional spare parts kit ensures a lifetime of dependable use. With a spool width of just under an inch, the reel will accommodate a weight-forward 4- or 5-weight line and approximately 65 yards of 20-pound Dacron backing. At twice the strength of aluminum and completely impervious to corrosion, the titanium construction means that the Trutta Perfetta is an heirloom you’ll pass on to the next generation.
BENCHMADE MINI BUGOUT - $160 (BENCHMADE.COM)
When we first held the Mini Bugout we were shocked at how light it was. At an ounce and a half, we wondered if this smaller version of Benchmade’s Bugout series would hold up to everyday use. After carrying and using it for the better part of six months, it still looks new. You’ve achieved the perfect design when there is nothing else you can take away, and the Mini Bugout is there: perfectly proportioned and stripped to the bare essentials. The reverse pocket clip ensures the knife comes out of your pocket in the correct position every time. The blade shape is well suited to a variety of everyday tasks. The S30V steel exhibits a good balance between edge retention, corrosion resistance, and sharpenability. One feature we had never before come across in a knife is the pass-through design that allows dirt and debris (and blood) to pass through the handle instead of getting stuck and clogging the action. This is a great knife and one we expect will still be in our pockets 10 years from now.
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strung
SUMMER magazine
GRAB & GO
YOU NEVER KNOW WHAT SUMMER IS GOING TO THROW AT YOU, BUT THIS GRAB BAG OF GEAR IS PERFECT FOR EVERY SUMMER TRIP.
TURTLEBOX WATERPROOF SPEAKER - $349 (TURTLEBOXAUDIO.COM)
Much as Yeti turned the cooler world upside down years ago, Texasbased Turtlebox is revolutionizing what it means to listen to music in the outdoors. Their fully waterproof, dustproof, rechargeable, and impact-resistant speakers allow you to bring your favorite tunes wherever you go. New for 2021, their updated speakers feature a larger amp and driver, a five-step battery level indicator, USB-C input and output for charging your phone, and a beefed-up internal battery that lasts for over 50 hours of play time. You can also pair two Turtlebox speakers together for true stereo sound. We lived with this thing, playing tunes in the garage, tossing it in the drift boat for long floats, and using its tie-down anchors to strap it to the ATV while checking trail cams and hanging treestands. It’s awesome. The Turtlebox is available in a variety of color configurations. Nothing says summer like blasting your favorite music while jetting across the lake or motoring down the trail.
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NEUTROGENA SUNSCREEN - $7.50-$13.99 (NEUTROGENA.COM)
For years, we thought sunscreen was sunscreen. That was until a Montana guide told us the biggest danger he faced on a daily basis wasn’t mid-river boulders or class IV rapids, but the sun. Sunscreen can suck, making you feel sticky, stinging your eyes, and damaging your fly line. But skin cancer and holes in your face also suck. We’ve found Neutrogena sunscreen to be the best we’ve tried. Yes, it’s more money than the gloopy kind we used as kids, but we think it’s worth it. For one, it goes on easily and absorbs quickly. We prefer the stick variety for our face, neck, and hands; keeping lotion off your palms and fingers means it won’t transfer to your gear. Along with a proper hat, sun-protective clothing, and a buff, good sunscreen means fun in the sun without a trip to the dermatologist.
GEAR GUIDE
NALGENE FITNESS ATB WATER BOTTLE - $7.99 (NALGENE.COM)
If you’ve got dogs, pay attention: Go buy a pair of these water bottles right now. Carrying them on summer adventures means you always have water for your dog even when you’re in dry areas with little to no ground water. At 32 ounces, throwing two in your bird vest during hunting season means you have the perfect amount of water for an average outing. The plastic cap keeps dirt and feathers off the spout. The soft plastic build allows you to slowly squeeze the bottle to give Rover the perfect flow or crank up the volume to hydrate yourself when you need it. We’ve been using these for years. They are inexpensive and durable and they just plain work.
HARDY ZANE PRO ROD - $850 (HARDYFISHING.COM)
Pulling the Zane Pro from its rod tube for the first time, we were immediately impressed by the fit and finish. The stripper guides are constructed of a ceramic-lined titanium similar to the “recoil” guides on high-end conventional rods; when bent, they snap back into position rather than breaking off like traditional gathering guides. The bar stock aluminum reel seat felt sturdy, but just to be sure we chipped at it with a quarter. It didn’t leave a scratch. Something we had never seen before but have enjoyed since using the rod: Small metal caps fit inside the ferrules of the top three sections, protecting them from knicks that would otherwise jeopardize the strength of the rod. So the rod looks good, but how does it cast? Effortlessly. The Zane Pro proves it doesn’t take an extra-stiff broomstick of a rod to throw long casts. Even with our average casting ability, we were throwing the entire fly line plus several feet of backing. Yet the smooth action also lends itself to accurate short- to mid-range targets. The 9-weight model we tested on a trip to the Florida Keys performed flawlessly on everything from delicate permit presentations to jumping tarpon.
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RATIONS& INTOXICANTS
By Jenny Nguyen-Wheatley
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I typically eat lighter during the summer
My father holds onto fond memories of
unfortunately, I am going to disappoint.
months, and many Vietnamese dishes check
buying bánh mì on the street corner on his
Vietnamese families don’t typically bake
that box. My family is from South Vietnam,
way to school as a boy. Although he could
their own bread. Visiting the neighborhood
and although both my mother’s and father’s
only afford a splash of hot cooking liquid
bakery while on a grocery run is a part of
ancestral homes enjoy the benefits of the
from the cart’s pot of braised pork belly
Vietnamese life. That’s how my family had
coastal breezes that come into Nha Trang,
inside his bread, at 82 years old this remains
bánh mì while I was growing up–and having
we have to fly into Saigon whenever we
one of my dad’s favorite food memories.
made our home in the Little Saigon district
visit, and the air in the interior is always
He can still recall the smell of fresh
of Southern California, good bánh mì wasn’t
stifling. It seems like no matter what time
yeasty bread mingling with savory aromas
hard to come by. I’m glad to see more bánh
of year I check, daytime temperatures
steaming from the braising pot. “When I had
mì shops opening in the metro areas of my
in Saigon hover in the 90s, along with
spare change, that was breakfast,” he says
home state of Nebraska these days. Unless
humidity that’ll make you sweat even under
dreamily. “It was such a treat.”
you live in the boonies, I bet there’s a shop
a cold shower in January.
near you. Ask for the bread by itself. Vietnamese-French bread is the ideal
With a climate that can be sweltering year-
sandwich bread. When fresh, its thin,
Bánh mì can be filled with anything.
round, the food of Vietnam isn’t known for
golden-crispy crust offers a satisfying
Vietnam’s signature sandwich includes
being heavy. Even our iconic bread–called
crunch that yields to every bite. And unlike
an assortment of thinly sliced cold cuts,
bánh mì–would be considered light next
traditional French bread, its crumb is tender
generous amounts of pork liver pâté,
to its precursor. Inspired by and created
and airy, not dense–perfect for filling with
and full-fat mayonnaise, and it is always
during France’s colonization of Vietnam,
generous amounts of meat and vegetables,
garnished with plenty of carrot and daikon
the Vietnamese baguette is markedly more
while inviting warm juices and sauces.
pickles and fresh herbs for balance. Making
delicate than its imperial counterpart.
Delicious stuffed or simply eaten with
Vietnamese cold cuts isn’t something that
butter, spreadable cheese, or a few dashes
I’ve delved into yet, so for this issue’s recipe,
of Maggi sauce–one of my mom’s favorite
I’m mirroring another classic: grilled pork
snacks–there’s nothing like enjoying fresh-
bánh mì. Pork is used heavily in Vietnamese
from-the-oven bánh mì by itself. You always
cooking, and luckily, I just recently came into
have to sacrifice a piece while traveling
some wild boar meat from Texas.
home from the bakery–at least I could never help myself.
Although leaner and a bit tougher than
Now that I’ve made you hungry, you might be expecting a recipe;
domestic pork, cook wild boar similarly. The same rules apply: Cook to at least 145 degrees to kill trichinosis, brine or marinate when possible for juiciness and tenderness, and don’t overcook the meat unless you’re going to braise it. I referenced Andrea Nguyen’s Viet World Kitchen blog for her full-fat mayonnaise recipe.
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GRILLED WILD BOAR BÁNH MÌ Servings: 4 sandwiches
- 1 tablespoon + 2 teaspoons of white sugar
eat. This quick pickle will keep for 2 weeks in
- 1 cup of white wine vinegar
the refrigerator.
Cooking Time: 15 minutes
Full-Fat Mayonnaise (makes 1 generous cup)
Ingredients:
- ½ teaspoon of kosher salt
- 1½ pounds of wild boar loin
- 1 tablespoon of lime juice
- 4 bánh mì rolls*
- ½ teaspoon of Dijon mustard
- Sliced cucumber
- 2 teaspoons of white wine vinegar
Meanwhile, make the full-fat mayonnaise:
- Sliced jalapeño
- 1 cup of canola oil
Combine egg yolks, salt, lime juice, Dijon
Prep Time: Overnight
- 2 egg yolks
for 30 minutes prior to grilling. Prepare grill for direct, high-heat cooking.
mustard, and white wine vinegar in a food
- Small bunch of cilantro Special Equipment: skewers
processor and pulse 4 to 5 times to combine.
- 4 cloves of garlic, minced
* If there is no Vietnamese bakery or bánh
gradually add canola oil in a thin, steady
- 2 shallots, minced
mì shop near you, substitute with Mexican
stream and whip until thickened. If your
- 2 tablespoons of brown sugar
bolillo rolls.
mayonnaise breaks, whip in an extra egg
Marinade
- ½ teaspoon of freshly ground pepper - 2 tablespoons of fish sauce - 1 tablespoon of Shaoxing rice cooking wine
1. The night before, remove silver skin on
loin and thinly slice against the grain. In a
(not vinegar)
small bowl, combine marinade ingredients
- 2 tablespoons of canola oil, plus extra
and add pork to coat. Cover and refrigerate
- 2 tablespoons of dark soy sauce
for 8 hours.
Pickled Carrot & Daikon (makes extra)
2. To make pickles, sprinkle sea salt and
Then with the machine running on low,
yolk. Keep mayonnaise cold until ready to use.
4. Thread marinated wild boar meat onto skewers and brush with canola oil. Grill on
high heat for caramelization all over, flipping halfway through; this shouldn’t take long. Split open slightly toasted bánh mì bread
sugar over the julienned carrot and daikon.
and spread mayonnaise on the inside. Fill
- Equal amount of daikon radish, peeled and
Submerge with white wine vinegar and stir.
with grilled wild boar, cucumber, jalapeño,
julienned
Allow to sit for at least 30 minutes before
a few whole sprigs of cilantro, and pickled
- 1 teaspoon of sea salt
serving, or refrigerate in a jar until ready to
carrot and daikon. Serve immediately.
- 1 large carrot, peeled and julienned
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3. If using wooden skewers, soak in water
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“DITCH WATER” PLUM BRANDY Ingredients:
- 6 pounds of ripe wild plums - 3½ cups of Sugar in the Raw (turbinado sugar), plus extra - White sugar, optional - About 1 bottle of brandy - Twist of lemon zest Special Equipment: cheesecloth, rubber band, large glass jar
1. Only rinse plums if they are noticeably dirty, but do not rub off the bloom–the white, waxy coating on the fruit. The bloom contains wild yeast, which helps fermentation. Slice each plum to allow juices to escape.
2. Transfer cut plums to a bowl and coat
with raw sugar. Add more sugar as needed; the fruit needs to be well coated. Transfer plums to a large jar, allowing at least a couple inches of headspace. Then use a potato masher or something similar to push down the fruit to help release juices. After a few hours to a day, juices should completely submerge plums. If not, add water, which prevents the fruit from spoiling. Use something heavy to weigh down the fruit.
3. Use cheesecloth to cover the jar and
secure with a rubber band. Store in a cool, dry place to ferment for 2 weeks. The amount of bubbling and foaming will vary. If you start to see mold, scoop it out when it’s in its white stages. Don’t wait until the mold gets black, which is toxic.
4. Strain the fermented plum juice through
cheesecloth and discard the fruit and seeds. Transfer to clean jars or bottles and add equal parts brandy. If needed, add white sugar to taste. Chill and enjoy the brandy now or, for a clearer drink, allow sediment to form at the bottom and siphon off the clear liquid into different bottles. Keep refrigerated. I enjoy this plum brandy chilled with a twist of lemon zest on top. It’s also refreshing over ice.
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By Kevin Kennedy
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“Run away!” Dwight, who was enthusiastically encouraging me to join him in retreat while unwittingly mimicking Monty Python, is the most collected man I’ve ever known. The sudden screaming of a bull elk mere steps away, compounded by darkness so dense we couldn’t tell the sky from the trees, momentarily confounded his normal calm. For a week we’d chased bulls around the adjacent wilderness. For a week we had been skunked. With one morning left, we hoped to increase our odds with some late-night scouting. That intimidating bugle gave us a place to start at first light. I did kill an elk the next morning, but not the bull. Instead, a curious cow responded to our calls. On our
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last day, I didn’t hesitate.
listening to or searching for our dogs. We
past, he dove in, smashing my face into the
sank ourselves in beaver ponds, crashed
dirt and pinning us together in the hole.
My shining memory from that trip was not
through nettles, froze fingers and toes,
My increasingly stern instructions to Judge
the cow, or the freezer stuffed with elk
climbed and fell out of trees, dented and
were interrupted by my grunts and the
meat, but our uncontrollable giggling at
mired trucks, and sometimes treed a coon.
taste of dirt and bark. Amid the noise and
Dwight’s unhinged eruption over the late-
activity, I pondered the unpleasant prospect
night bull we never saw.
Hunting alone one night, I heard my black
of the porky making a run for it with Judge
Many of my most vivid memories in the
and tan Judge treeing, but he sounded
and me clogging the only escape route. With
outdoors are of events that took place
muffled. I found him bayed up in a hole
this inspiration I managed to squirm out
between dusk and dawn. I began associating
under a slash pile. The opening was barely
with no lasting injuries to any of the parties
the dark with fun from an early age. Where
wider than my shoulders and maybe twice
involved—although Judge was reluctant to
I grew up, Canada geese were rare, but one
that tall. I allowed myself a moment of
retreat and maintained a lifelong bitterness
night my dad excitedly woke me to run
rumination, a deep breath—and then I
toward porcupines.
outside to hear geese conversing as they
elbowed Judge aside and belly-crawled, arms
passed. I stood on the cold cement of the
extended, .22 pistol in one hand, flashlight
On another coon hunting trip with my friend
driveway in my astronaut PJs and bare
in the other. I’d convinced myself this was a
Curley, we were listening for Judge to open
feet, my face tilted toward the night sky.
bobcat, and I was excited.
on a track. Instead, we caught up to him in
I imagined geese looking down from their
a small clearing. My headlamp revealed him
invisible flight path and wished hard that
Slithering into the cavern, my perspective
shredding a sack of candy and snacks just
I could see them. Geese made the night
quickly changed. The soles of my feet were
a few feet away from a sleeping bag from
mysterious and full of possibility.
outside the hole, but mentally I was in
which emanated a pitiful whimpering. The
another world, noting the narrowing width
occupant of the bag was a boy, camping by
So did crawdads. At our family cabin on the
of the chute. To look forward rather than
the creek rather than in the campground
lake there were stars to see and campfires
down into the dirt, my head scraped hard
with his family. The kid, certain this dark,
to poke. I got to stay up late—and even
against the top of the tiny and shrinking
snuffling, nightmare marauder was a bear,
later if I was on the dock catching crawdads.
shaft. My flashlight was weak but enough, I
lay turtled, quaking in his bag, awaiting the
My preferred method was a chicken bone,
hoped, to reflect a bobcat’s shining eyes.
inevitable. When the sobbing and eye-wiping
preferably a drumstick, on the end of a
wound down, we walked him to his parents’
string. At first I used a flashlight to watch
Porcupines, it turns out, don’t face you when
tent. Years later, I gave up coon hunting to
the little lobsters approach, but soon I
they’re cornered.
spend nights doing daddy stuff, but it was
preferred to hold the string in the darkness Face to face with a thrashing tail of quills,
when a crawdad claimed his prize. Once a
I put it in reverse and punched the
crawdad had clamped on, I’d slowly lift. I
gas. But once Judge saw a
quickly learned to never lift them out of
sliver of room
the water or they’d let go. Lying prone on
where he
the dock, my arms were just long enough to
might
various spots he thought
reach under the crawdad and scoop it into
sneak
we might find elk. He’d
an old tin pot. While we waited for crawdads, bats flashed above and even between us—darting black shadows against a slightly less black sky. Dodging bats, whispering with a buddy, and waiting for crawdads was a very good way for a boy to spend a July evening. Coon hunting seemed like the reasonable next step. For nights uncountable, friends and I wandered creek bottoms and beaches,
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too late: I’d become a creature of the night
feeling for the faint buzz in my fingertips
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forever. Each day before sunrise on a Montana elk hunt, Floyd, our “guide,” dropped us at
return near dusk. Floyd was annoyed that we were never waiting
together than they had seemed just moments before.
when he arrived. We’d get to the rendezvous well after shooting light to be scolded:
deer, and in those days we both had dark hair and good knees. Still, it was half a deer on each of our backs, three miles across uneven
I don’t remember
ground—and I hadn’t yet learned to carry a
any screaming
flashlight. The cold was intense, and it was
until the
dark. As we helped each other into our packs
puddle.
it felt like the beginning of an ugly ordeal. I never enjoyed packing a load like I did that buck. The purple sky had long since
“Good hunters
ripened to black. The clouds had cleared,
get out of the woods
so moonlight on snow helped light our way
before dark!” It seemed to be his one rule, and he cared about it. A lot.
In the dark, anyone could mistake an innocent puddle for a hole. It was a
across the landscape. With waning light and not an extra inch of paracord, we’d somehow created two perfectly balanced packs. Coyotes sang their customary songs, but
The last night of our hunt, Floyd had
revelation how much anticipation one can
more than the normal yipping and howling
company as he fumed about our tardiness.
conjure in the instant between seeing what
chorus, they created new verses about
He’d brought a cowboy to take three horses
appears to be a crater in your path and
John’s buck as they escorted us all the way
down the mountain. The wrangler would
the splash. The horses remained upright,
back to the truck.
ride one and lead two. With several saddles
we all stayed aboard—tenaciously if not
in the bed of Floyd’s truck, Ronnie and I
gracefully—and subsequent puddles were
The song of those badlands coyotes, that
swapped bows for saddles and volunteered
less intimidating; but that night I swore off
frigid Montana night, and the sensation of
to ride along. The “cowboy,” as it turned
nighttime downhill horse racing.
wellbeing as we packed that deer remain
out, was a scared teenager who knew less
with me, as do the individual voices of my
about horses than we did. Ronnie and I, not
During a Southeast Montana deer hunt my
hounds, the delicate clicking of crawdad
much older than our cowboy, were elated at
friend John and I saw bucks from the road
claws in a tin pot, the distant talk of
the prospect of three hours on horseback
better than either of us had ever taken, but
migrating geese, and the bugling of elk, in
for our last night rather than 30 miles
agreed we hadn’t driven 1,200 miles through
tight or a ridge away. Those memories are
in a rattling pickup on washboard roads
a blizzard to shoot from the road. As the trip
like the smiles and laughter of old friends:
enduring another harangue from Floyd.
waned, I finally tagged a modest whitetail
unseen, unheard, but vivid and indelible, and
buck during a whiteout snowstorm; John
enhanced by darkness.
It was a gloriously still and moonless night.
wanted to hold out for a mule deer.
An hour down, a meteorite streaked across the sky so big and close we could clearly
Late November days at that latitude don’t
see the wonder on each other’s faces and
last long, but during the final hours of the
the hillsides exposed in sharp detail. The
hunt John whispered, “There’s my buck!”
fireball transformed us. We were cowboys.
indicating a mule deer a quarter mile from
Confident, we sat tall in the saddle. Cowboys
where we stood. Miles behind us were the
would get to the ranch sooner than a trio
road and the truck. I considered pointing out
of dudes. It was a road, for crying out loud,
how long of a pack out it would be, but as
not some treacherous trail. Pleasant though
the guy with a filled tag, I kept that thought
this was, it was getting late. A click of the
to myself. This was “John’s buck.”
tongue and a squeeze of the heels was all it took. The horses passionately agreed
We stalked in on the deer, and John went
that hurrying to the barn was a fine idea.
the final distance alone. When I arrived for
We never touched a trot as all three horses
the handshake, the sky was deep purple. In
rocketed through their gears from saunter
the waning light we dressed the deer and
to stampede. Galloping that dark, steep
then divided it into front and back pieces,
two-track, the curves quickly grew closer
providing pretty even loads. It wasn’t a big
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FISHING OUTSIDE THE BOX IN ALASKAN SALT WATER Words by E. Donnall Thomas Jr. Photos by Don and Lori Thomas
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Beginning with Captain James Cook’s second
Wales Island and the Alaskan mainland
but eventual British naval ascendency in the
voyage, British explorers navigating the
for the Duke of Clarence. Vancouver
North Pacific resulted in the loss of numerous
uncharted waters along the coast of what is
certainly understood both the tradition’s
place names.
now Alaska acknowledged influential patrons
importance and the water: He had served as
by naming points of geographic interest
a midshipman aboard Cook’s Resolution 20
My mind often wanders to such apparently
in their honor. In 1793, George Vancouver
years prior. A year before Vancouver’s voyage,
irrelevant matters whenever I’m not catching
continued this tradition by naming the
Spanish explorers had named Clarence Strait
fish.
120-mile-long channel between Prince of
La Entrada de Nuestra Senora del Carmen,
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That morning I had definitely not been
silver salmon near a point that had produced
could dig a bucket of steamer clams when the
catching fish, and since the only passenger
fish twice during the preceding week, but I
dog started to whine. That could only mean
aboard the skiff was my Labrador retriever,
hadn’t drawn anything I could even pretend
one thing, so I idled to a nearby beach and let
opportunities for conversation had been
was a strike. I’d finally given up on the silvers
her jump off the bow to do it.
limited. I couldn’t blame the conditions, no
and used my depth finder to locate the edge
matter how hard I tried. On a stiff southeast
of a hole where I’d taken halibut in the past,
Motoring slowly away from the beach—a
wind Clarence Strait can become a nightmare
but no one was home there either.
number of submerged rocks guarded the
even for commercial fishing boats, but now
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entrance to the cove, and I didn’t trust my
its surface shone like a polished mirror.
We had guests coming for dinner that
memory of their location—I noticed dimples
Fishing through a modest high slack tide, I
night, and I was determined to feed them
in the water along the edge of a large kelp
hadn’t had much current to battle. I’d spent
fresh caught seafood. I was trying to decide
bed. Since it wasn’t raining, fish were the
two hours drifting slowly and casting for
whether I should wait for the tide to drop so I
only logical explanation. I thought they might
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As much as I love fly fishing for salmon at sea, salmon come and salmon go—that’s just their nature. And when they’ve gone, it pays to have a Plan B.
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be sea-run cutthroats feeding on salmon smolt from the stream bisecting the beach. Catching some wouldn’t solve my dinner problem—I don’t kill cutthroats—but it might be more satisfying than returning to the dock with a skunk in the boat. Kenai the Wonder Lab seemed to nod in agreement. I broke down the heavy rod and high-density shooting head I’d been using to explore the bottom and replaced it with a 6-weight rigged with an intermediate sink-tip line. Current had started to run as the tide fell, and I ran around to a starting point that would allow a nice drift down the edge of the kelp. The best thing to be said about my first dozen casts is that I didn’t snag any kelp, which usually guarantees a lost fly. Then something tagged my streamer and ran toward the security of the weeds. I turned it easily, and the combination of a hard strike followed by one strong, brief run suggested the identity of the mystery fish before I could see it. The dimples were caused by surface-feeding black rockfish. Because of their abundance and short lifespans, I’ve never hesitated to keep a few pelagic rockfish. In half an hour, I had dinner in the ice chest, with one kelp greenling (a relative of the lingcod) thrown in for variety. As much as I love fly fishing for salmon at sea, salmon come and salmon go—that’s just their nature. And when they’ve gone, it pays to have a Plan B.
Rock On The Scorpaenidae represent one of the world’s most diverse and widespread families of marine fishes, and nearly 30 species inhabit the North Pacific. The family name’s allusion to scorpions is accurate, since most possess venomous glands that can administer a painful sting through a fin’s sharp spine. Some, like the dangerous tropical stonefish, can be lethal, but stings from North Pacific species are equivalent to a bee sting. Experienced anglers learn to avoid contact with the sharp spines on their dorsal fins. Commonly known as rockfish in the Pacific
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Northwest and Alaska, these diverse species divide into two general categories. Pelagic rockfish like those I teased from the kelp bed range throughout the water column, often appearing at or near the surface, and are generally dull in color. They reproduce rapidly, and their populations are stable. In addition to the black rockfish described earlier (often inaccurately called “black bass”), this group includes dusky and yellowtail rockfish. Although members of the same biological family, demersal rockfish differ in a number of respects. They seldom stray far from the bottom, in depths from 80 to 300 feet or more, which puts most of them beyond the reach of fly tackle, with occasional exceptions. Many are brightly colored and beautiful, and they are among the longest-lived fish in the sea, with some attaining ages of 75 years or more. Most are caught incidentally by anglers targeting halibut.
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My friends and I caught plenty of them
up from depths greater than 60 feet—an
flounder, and sole, whose eyes rotate to one
when I was a kid growing up on Puget
inherent safety factor for fly fishermen, since
side of the body as they mature, making
Sound 60 years ago, and because they are
it’s difficult to get a fly much deeper than
them the world’s only vertebrates that lack
excellent food fish, we thought nothing of
that. For years, when a rockfish arrived at
a longitudinal axis of symmetry. Known
taking coolers full of them home for the
the surface with its air bladder protruding,
primarily as popular food fish, they can also
table. Biologists have learned a lot about
anglers were advised to puncture it with a
be caught on flies.
these underappreciated fish since then.
knife. It turns out this maneuver just kills fish.
Long lives and slow reproductive rates
Use of a deepwater release device offers a far
Halibut rank second in popularity only to
make them highly vulnerable to overfishing.
more effective means of salvaging these fish,
salmon among Alaska saltwater anglers.
Furthermore, rockfish lack the means to
and Alaska anglers are now required to carry
The source of their appeal is obvious: they
vent their air bladders, and those brought
one on board their vessels.
are big—often really big—and delicious.
to the surface from depth often arrive with
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Fishing for them, however, even with efficient
bulging eyes and internal organs protruding
Now, a brief summary of Pacific rockfish on
conventional tackle, usually consists of
from their mouths because of barotrauma.
flies: Pelagic rockfish (especially black and
little more than bouncing around at sea for
“Releasing” these fish amounts to little more
dusky) are abundant, easy to catch at fly
hours waiting for a bite followed by mindless
than feeding scavengers.
rod depths, and will strike almost any large,
labor more akin to weighing an anchor than
flashy streamer. Fights are brief but powerful
playing a fish. And with a fly rod? Most of my
Recognizing these facts, Alaska, among other
on light tackle. They are reasonably good to
friends claim it’s ridiculous, and I find that
states, has (belatedly) made a number of
eat, and anglers can retain a few with a clear
opinion hard to dispute. And yet….
regulatory changes to protect its demersal
conscience. Demersal rockfish are rarely
rockfish stocks. Strict limits are in effect
taken on flies because of the depths they
Halibut use their superb camouflage to
(especially for the large, highly prized
inhabit. Although I don’t target them, I catch
ambush their prey—anything from other
yelloweye rockfish); all fish caught must be
a few incidentally while fishing deep for king
groundfish to salmon, octopus, shrimp, and
retained and counted toward that limit; and
salmon or halibut. When I do, I congratulate
crabs—while lying against sandy bottoms
some areas are closed entirely to fishing for
myself for a rare catch, admire the fish briefly,
at depths hard to reach with fly tackle.
these species, including yelloweye, bronze,
and get it back to the depth it came from as
But those who enjoy the challenge of the
quillback, China, and the beautiful vermillion
quickly as possible, using a deepwater release
unconventional should rest assured that it
rockfish.
device when appropriate.
can be done by learning a few tricks.
We have also learned more about the
Flatfish
Target shallow water by fishing near river
decompression failure that kills so many
I’m not referring to the classic vintage plugs
mouths in late summer, when halibut move
demersal rockfish caught on rod and reel.
of yesteryear. Our subject here is the diverse
inshore to feed on dead salmon being swept
The problem appears limited to fish brought
order of marine fishes including halibut,
downstream after spawning. One year, a
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young kid in the coastal village where I was
make less demanding fly rod targets. Several
living at the time caught a 50-pound halibut
species of sole inhabit Alaskan inshore
in 10 feet of water beneath the fish-cleaning
waters, and sometimes shallow bays can be
This scheme is so adaptive that it should come
station at the public dock. (Why didn’t I think
full of them whenever some phase of the
as no surprise that fish other than salmon
of that?) Halibut, like bears, follow the food
salmon life cycle is flushing edibles down
have adopted it. Steelhead are the best-known
source.
the mouth of a nearby river. On lazy summer
example, but Alaskan cutthroats and Dolly
days, I like to let the breeze nudge my skiff
Vardens also out-migrate to salt water. I can’t
Get your fly to the bottom and keep it there
across the bay in front of my house using my
count the number of days they have saved for
as long as possible. Weighted flies and
4-weight to cast bonefish patterns for sole
me when I was stood up by salmon.
fast-sinking shooting heads are essential,
in shallow water. For some they’re saltwater
but understanding ocean currents may be
trash fish—unless you share Julia Child’s taste
The coastal cutthroat is the only one of the
even more important. The faster the water
for sole meunière as enthusiastically as I do.
dozen cutthroat subspecies that returns to the
is moving, the harder it will be to get the fly
return to sheltered waters to spawn.
sea. These beautiful little fish are abundant as
into the “zone” and the less time it will spend
Alaskan sole commonly enter estuaries
far north as Prince William Sound. In contrast
there. I rarely fish for halibut more than an
to feed on eggs tumbling downstream
to salmon and steelhead, they seldom stray far
hour away from slack tide and avoid days
when salmon are spawning. Frequently, I
from their natal streams after out-migrating.
with strong tidal flow and locations with
surprisingly catch some far above the tideline
Saltwater anglers are most likely to find them
terrain features that magnify currents.
on flies meant for silvers. Alaska never runs
near estuaries during the summer, when they
out of surprises.
are feeding on salmon smolt. Although they
I like to fish in 50 to 70 feet of water, casting
rarely exceed 18 inches in length, they strike
“upstream” into whatever current is flowing,
Trout and Char at Sea
letting out enough line as it straightens below
Finally, we have two North Pacific fly rod
light tackle. Like cutthroats everywhere they are
me to get the fly near the bottom (a depth
quarries that won’t make trout purists snort
vulnerable to overfishing, so crimp those barbs
finder will help), and “jigging” the fly as it
in disdain. Salmon species’ anadromous
down and return them to the water safely.
passes. The pattern doesn’t have to resemble
lifestyle makes a lot of sense from a survival
anything in particular, but it should be big
perspective. They get to hatch and enjoy
Dolly Vardens don’t enjoy the cutthroat’s
and bright. (A whole pink salmon is a favorite
their early development in a protected
reputation on the end of a line, but like all
bait among old-time commercial halibut
environment while meeting their sparse
salmonids, they are most vigorous in the salt.
fishermen.) This technique will occasionally
nutritional needs on the meager fare that is
Like coastal cutthroats, they don’t travel far at
produce lingcod as well as halibut.
all that most Alaskan streams can provide.
sea. They feed on smolt even more aggressively
When the time comes to put on pounds,
than cutthroats, often in schools. If you find
Before leaving the flatfish family, I should
they head for fertile ocean waters to gorge on
them working a beach or stream mouth, prepare
mention some of its smaller members that
shrimp, squid, and marine baitfish until they
for action.
flies readily and are wonderful gamefish on
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One spring morning, I awoke early aboard
beach, the light level was still too low to see
By this time the boat was awake, and after
a friend’s boat to prepare for another day of
anything beneath the surface. The identity
watching me catch several more fish my
bowhunting coastal bears. We had enjoyed
of whatever was disturbing the otherwise
companions headed to shore in our second
unusually calm weather, and the surface of
still surface remained a mystery, but I had a
inflatable armed with fly rods, their longbows
the cove where we’d anchored lay smooth
plan to solve it.
temporarily forgotten. Over the previous several days we’d been busy exploring
and calm. As I started to make the first pot of coffee, I noticed something pushing water
None of my gaudy steelhead flies looked
uncharted steelhead streams, busting
back and forth along a nearby beach. Had I
appropriate to the situation, but I found
through a lot of brush without drawing a
been fishing a bonefish flat, I’d have called
an old Crazy Charlie lying in the bottom of
single strike.
this “nervous water.”
one vest pocket, and I’d seen worse smolt imitations. My first cast to the next push of
Now it felt good to be catching fish again,
Although bears were the object of the trip,
water coming down the beach produced an
even if they weren’t representatives of the
I never go anywhere in Alaska without
immediate, aggressive strike. Soon a fat Dolly
region’s glamour species. One must always
a fly rod. While my hunting partners
lay resting at my feet, its vibrant freshwater
be ready to accept what nature offers and be
snoozed away, I grabbed my rod case and
colors replaced by the pure chrome sheen of
grateful, for sometimes a Plan B can prove
vest and slipped over the side into one of
an anadromous fish at sea.
even more gratifying than the Plan A it
our inflatables. By the time I reached the
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replaced.
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Brett James Smith and the Art of Fluidity By Ryan Sparks
A sense of nostalgia permeates the works of Brett James Smith. Oils swirl across canvas, creating warm, glowing landscapes. Smith brings a mesmerizing softness to his subjects—Western rivers, incoming ducks, majestic elk and moose, and rocketing forms of quail, grouse, and pheasants. In Back Barn Covey two hunters approach a pair of pointers in a field of gold, green, and umber, their paths melting into a pool at the base of a tree, presumably where a covey waits to spring into the air. Smith looks at the landscape with tenderness, renders it gently. In Streamside in Summer a pair of anglers rest in soft summer grasses: gleaming strokes that flicker before the flowing lines of a stream. Smith welcomes us back to a time when hunting and fishing were part of daily life, conjuring wistful and vividly rendered scenes that take us back to a simpler era.
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Back Barn Covey
Streamside in Summer
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For Smith, art came before the outdoors.
“We had some fish camps we would go to
memories from days spent in the marshes,
Born into an artistic home, Smith’s father
in the warmer months,” Smith remembers.
woods, and bayous of his youth. The rest is
was the art director for a major advertising
“For meals we would bring cooking oil and
history.
agency who also moonlighted as a painter,
potatoes and count on the shrimp, oysters,
often working for three to four months
and fish we caught to eat for the weekend.
“I studied artists like Edward Ripley, Howard
at a time to complete a single painting
These people took pride in their Cajun
Pyle, N. C. Wyeth, Philip Goodwin, and
for covers of early outdoor and western
culture and living off the land. I was so lucky
Robert Peak,” he remembers. “I really liked
magazines. In his teenage years, Smith
to grow up in that culture. I have wonderful
their work, especially how it went beyond
was introduced to the camp culture of
memories of that.”
the figurative part of painting. I was and
southern Louisiana, spending weekends in
still am fascinated by the ability of a
the late ‘60s and early ‘70s at the hunting
In the fall and winter, Smith became a
painting to evoke emotion, to take us back
and fishing camps of his friends’ families.
passionate waterfowl hunter and also began
to a time when hunting and fishing were
It was his experiences at these camps that
hunting quail in Texas with his grandfather
more informal and not commercialized.”
made him fall hard for the outdoors.
where he experienced hunting over dogs for
Far too often, hunters and anglers fail to meditate on the beauty of the natural world to which they are bound.
the first time, continually meeting people
For Smith, working from memory rather
who shared his interest in the outdoors.
than relying on photographs for inspiration is an essential part of the creative process.
“I followed that pattern through life,” he says. “Fishing in the spring and summer,
“I want my work to come from the feeling
hunting in the fall and winter, and then
of a real moment. The qualities of light
starting all over again.”
and the paint strokes and the textures you create with a brush are far more interesting
At the same time, Smith watched his father
and overwhelm your senses more than a
paint, learning many of the techniques he
refined, photographically rendered image. To
still uses today; as he grew older, however,
me that type of painting only satisfies the
he realized a more mercurial approach
exercise of comparing yourself to something.
to painting imparted his work with an
A painting does not explain a photograph.
effortless grace—a characteristic that
That is not what a painting should be—it
defines his work today.
should evoke a mood rather than trying to show an ability to copy something. I don’t
“I think you have to paint quickly,” he says.
want to copy. I want to create. Everything
“Painting fluidly requires speed, but I want
in nature has a fine variety that we almost
things to look effortless, even when they’re
can’t perceive. No two blades of grass are
not. I might have to rework a section of
the same. No two river stones are the
a painting several times. It’s not second-
same. The way you move your hand with a
guessing myself, it’s having the confidence
paintbrush brings that imperceptible variety
that I can make the painting better. It has
through.”
to please me before it will bring emotion to a viewer.”
Of course, to work from the “feeling of a moment,” you first have to experience it,
That realization solidified while Smith was
and Smith spends a good deal of time in the
enrolled in college as a fine arts major.
field for that reason. He is constantly trying
Unhappy with the direction a degree in fine
to bear witness to the views, surfaces, and
arts was leading him, he decided to strike
details that others overlook.
out on his own. He worked as a commercial
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illustrator in New York for nearly ten years
“To be able to paint moving water, for
before turning his attention to fine art.
example, you have to understand how it
When it came to choosing subjects for
moves, how it looks at first light, how it
his work, he was inspired by passionate
looks as a cloud passes overhead, how it
Moose in Moonlight
Summer Bliss
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looks at sunset, how the viscosity of the water changes with temperature. You have to spend time in a stream and study the feel of it. You can’t copy it, or it will look phony. You’ll never capture the color, texture, and fluidity otherwise.” Fluidity is a word often invoked by Smith. His relation to the landscape as a guest within it—overjoyed by his surroundings—is palpable in his handling of the paint. He places a subject in natural and authentic situations and allows the viewer to participate in the experience. His work captures the quiet awe of watching a moose wade across a lake under a moonlit sky (Moose in Moonlight), the feeling of
No Cares
repressed excitement as ducks bank into the decoys (Dawn Hunters), and the warm tranquility of fishing a trout stream on a summer day (Summer Bliss). “What is important in these outdoor paintings is mood, a feeling of how things were and still can be,” he says. “The idea is to convey the natural ruggedness of the sport without missing the subtle nuances that make the experience personal.” These days Smith splits his time between Montana and his home state of Louisiana, traveling the country in an Airstream trailer he converted into a mobile studio, hunting and fishing along the way. “I’ve learned from experience,” he laughs. “Always carry a fly rod.” Smith’s paintings hang in some of the most prestigious collections throughout the country; he has contributed to several books; his work has been recognized by conservation organizations such as Ducks Unlimited, the Ruffed Grouse Society, and the Atlantic Salmon Federation; and he is a constant fixture in many prominent sporting publications. Still, his work speaks for itself, resonating with passion and poignancy. Far too often, hunters and anglers fail to meditate on the beauty of the natural world to which they are bound. Smith pokes and prods at it with paint, creating glimpses of Eden in his work.
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A Slim Chance
River Men
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OF
SECRET TAPES AND
SOCKEYE LAKES Words by Reed Knappe Photos by Jay Beyer
ALASKA’S BRISTOL BAY
is one of earth’s most magnificent and abundant environments. Home to the greatest annual migration of wild salmon on the planet, it is both a pristine wilderness and the nucleus of a hugely productive economy. In a world where the advance of human needs and economic interests usually comes at nature’s expense, it is the rare exception: a place so rich and so well-preserved that it gives prodigious sustenance to both humans and nature. Incredibly, a monumental development scheme has cast its shadow over this unrivaled national treasure for nearly twenty years, driven by a small cadre of powerful interests whose short-sightedness almost defies comprehension. In the past year, the struggle over the Pebble Mine has reached a dramatic climax, giving renewed urgency to the pursuit of permanent protections for America’s last great wild salmon fishery.
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Like two fangs of the Bering Sea sunk into
distributing the Bering Sea’s primordial
flocking by the hundreds of thousands.
the base of the Alaska Peninsula, Bristol
nutrient wealth across thousands of miles of
Last year’s sockeye run was estimated at
Bay drains a vast hinterland of glittering
mostly uninhabited wilderness. Sockeye are
58 million—one of the highest in recorded
lakes, rivers, and streams woven into a
Bristol Bay’s keystone species, the medium
history—making possible a bumper harvest
circulatory system the size of Indiana. The
of its perpetual enrichment. Their spawning
of nearly 40 million fish. The commercial
annual run of tens of millions of salmon
and dying sustains a sprawling mosaic of
fishery is lauded by conservationists for
includes over half the world’s sockeye and
forest, wetland, and tundra, with champion
its careful management and emphasis
the largest remaining runs of chinook,
trout, caribou, grizzlies, and diverse birds
on ecosystem health, and the consistent
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If developed, Pebble will rank among the world’s largest pit mines, and with epic size comes an exponentially greater likelihood of harm to the surrounding habitat.
returns of recent years bear witness to its
Yup’ik, and Alutiiq peoples survive off the
makes facilitating access a lucrative
model sustainability. A rare success story, it
bounty of land and sea, much as they have
enterprise. Fishing and hunting lodges
is both ecologically sound and economically
for millennia.
offer something like time travel in natural
vital: The annual sockeye harvest supports
history, transporting patrons to a world
some 15,000 jobs and is valued at 1.5 billion
Alongside subsistence and commercial
of unspoiled abundance and stunning
dollars. At the same time, the region also
fisheries, Bristol Bay is one of the
wildness. Alongside monumental salmon
sustains subsistence practices, and some
world’s premier destinations for outdoor
runs, the region’s lakes and streams yield
31 federally recognized tribes of Dena’ina,
recreation, and one whose remoteness
record-breaking rainbow trout, Arctic Char,
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grayling, Dolly Varden, and pike. Hunters find
offers phenomenal autumn fishing for these
by the State of Alaska and leased to Pebble
birds and mammals in numbers that call to
trout and other sport fish.
Limited Partnership (PLP), Pebble probably
mind the teeming fields and forests of the
deserves the title of America’s worst-situated
Pleistocene. With the dizzying variety and
Yet the Iliamna/Kvichak drainage
mineral deposit: It is found precisely at the
abundance of fauna, fishing and hunting
encompasses only half the region’s fabled
apex of the region’s great twin watersheds—
seasons rotate almost year-round, with
fishing waters: On the western drainage lies
the Nushagak/Mulchatna river system to
lodges and outfitters doing a brisk business
the 275-mile Nushagak River, where visitors
the west, and the Lake Iliamna/Kvichak
from season to season.
can pursue what is widely considered
River drainage to the east. Famously,
Alaska’s best sport fishing for chinook.
Pebble’s inauspicious location led Senator
Bristol Bay’s remarkable inland water
Fly anglers find sublime conditions along
Ted Stevens, a frequent advocate of mining
resources make this natural wealth possible,
its fabled tributaries, the Nuyakuk and
interests, to remark that it was “the wrong
channeling the exchange of energy and
Mulchatna, whose feeder streams include
mine in the wrong place.” Over the past 20
organisms between ocean and land. Nine
the Stuyahok, Koktuli and Chilikadrotna.
years, Pebble has become one of America’s
drainage systems link the Bering Sea
The health of this ecosystem, ranging
most familiar environmental flashpoints, and
to an archipelago of crystalline lakes,
across hundreds of miles, hinges on the all-
the ongoing legal battle has made red-and-
where salmon spawn and feed in their
important organic machinery of its colossal
white NO PEBBLE MINE stickers a familiar
multitudes. Queen among these is Lake
salmon runs. When sockeye were overfished
sight at trailheads and boat launches from
Iliamna—Alaska’s largest body of fresh
earlier in the twentieth century, Bristol
coast to coast.
water, spanning a thousand square miles.
Bay’s sport fisheries (especially its legendary
Accessible only by float plane or riverboat,
rainbows) rapidly declined. It is a deceptively
Critically, the Pebble deposit is extremely
this blue eye of the north sustains millions
rich and robust environment, but one that
low-grade: a monstrous subterranean
of salmon alone, forming the nucleus of
is also fragile, as poisoned watersheds and
soup of metals dispersed in a huge ore
Bristol Bay’s great eastern drainage. Below
collapsed fisheries around the world have
body, which includes massive quantities
Lake Iliamna flows the Kvichak River system,
taught us.
of sulphur-bearing minerals and other
which in many stretches boasts rainbow
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toxic and reactive substances. The only
trout averaging 25 inches. With their access
In the heart of Bristol Bay’s inland
economical way to extract this kind of
to the nutrient-rich inland seas of Iliamna
waterways, a mere 15 miles above Lake
deposit is with an enormous open pit mine.
and its neighboring lakes, these fish have
Iliamna, sits one of the world’s most valuable
This technology is not new, and its risks are
evolved a unique life cycle like that of a
mineral deposits. First thoroughly surveyed
well understood: An independent 2012 study
freshwater steelhead, propelling them to
in the early 2000s, the Pebble claim contains
examining 14 of America’s major copper
monstrous sizes. Connecting Lakes Clark
the second largest unexploited copper and
mines found that 100 percent had released
and Six Mile to Iliamna, the Newhalen River
largest gold deposits on the planet. Owned
toxic spills into surrounding watersheds
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and 92 percent evidenced significant
at Cook Inlet, and a 188-mile natural
a best-case scenario for mine development,
seepage from their waste containment
gas pipeline bringing fuel from the Kenai
wherein damage containment functions
systems. There is no plausible scenario
Peninsula. The mine would use more
as intended. More concerning still are the
under which extraction at Pebble would not
energy than all 300,000 inhabitants of
mine’s entirely plausible and even likely
unearth billions of tons of dangerous waste
the city of Anchorage, and more than four
worst-case scenarios.
and radiate pollution across the region,
times as much water–all sucked out of the
endangering the health of its salmon runs
surrounding watersheds.
and thus the entire ecosystem. If developed,
The most alarming of these scenarios revolves around a unique vulnerability of
Pebble will rank among the world’s largest
In the immediate future, the mine would
the site’s proposed tailings dam, designed
pit mines, and with epic size comes an
produce some 10 billion tons of tailings—
to provide storage for 30 billion cubic feet
exponentially greater likelihood of harm to
waste that would grow more toxic over time,
of mining waste. Alaska is America’s most
the surrounding habitat.
with acid leaching caused by exposure to
seismically active, earthquake-prone state.
air and water. But longer-term quantities
The 1964 Alaska quake measured 9.2
Although claims leased by the mining
are tricky to estimate; the deposit’s scale
magnitude on the Richter Scale, and the
partnership encompass some thousand
means it could plausibly be excavated for
state’s coastal regions are shot through
square miles, the main extent of proposed
centuries. Apart from the glaring threats of
with enough slip faults to make periodic
excavation sits on a 417-square-mile claim
acid mine drainage, dewatering, and habitat
violent shake-ups a matter of certainty.
block. If construction of Pebble were to
fragmentation, fugitive dust stirred up by
The earthquake risk to impoundment dams
proceed, it would entail development of
Pebble’s hundreds of bulldozers, blasters,
at Pebble is impossible to mitigate. The
an infrastructure rivalling what followed
crushers, and trucks poses an immediate
Lake Clark strike-slip fault weaves its way
discovery of oil on the North Slope and
threat to surrounding waterways. A recent
underground to within 20 miles of the mine
construction of the trans-Alaska pipeline.
study found that salmon’s reproductive
site, a jagged subterranean time bomb
Structures surrounding the yawning
and navigational functions can be critically
estimated to go off at roughly hundred-
2,000-foot pit would include a 550-foot
disrupted by amazingly small quantities
year intervals. Such an event would shatter
tailings dam, overburden stockpiles, quarry
of copper contamination: a few parts per
Pebble’s containment dam, releasing a
sites, water management ponds, milling
billion, equivalent to just two drops in an
tidal wave of toxic sludge that could flow
and processing plants, water treatment
Olympic-sized pool. If Pebble goes ahead,
as far as the shores of Bristol Bay, wiping
and power plants, and a virtual city of
the EPA forecasts permanent loss of 2,000
out the entire ecosystem in a single blow.
camp and storage facilities. Moreover, the
to 3,000 acres of wetland and 150 to 200
Catastrophic damage wrought by the
infrastructure would stretch far beyond
miles of streams, with significant damage
collapse of far more modest dams at smaller
the mine itself, including an 83-mile road
to secondary impact zones stretching to
mines, like New Guinea’s Ok Tedi copper
along Lake Iliamna, new port facilities
more than twice those figures. And this is
mine (1984), British Columbia’s Mount Polley
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(2014), and recently in Brazil’s Brumadinho
against the EPA. Meanwhile, the clouds
applications to the U.S. Army Corps of
mine (2019) show how permanently
gathering over Pebble triggered a chain of
Engineers (USACE).
destructive dam failures can be.
divestments from the conglomerate. The three largest partners walked: Mitsubishi in
Facing the inevitable public backlash,
Although the deposits in Pebble West were
2011, Anglo-American in 2013, and Rio Tinto
Pruitt’s EPA soon backpedaled, suspending
first explored in the late 1980s, it took
in 2014. In Anglo-American’s case, divesting
withdrawal of the 404(c) Proposed
years for development plans to take shape.
meant abandoning the nearly 600 million
Determination and initiating a new round
A major turning point came in 2005 when
dollars it had invested. This is to say, three
of data collection and public comment.
Northern Dynasty Minerals, a Canadian
of the world’s toughest, richest, and most
Embarrassingly for Pebble, a number of
company that is now the only important
experienced mining interests recognized
high-profile conservatives soon spoke out
stakeholder, discovered the Pebble East
the project as a nonstarter—politically
against the mine, including Nick Ayers,
deposits and acquired 100 percent of the
risky and probably impossible to justify on
Tucker Carlson, and even Donald Trump Jr.
Pebble claims. Extensive test drilling over
either legal or economic grounds. (Since
Despite the groundswell of dissent, in the
the next five years traced the contours
smaller investors First Quantum Minerals
summer of 2019 the USACE’s environmental
of an enormous but highly diffuse ore
and BlackRock left in 2018, only Northern
impact statement (EIS) concluded that the
body. As evidence of Pebble’s great value
Dynasty remains in the PLP.)
mine would not damage the fishery under
mounted, PLP attracted investments from
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“normal conditions,” seeming once again to
some of the world’s most prominent mining
A succession of surveys in recent years has
put Pebble on track for approval. The impact
corporations, soon becoming the largest
shown that Alaskans reject the mine: More
statement was widely derided as a historic
mine conglomerate in the world based on
than 60 percent statewide strongly oppose
low in regulatory diligence; it included no
a yet-undeveloped claim. Opposition to
Pebble, and the figure rises to over 80
consideration of worst-case scenarios and
the project was also quick to develop, and
percent in communities surrounding Bristol
deliberately glossed over some of the mine’s
in 2010 a large coalition of nine Alaskan
Bay. Moving Pebble forward is therefore only
most obvious and probable risks. It was clear
tribes along with conservation and fishery
possible by autocratic fiat, and it has been
that political pressure had rushed through a
organizations petitioned the EPA to issue a
rejected by the very communities whose
rosy and deliberately incomplete assessment.
Clean Water Act (CWA) determination—in
benefit should be the state’s sole economic
bureaucratic jargon, a 404(c)—blocking
consideration. Without strong political allies,
Nonetheless, the EPA general counsel (also a
development of Pebble permanently. For the
Pebble would have been a dead letter by
Trump appointee) directed regional officials
next three years, the EPA carried out the
2015. But in the eleventh hour, when the
to revoke the Proposed Determination and
Bristol Bay Watershed Assessment, which
mine seemed destined to go down in history
begin the permitting process. A key Pebble
by 2014 found ample evidence that the
as merely a terrible idea, the election of
asset throughout the struggle has been
proposed mine would result in “inevitable
Donald Trump, staunch ally of energy and
Alaska Governor Mike Dunleavy. Tom Collier
negative effects,” and issued a Proposed
mineral interests, gave the partnership a
and other Pebble powerbrokers hosted
Determination under the CWA.
second wind. In 2017, Trump-appointed EPA
fundraising events for the governor and
chief Scott Pruitt oversaw withdrawal of
openly supported his candidacy; in return
Unsurprisingly, this setback provoked Pebble
the Proposed Determination, and by the
Dunleavy has remained Pebble’s most
Limited Partnership to file multiple lawsuits
end of the year PLP was submitting permit
steadfast and well-connected champion.
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SUMMER
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Leaked emails at the close of 2019 showed
blow to the mine’s aspirations, but
copper is projected to grow by 50 percent
that Dunleavy has repeatedly utilized
it cannot have helped the cause. In
during the next 20 years, ensuring Pebble’s
talking points, ghostwritten letters, and
November, the Army Corps of Engineers
enduring allure to business interests. On
coaching from Pebble’s in-house lobbyists
finally issued a record of decision: Citing
the one hand, the insatiable global appetite
in his efforts to court Trump and other
Pebble Mine as not in the public interest
for copper has multiple drivers, including
powerful figures on behalf of the mine.
and its proposed mitigation measures as
rising demand for consumer electronics,
inadequate, USACE unexpectedly denied
electric vehicles, and renewable energy
In 2020, the battle over Pebble entered
Pebble’s wetland fill permit, putting
infrastructure. On the other hand, some 35
its most intense and spectacular phase
a brake on subsequent approval and
percent of demand is already met through
yet. That March, financial giant Morgan
compliance processes. In the first months
recycling, and this proportion is expected to
Stanley dumped its quarter share of the
of 2021, both PLP and the State of Alaska
grow. The only copper deposit that exceeds
Pebble Limited Partnership’s stock. Their
(essentially, Governor Dunleavy’s office)
Pebble in size, the Kamoa Kakula mine in
financial fortunes wavering after the flight
filed legal challenges to the ruling, and
the Democratic Republic of Congo, is nearing
of major investors, PLP placed faith in its
those appeals are now ongoing.
operational and should be pumping out
political allies and the forthcoming USACE
copper (and tailings) within the year. Copper
decision, which—after the toothless impact
With the momentary defeat of the permits
is an enormously important metal, and
statement—seemed on track to rule in
and election of a new U.S. President (who
humanity will continue mining it to meet its
favor of the mine. In September, shortly
has promised via twitter that Pebble
material needs for the foreseeable future.
before the Army Corps was scheduled to
Mine will not go forward), an emboldened
Fortunately, it is widely distributed around
give its final ruling on the permit, a scandal
opposition is renewing the drive for
the globe, and not all deposits are buried in
broke that laid bare the duplicity and
permanent protections. In the last month of
such hallowed and vulnerable ground. It is
incompetence of Pebble’s leadership. Posing
2020, the United Tribes of Bristol Bay, Bristol
time for Alaskans to shut the door once and
as prospective investors, members of the
Bay Economic Development Corporation,
for all on this nightmare-in-the-making.
Environment Investigation Agency (a UK-
and the Bristol Bay Native Association
based nonprofit) recorded then Pebble CEO
issued a joint call to finally make good on
If the struggle to keep Pebble undeveloped
Tom Collier and current CEO Ron Thiessen
the promise of Clean Water Act protections.
and preserve Bristol Bay fails, the costs
speaking candidly about their plans for the
Since then, more than 200 organizations
will be incalculable. Much of the damage
mine and their confidence in support from
with a combined membership of millions
inflicted on the natural world over the
politicians. The ensuing “Pebble Tapes”
have joined the effort. Scenarios floated
last 200 years was inadvertent, shaped by
paint a stark picture of Northern Dynasty’s
in recent months include the possibility
ignorance of earth’s fragile ecosystems and
cynicism and bad faith. The approval process
of a state-federal land swap, or even an
finite natural resources. No such excuses
was a bait-and-switch, Collier admitted:
exchange of regulatory controls over
exist in Bristol Bay. We know better. And
Though initial permits specified a small
offshore fishing. Likewise, the coalition’s
as polls have repeatedly demonstrated,
excavation on an 80-year plan, expansion
aims have grown beyond the longtime
Alaskans know better, especially those
would be unstoppable once operations
goal of 404(c) protections, and it is now
making their living from the lands and
were underway, growing to hundreds of
seeking congressional action, based on the
waters in the mine’s shadow. We have
square miles operating on a 180- to 200-
Magnuson-Stevens Act, declaring the entire
lost the comforting illusions that earth
year timeframe. Addressing the political
region a national fisheries area.
is inexhaustible and that ecosystems will
turmoil surrounding Pebble, Collier claimed
always bounce back from disruption. If
that Senators Lisa Murkowski and Dan
Recent setbacks for the Pebble Mine
Pebble goes forward, its countless tons of
Sullivan, among lesser public officials, would
notwithstanding, the future of Bristol Bay
acidic rock piled into precarious dams and
express token concern about the mine but
is by no means certain. Governor Dunleavy
seeping waste ponds, it will be a deliberate
ultimately support the project in its critical
will continue pushing the mine forward;
act of destruction. It will also be a refusal
backroom negotiations.
with his power to overturn and circumvent
to acknowledge our reliance on nature,
rulings, he remains a major obstacle to
a declaration that the preservation of
The news was electrifying, setting in
protections. Although bipartisan, multiparty
wildness counts for nothing next to the
motion a grand jury investigation and
opposition to Pebble will doubtless
glittering talismans of jewelry, electronic
inviting prompt and scornful disavowals
continue, formidable challenges persist:
gadgets, and stock portfolios. It will be the
from Murkowski’s and Sullivan’s offices.
the mounting cost and legal complexity
highest expression of human arrogance, a
Both senators have subsequently gone
of the struggle, the opacity of entrenched
rejection of the creation itself.
on record as firmly against Pebble. It is
interests and lobbyists, and issue fatigue
unclear what role exactly the scandal
among supporters. Also relevant is the
might have played in the next hammer
global economic context: Demand for
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“Every child has the right to a first fish. On this particular planet, no man is granted a greater privilege than to be present and to assist in the realization of this moment.” —Bill Heavy, Should the Tent be Burning Like That? Lily Chang, three, helps ready the gear as guide Tim Schwarze rigs up. A handful of lollipops and a gracious guide made for a memorable day on the water. Photo: Sammy Chang.
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