TIED TO NATURE
magazine
IN THIS ISSUE: BETWEEN COPPER AND CALAMITY Montana’s Threatened Smith River
BUDDHIST BUTCHERS Meat means life in Nepal
PAICHE
An exploratory trip for arapaima
FOWL WITH A FLOURISH
The finer aspects of duck hunting in Argentina
INTO THE ALPS
Fly fishing, flora, fauna, and food in Italy
MY HEART OF DARKNESS
Bowhunting buffalo and casting for barramundi in Australia
ALL BUT GRAY
The joys of Alaska grayling
A GUIDE’S HOLIDAY IN CAMEROON
Where does a Mongolian taimen guide find adventure? Cameroon
CHAMPAGNE TASTE ON A BEER BUDGET
Life is too short to hunt with an ugly gun
TSIMANE
How golden Dorado are sustaining the Amazon
ELEVATED
Montana’s alpine lakes
SUMMER 2020 DISPLAY UNTIL AUGUST 31, 2020
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Jimmy Kloote rigging en route to Great Lakes carp. Transport courtesy of Big Orange, a 1973 Dodge Sportsman’s Royale, Captained by Alex Bercheck with Jimmy Lampros riding shotgun. Photo: Brian Grossenbacher 2
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Lily Chang (3.5 years) keeps the rod tip high, in a way only a toddler knows how—arms straight up at full extension. Nothing brings back fonder memories of summer than fishing farm ponds with poppers. Photo: Sammy Chang
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Contents
PAICHE by Ryan Sparks
“Soon Diaz had the fish alongside the canoe where its red flaked scales shone like crimson armor. Guevara pulled on the leader trying to position the fish where we could remove the fly, but as he pulled the fish surged in the other direction, snapping the line in an explosion of water. Diaz flopped down in the canoe to collect himself. The rest of us sat silently, processing what we had just seen.”
FOWL WITH A FLOURISH by Reid Bryant
“He tips the kettle into the thermos mouth and scalding water flows from the swan’sneck spout. Still pouring, he lifts the kettle higher and higher till his arms are spread near as wide as they can be. The water falls, tinkling into the thermos, and the sound of the vessel filling swallows itself. Steam rises and hot water dances down. It’s a disarmingly beautiful act, our friend filling his thermos in the morning. […] He knows that things as simple as hot water, as cookies, as north-flying ducks, deserve our consideration and our gratitude.”
INTO THE ALPS by Dave Zoby
“Italy is the origin of our language, the birthplace of philosophers and artists who sculpted our culture with their bare hands. The landscape does not feel distant; rather it aches with a vague familiarity. With the sound of the river still purling through your thoughts, you look across the valleys and think about all of those streams, all of that raw limestone, and wonder if you’ll ever have a chance to make it back.”
MY HEART OF DARKNESS by E. Donnall Thomas, Jr.
“I was there not for a trophy, but for the experience of trying to take a large, dangerous animal with nothing but a stick and string.”
ALL BUT GRAY by Jim McCann
“During the brief moment the light-colored insects sat drying their wings on the surface first one, and then a dozen or more grayling began a feeding frenzy. I’d caught plenty of fish already during the day, and it was time for me to head toward home, but what dry fly fisher could turn his back on such an opportunity.”
A GUIDE’S HOLIDAY IN CAMEROON by Peter W. Fong
“To me, it seems as if every jaunt to the water yields multiple beautiful and surprising events. It seems this way because it’s true. What makes it hard to remember to worry is the repeated accretion of wonders. After releasing a remarkable tigerfish that jumped five times before coming to hand, I think—Did I really also catch a Nile perch this morning, at dawn, within casting distance of a mother hippo and her calf? The answer is an astounding Yes.”
CHAMPAGNE TASTE ON A BEER BUDGET by Tom Keer
“Life’s too short to hunt with an ugly gun. Thanks to Lars Jacob’s Legends Program, acquiring a new, gorgeous shotgun of the highest quality doesn’t have to break the bank. It’ll open the doors to learning about new shooting techniques while putting more birds in your bag. You only go around once in life, but if you do it right, once is enough.”
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GEAR GUIDE by Strung Staff
In the words of American poet and novelist Jim Harrison, “what you choose to eat directly reflects the quality of your days.” In other words, life is too short to eat bad food. Harrison’s philosophy is especially true when you’re outdoors. Food should elevate our time in the field and on the water, not deter from it. We’ve compiled a gear guide that will make your camp cooking more enjoyable while taking it to the next level.
RATIONS AND INTOXICANTS by Ryan Sparks
Rations: Weathering the Storm “Hunting and fishing are, at their core, food acquiring activities, and having the knowledge and skill to successfully kill or catch your dinner gives a certain sovereignty that most people don’t enjoy. I’ve been thinking about this sovereignty a lot lately. Specifically, how we can expand it. Filling the freezer is only half the equation. The pressing question after is how we fill ourselves. Put more simply, what will we eat for dinner?” Intoxicants: A Quarantine Cocktail (Of Sorts) “Times are tough. People are stuck at home, stressed, bored, overworked, unemployed, out of toilet paper, and thirsty for that perfect end-of-the-week cocktail they used to order at their neighborhood bar. Isolation can be trying. Might I suggest an Old Fashioned? Or rather learning the principal lesson this simple cocktail teaches us? In frugality is finesse.”
BUDDHIST BUTCHERS by Christopher Bancroft
“I made out five Nepali men standing over a hobbled yak in the stone corral below. The beast struggled on its side, its horns cutting the dirt as it swung its head violently back and forth. Half a minute later silence reigned: The slaughterer pulled a 10-inch kukri knife from the beast’s abdomen. I grabbed my camera and sprang to action.”
ELEVATED: WHY I FISH MOUNTAIN LAKES by Joshua Bergan
“A few years ago, I was offered an opportunity to write a guidebook about fishing Montana’s mountain lakes. The weekends of three summers (and some Mays and Octobers) were dedicated to driving up rugged roads, hiking, taking pictures and notes, and learning which alpine ponds had natural reproduction and which ones held mere gossip.”
BETWEEN COPPER AND CALAMITY: ON THE EMPERILED FUTURE OF MONTANA’S LEGENDARY SMITH RIVER by Reed Knappe
“Perhaps the greatest enigma of the Smith is that it is none of the things it is commonly described as: It is neither a pristine wilderness nor a well-kept secret nor even, simply, a treasured public resource. It is a complex hybrid environment, a product of entangled and often conflicting human and natural forces. It is at once a messy patchwork of private and public land, use rights new and old, native and non-native organisms, ancient and novel ecosystems, and watery riparian spaces that confound tidy legal and economic frameworks. As anybody who floats down the river comes to understand, it is all the more mysteriously beautiful for this complexity.”
TSIMANE: SUSTAINING THE AMAZON by R. Valentine Atkinson
“Dorado take the fly well, jump like crazy, and are stunningly beautiful—as colorful as Inca gold.”
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magazine
Editor-in-Chief: JOSEPH J. BALLARINI
Managing Editor: GEORGE V. ROBERTS
Creative Director: SCOTT MORRISON
Fly Fishing Editor: DAVE ZOBY Upland Editor: TOM KEER
Conservation Editor: REED KNAPPE Wild Foods Editor: RYAN SPARKS
Website: MICHAEL DUCKWORTH
Editors At Large: BEAU BEASLEY
EHOR BOYANOWSKY
ALEXEI JD BOYANOWSKY JOE DOGGETT
MARK HATTER
Copy Editors: LEILA BEASLEY
BILL BOWERS
CREATIVE CONTRIBUTORS R. Valentine Atkinson Christopher Bancroft Joshua Bergan Reid Bryant Sammy Chang Peter W. Fong Greg Ghaul Brian Grossenbacher
Javier Guevara Stuart Harley Liz Juers Reed Knappe Jim McCann Marco Simoninni E Donnall Thomas, Jr. Lori Thomas
Photos Credits: Cover: Sammy Chang Strung Magazine is a quarterly outdoor lifestyle publication focused on fly fishing, upland, waterfowl, big game, wild foods, conservation and wild space stewardship.
strung magazine 2300 Alton Road Miami Beach, FL 33140 (855) 799-3791
For Subscription inquiries visit: www.STRUNGMAG.com For Advertising inquiries: advertising@STRUNGMAG.com Editorial inquiries: editor@STRUNGMAG.COM All other inquiries: business@STRUNGMAG.COM ©2020 Strung Magazine. All rights reserved.
Photo: Scott Morrison 8
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WADING SYSTEM
PRO WADERS
PRO WADING JACKETS
PRO WADING BOOTS
PRO INSULATION
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letter from the EDITOR During typical times, tumbling a few ideas around would result in a surge of meaningful thoughts from this sagacious old soul. But these are not typical times. I’ve read the recommendations of others in the fishing and hunting community and found some thoughtful commentary and some loathsome whining. Kirk Deeter’s April 1 blog post at Angling Trade is insightful and informative. He recruited a friend who is both an angler and physician to answer questions about how and when to fish (and how and when not to fish) during the pandemic. As a board-certified Emergency Physician myself, currently on the front lines in South Florida, I’ve experienced the scourge of COVID-19 firsthand. Regretfully I have grown accustomed to the daily briefings from state and federal health officials and the barrage of emails with updates to policy and procedure that often cause more upheaval than the virus itself.
Although the novel coronavirus did originate in bats, preliminary studies indicate that animal species are not carriers. (As of April 15, 2020, the only exception to these findings is felines: You’ve likely heard about the Bronx Zoo tiger that tested positive for COVID-19.) Experts do not believe that the virus either affects or is transmitted by dogs, cattle, pigs, horses, sheep, or deer, alleviating concerns about both our food supply and catching the disease through contact with hunted animals. We can breathe easy on that one. When we emerge from quarantine on the other side of this pandemic, our local fisheries, camps, hunting areas, and prey species will be there waiting for us. For the last several weeks fish everywhere have enjoyed a serene period of little or no pressure; the same holds true for other prey species routinely taken by bullet, bow, or hook. Enduring this period of lockdown should result in a (temporarily) cleaner world, less skittish prey, and an epic summer. The smartest thing you can do is ride this out. If my wish is granted, this letter will be outdated by June—and we will be back to doing the things we love.
Not typical times indeed. Enjoy the issue. Deeter’s blog ends, “Be smart and safe, and protect yourselves and your families”—a simple but profound statement that, luckily, most have heeded. I couldn’t agree with him more. No one knows what the state of our union will be when this issue of Strung hits the newsstand. It is unclear if the newsstand will even still be there. Our lives will go on, but they will no doubt be...different. It’s anyone’s guess as to how.
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Joseph Ballarini Editor-in-Chief
Photo: Ryan Sparks
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THE ENTIRE OFFSEASON.
Scientifically Formulated for Body, Mind & Energy. SCOUT, british LAB OWNER: Tim Noe TRAINER: river stone KENNELS EukanubaSportingDog.com © Mars and its Affiliates 2020. All Rights Reserved.
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R. VALENTINE ATKINSON R. Valentine Atkinson is an internationally acclaimed photographer specializing in fly fishing lifestyle and travel. His assignments have taken him around the world to 32 countries and his images have appeared commercially and editorially in the pages of catalogs and magazines for over four decades. Val received a BFA with an emphasis in fine art and photography from Columbus College of Art and Design. He later worked as a staff photographer for Frontiers’ International Travel for 18 years. He has published four books: Distant Waters, Trout and Salmon, The Greatest Flyfishing Around the World, and Friends on the Water. In 2003 he was inducted into the Fly Fishing Hall of Fame.
CHRISTOPHER BANCROFT Christopher Bancroft is a freelance writer and photographer native to Wyoming. After graduating from the University of Wyoming, Bancroft sought to cover hunting, fishing and travel stories. Though the Cowboy State is his home and primary hunting ground, he frequently travels internationally. The locations he has journeyed to include remote Caribbean islands, Central Asia, Europe and of course, the American West. His stories convey the importance of cultural and environmental conservation while maintaining an undertone of sincere adventure. Bancroft’s writings and images have appeared in publications such as American Falconry, Rocky Mountain Elk Foundation’s Bugle Magazine and MeatEater, among other outlets.
REID BRYANT Reid Bryant is an avid hunter, angler, and traveler who lives with his family in the hills of southern Vermont. He was introduced to Argentina’s remarkable bird hunting by photographer Brian Grossenbacher, and the two have collaborated on several projects chronicling their adventures afield in South America. Reid is a frequent contributor to several sporting publications, and is the author of The Orvis Guide to Upland Hunting and Training Bird Dogs. More about his work at www.reidbryant.com
SAMMY CHANG Sammy Chang is a fly fisherman and photographer living in Athens, Georgia, with his wife, two sweet girls, and their water loving dog Banjo. His photography is grounded in the belief that stories, captured in still images, can transport the viewer to their own experience of time on the water. Most of his work focuses on the under-represented waters of the Southeastern United States. He has published in Eastern Fly Fishing, Gray’s Sporting Journal, and TROUT Magazine. He pinches himself daily for these blessings. See more of his work at www. currentandlight.com
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Peter W. Fong is the author of the award-winning novel, Principles of Navigation. In 2018, he led an international team of scientists on a thousand-mile expedition from the headwaters of Mongolia’s Delgermörön River to Russia’s Lake Baikal. His stories and photographs have appeared in American Fiction, Gray’s Sporting Journal, the New York Times, and many other publications. He and his wife live with a tortoiseshell cat and a Labrador retriever in Tangier, Morocco.
BRIAN GROSSENBACHER Brian Grossenbacher is perhaps the most celebrated contemporary outdoor photographer. His photography has been the anchor point for campaigns by such brands as Orvis, Yeti, Mossy Oak, Simms, and his freelance work has been featured in nearly all of the major hunting and fishing magazines.
REED KNAPPE Born and raised on an island in the Pacific Northwest, Reed Knappe is an avid outdoorsman, mediocre fly-fisherman, hunter of record tree specimens, and doctoral candidate in history at Harvard University.
E. DONNALL THOMAS, JR. After spending years bouncing between Alaska and the desert Southwest, Don Thomas, his wife Lori, and their cohort of gun dogs have returned to base at their rural Montana home. Covering a wide variety of outdoor topics including traditional bowhunting, fly fishing, waterfowl and upland hunting (among others), Don’s writing, usually accompanied by Lori’s photography, has appeared in numerous national publications for over thirty years. He prides himself in his willingness to tackle tough, controversial outdoor politics. Don has authored sixteen books, all of which are available at donthomasbooks. com and most on-line outlets.
CONTRIBUTORS
PETER W. FONG
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PAICHE By Ryan Sparks
IN AMAZONIAN FOLKLORE, PIRARUCU WAS THE SON OF A PROMINENT CHIEF WHO VIOLENTLY TRIED TO USURP HIS FATHER’S POWER. SEEING THIS, TUPA, THE GOD OF GODS, SENT A DEMON TO PUNISH PIRARUCU. THE DEMON SET THE FOREST ABLAZE AROUND THE VILLAGE AND CAPTURED PIRARUCU AS HE FLED, DRAGGING HIM TO THE RIVER WHERE HE TRANSFORMED HIM INTO A GIANT, DARK-FINNED CREATURE AND SENTENCED HIM TO HAUNT THE JUNGLE WATERS FOR ETERNITY. ALONG THE JUNGLE BORDER BETWEEN PERU AND ECUADOR THE LOCAL PEOPLE CALL THIS DOOMED CREATURE PAICHE. THE REST OF THE WORLD CALLS THEM ARAPAIMA.
Photo: Javier Guevara 16
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Arapaima are one of the world’s largest
was more likely we would fend off hordes of
freshwater fish. The biggest individuals can
insects, endure torrential rains, and burn in
grow up to 15 feet and reach weights in
the equatorial sun without ever seeing an
excess of 400 pounds. Largely unchanged
arapaima. There was only one way to find
from their prehistoric ancestors, Arapaima
out.
are swimming fossils and the apex predators
*
of their freshwater ecosystem. The remote jungle environments where they live, the
I met Guevara and his friend Alejandro
difficulty of tricking them into eating a fly,
Diaz in Coca, a small Ecuadorian city on the
and their overwhelming strength makes
outskirts of the Amazon. Guevara and Diaz
them one of the most uniquely awe-
have been leading trips to remote locations
inspiring fish in the world of fly fishing.
throughout Central and South America for years, spending several months in the jungle
When thinking about where to fish for
each year. Together they probably have
arapaima those in the know think of
more experience fishing jungle environments
places like Guyana and Brazil, not Ecuador.
than anyone on the planet.
That isn’t from a lack of fish, but rather the absence of infrastructure set up for
With an afternoon to burn before our
anglers to access them. If you want to fish
journey upriver the next morning, we
for arapaima in Ecuador, you have to do
walked the city streets taking in the life
it yourself. When Javier Guevara, owner
and culture. Passing a fish market, a man
of Ecuador Fly Fishing Tours, asked if I
hacked a barred catfish into pieces with a
wanted to join him on an exploratory trip
cleaver while his wife fanned flies from their
to the outskirts of Yasuni National Park in
display. One species surprisingly absent was
easternmost Ecuador, one of the remotest
arapaima. Guevara asked the man if he had
places on Earth, I couldn’t say no. Guevara
any for sale. “No,” he said in Spanish, “they
had heard rumors of isolated lagoons
are hard to find.”
brimming with arapaima, but made clear it
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Photo: Javier Guevara
Considered a delicacy in the Amazon,
That night we woke to the sound of rain
arapaima yield boneless steaks of firm white
on our hotel’s metal roof. By morning
fish. The local people salt and dry the meat,
the rain had strengthened. In a blinding
rolling it into cigar shaped packages that
downpour we loaded our gear into the
hold up in the heat without refrigeration.
boat and found seats among the other
During the height of commercial arapaima
travelers—indigenous villagers returning
fishing, 7,000 tons was taken from the
home and oil workers beginning six-month
Amazon each year, drastically reducing
contracts in the jungle. Forty percent
arapaima numbers across the region. Due
of Ecuador’s oil reserves, an estimated
to overfishing and habitat degradation
1.7 billion barrels of crude oil, lie below
arapaima are now only found in secluded
the surface here. Payments from the
pockets of the Amazon outside the reach
international community have curtailed
of commercial fishermen. Guevara’s goal
oil drilling within Yasuni National Park,
for the trip was to strike a partnership with
but outside its borders oil stations are
the local community to create a sustainable
common. As Ecuador’s largest export, this
fishing program that both protects
oil greases the country’s financial gears,
arapaima from commercial fishing and
but this economic dependence has come at
creates jobs for the local people.
a price. Vast swaths of land, along with the
*
people and creatures residing there, have been pushed aside in the name of resource extraction. Outside of overfishing, habitat
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loss is the greatest threat facing arapaima conservation. Pulling a tarp over the boat’s metal frame, the interior was chokingly humid with a smell of wet bodies reminiscent of a high school locker room. Motoring upriver we stopped frequently at small villages and oil stations, dropping off passengers a few at a time until we were the only ones left in the boat. Signs of civilization faded away until we arrived at the last stop on the river before the Peruvian border. Glancing at my GPS, I noted we had traveled 155 miles, yet were still a long way from the area we intended to explore. There we met our guides, three local fishermen that would accompany us on the rest of the trip: brothers Jairo and José Vega and José Macías. After a quick lunch of stewed chicken, rice, and chichi, a strong alcoholic drink made from cassava root, we carefully loaded our equipment into two dugout canoes outfitted with small outboard motors and set out to navigate the labyrinth of tributaries along the outskirts of Yasuni. Spine-covered palms and flowering vines lined the edges of these slow-moving streams. On the three-hour journey we encountered pink freshwater dolphins, several species of monkeys, caiman, and numerous groups of endangered giant river otters. Considered the most biologically diverse place on Earth, Yasuni falls within a small zone where amphibian, bird, mammal, and plant life reach their maximum diversity level within the western hemisphere. A single hectare, an area roughly the size of a soccer field, can contain as many as 655 different tree species, more than all the native tree species in the US and Canada. Following a tunnel-like rivulet through the jungle, the water gradually opened into the small lagoon where we intended to camp. Macías and the Vegas got to work clearing the jungle with machetes. While not traditional fly fishing guides, it was clear they had more outdoor skills than most Americans who call themselves
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Photo: Javier Guevara
“outdoorsmen.” They expertly maneuvered through the flooded jungle forest using canoes and paddles they had made themselves. This was especially impressive considering they did it without GPS in a place where water levels change daily, altering which routes can be taken. Their knowledge of the environment was one that only comes from a lifetime of immersion in the landscape. Within minutes they had miraculously created a fire amidst the rain, and then set about cutting limbs to create a sleeping shelter. As the sun set, dinner simmered in a pot over the fire and I noticed the Vegas donning headlamps and slipping into the jungle with their machetes. “Where are they going?” I asked Guevara. “To fish,” he replied. “With machetes!?” “Yes, go see” he responded indifferently, and I followed them into the night. Looking through the water’s surface, the immensity of aquatic life was staggering. Fish of every shape and size frantically darted to get away from the light, creating silver and golden streaks like welding sparks. Within fifteen minutes the brothers had collected enough fish for the six of us to eat for breakfast and lunch the next day. It seemed almost more difficult for them to strike the water and not come up with a fish. When we returned to camp they scaled
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and butterflied the fish, placing them over
them disappear. Through trial and error,
the smoldering remnants of the fire to
we honed our hunting strategy. When we
smoke until morning.
located an active fish, we would stealthily
*
paddle towards it. Certain fish seemed to follow a pattern or route, surfacing in
At first light the rainforest was symphonic.
the same areas in sequence. We tried to
Macaws, manakins, thrushes, blue-headed
guess where the fish would surface next
parrots and a variety of monkeys greeted
and hoped to get lucky. Once we had closed
the day with vocalizations both sweet and
the distance it was a waiting game. Focus
strange. With a low fog rolling over the
and timing were crucial. It could be twenty
water we loaded twelve-weights into the
minutes between each sighting, and when a
canoes and pushed into the stillness of the
fish showed itself the opportunity for a cast
lagoon while primal sounds radiated from
lasted only a few seconds. This was quiet
the jungle.
hunting and we couldn’t help but fall into unnecessary whispers.
None of us had fished for arapaima before, although the Vegas had years of experience
Between both canoes we had two legitimate
hunting them with spears. We initially blind
chances at connecting that afternoon, but
casted towards shore, but after three hours
both boats came up empty. During lunch
we had only caught two small peacock bass
we decided to split up and explore different
barely larger than the flies we were using
bays within the lagoon system. As Guevara,
and several small sardinata. Macías told us
Macías, and José motored in the opposite
we should be seeing arapaima roll on the
direction, they joked that when they
surface and suggested we move camp. After
returned, they would smell like arapaima.
a quick breakfast, we loaded everything back into the canoes, and set out looking for
Again, Diaz and I got several shots at
new water.
surfacing arapaima, but the speed required to get a fly in front of them felt like playing
After a few hours of searching the
a high-speed game of whack-a-mole. At the
meandering, seemingly endless river system
agreed upon place and time, we returned to
we entered an enormous lagoon with
make camp and see if the other group had
dozens of small adjoining bays. Cutting
fared better. As the sun set on the jungle
the outboard we drifted silently, watching
skyline, we finished setting up camp and
for arapaima to surface. Arapaima depend
began preparing dinner with no sign of the
on surface air to breathe. In addition
others. An hour later we heard the distinct
to gills, they have an enlarged swim
sound of an outboard drawing nearer.
bladder, composed of lung-like tissue that enables them to get oxygen by coming to
“We got one,” Guevara said coolly as the
the surface and gulping air. This is why
canoe slid ashore. He had taken a long,
arapaima are so vulnerable to commercial
low odds cast to a fish cruising on the
fishing. Spear fishermen spot arapaima
surface. The fly landed directly in front
on the surface and home in on them with
of the fish and when it hit the water the
spears and nets.
arapaima grabbed it immediately. Guevara told us the fight had lasted an hour with
“We need to stop fishing and start hunting,”
the fish jumping six times. When they got
Guevara said as another enormous fish
it alongside the canoe, they estimated it
surfaced in the distance.
was 10 feet long and weighed around 200 pounds.
We moved to an area where we could observe a large swath of water, taking note
“They could sink the canoe if they landed
of where and how often fish were surfacing.
on it,” Guevara said with excitement in his
Often, we would hear them before we saw
voice.
them, turning our heads just in time to see
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“That’s a badass fish.”
A heavy rain fell throughout the night
In the morning we split up again with
and in the morning the water had risen
Guevara, Macías, and José exploring to the
Several rounds of “coco loco” (rum and
several feet, creating more room for the
north while Diaz, Jairo, and I headed south.
coconut water) were consumed that night
fish to swim through the tangle of flooded
Following the twisting channels, we ran as
while Guevara recounted the story again
jungle. As we watched for arapaima into
far as we could until floating grass mats
over dinner. Before the guides had looked
the afternoon, we could hear them rolling
pinched to a narrow gate that opened into
at our fly tackle with skepticism, now they
within the jungle, but didn’t see a single
a small circular cove roughly the size of a
examined it closely, asking questions about
fish. At midday thunderheads loomed in
little league baseball field. As soon as we
how it worked and admitting their initial
the distance and when the first streaks of
entered the cove, we knew we had found
doubt. Our flies particularly interested
lightning arced across the sky we retreated
them. At least a dozen arapaima rolled
them; long baitfish patterns of 8-12 inches
to camp. Such are the realities of fishing in
around the edges in the first few minutes.
with ribbon tails that fluttered during the
the rainforest.
Looking into the water, the reason for this
retrieve.
concentration became clear. Thousands The following day was more of the same;
of baitfish shimmered like gold under the
“Es perfecto,” Macías said, comparing one of
fish heard rolling in the jungle, but never
surface. Moving in mass they occasionally
Guevara’s flies to the fish we were preparing
seen. Still, drifting silently in a canoe,
fluttered as orange streaks of peacock bass
for dinner.
listening for fish while howler monkeys
flashed below. Diaz pointed out several
groan in the distance and harpy eagles circle
sardinata rushing past, and as we looked the
“It’s just like hunting them [with spears],
overhead isn’t a bad way to spend a day.
dark outline of an arapaima floated under
but with hooks and line.”
As the skies cleared that evening everyone
the boat. The entirety of the food chain was
agreed if the water fell overnight, the next
swimming beneath our feet.
*
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day was going to be good.
Moving the canoe to the side of the cove
He made a good cast and stripped the fly
As the fish began to tire, we heard the hum
Diaz positioned himself to cover the
painstakingly slow. On the third long strip,
of an outboard. Soon Guevara and the rest
water off the stern while I took the bow.
he shrugged his shoulders in frustration. A
of our group came speeding into the cove.
Ten minutes passed before an arapaima
moment later the line snapped tight. The
They had been fishing nearby and heard our
surfaced fifteen feet to my right. I made
fish burst from the water, thrashing its head
shouting when Diaz hooked the fish. Soon
a quick cast and put the fly in the fish’s
and flaring its gills. Then it started a long
Diaz had the fish alongside the canoe where
path. Making a long, slow strip I felt tension
run towards the back of the cove, throwing
its red flaked scales shone like crimson
building in the line and strip set hard. Like
a wake behind it and pulling 100 feet of
armor. Guevara pulled on the leader trying
many fish species, arapaima are suction
backing off the reel in under a minute. Diaz
to position the fish where we could remove
feeders, rapidly expanding their mouths to
tightened the drag to its fullest strength as
the fly, but as he pulled the fish surged in
suck in water and food. Feeding this way, it’s
the fish made several more snaking jumps.
the other direction, snapping the line in an
possible for them to inhale and then exhale
Besides peeling line off the reel, the fish also
explosion of water. Diaz flopped down in the
your fly instantaneously. As I set the hook,
towed the canoe, and Jairo used the motor
canoe to collect himself. The rest of us sat
I felt the fly briefly connect with the fish
to pull against it. For the next 45 minutes
silently, processing what we had just seen.
before coming loose. The water exploded
Diaz worked the fish to the boat. Occasionally
“I told you,” Guevara finally said. “Those are
and the fish was gone. Dangling from my
it would surface to breathe and then dive
badass fish.”
hook was a small scrap of gummy flesh from
again, pulling all the line Diaz has gained
the fish’s mouth.
back off the reel. Outside of marlin, I’ve never
*
seen a fish with such incredible strength. To
The next morning, we returned to the same
I didn’t have time to dwell on my lost
sight fish for such an unbelievable species is
cove which we nicknamed “the arena.”
opportunity. A minute later another fish
unmatched in the world of fishing.
Being the only one to have not caught an
rolled at the stern, giving Diaz a chance.
arapaima, Diaz graciously gave me the
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returned to camp Jairo, José, and Macías
hook. When I asked José how big he thought
made a smoky, seething fire while we
it was, he shook his head and shrugged.
prepared dinner. Guevara told me the smoke
“Muy grande,” he said, gesturing with his
is thought to fend off spirits and illness.
arms like he was trying to a hug a 300-year-
When they suggested “una limpia,” or a
old oak.
cleansing, was in order to refill my fishing juju I was hesitant to say the least, but after
That was our final encounter with
thinking about it (I’d had numerous chances
arapaima on the trip, although Guevara
at fish every day, not to mention two missed
has returned to the area several times
hook sets) who was I to disagree with them?
since then, eventually achieving his goal of partnering with a local community to found
Jairo and José gathered palm leaves from
Paiche Amazon Lodge. The lodge provides
the forest and started a smoke bellowing
fishermen like our guides a better income
fire near the water. They instructed me
than commercial fishing, thus replacing
to sit on the ground next to the fire and
spearing with catch and release fly fishing.
José began an indecipherable chant while
Guevara admits it’s still tough to compete
brushing my back, neck, head, and shoulders
with the oil industry who offers young men
with the palm leaves, shaking them through
around $10,000 for six-months of tough
bow. Over the course of the day I got at
the fire between each stroke. When he
labor. Still, the lodge offers employment
least ten shots. Although I was learning in
finished, he tossed the leaves in the fire.
to anyone from the community, including
arapaima fishing, if you get ten shots, three
Guevara told me this symbolized the
women and the elderly (something not
might be legitimate chances where if you
burning of my curse. I wasn’t sure what to
easily found in the region) and currently
do everything right—judge the speed and
say or how to feel about it, whether this was
employs just over fifteen people.
direction of the fish, make an accurate cast
a heartfelt belief or an excuse for slapping a
within seconds of seeing it, and strip the
naive gringo with palm fronds. Either way, it
Fishing for “paiche” is as much about
fly directly in front of it—you could logically
couldn’t hurt.
the environment where they live as the
suppose it would eat. The other seven are akin to last second hail Mary passes; too far
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*
fish themselves. For anglers interested in adventure travel, technical fishing, and
and at bad angles where you do your best
There are only a few things a long night
the opportunity to catch one of the most
and hope to get lucky.
of introspection can’t fix. Fishing is one of
incredible fish on the planet, Ecuador is a
them. Our final day came and went with
unique opportunity that checks all those
After a fishless day, Jairo paddled the canoe
several good opportunities, but no fish. At
boxes. Arapaima just might be the perfect
out of the bay heading back to camp as an
one point we watched Guevara make several
fly rod fish. They jump like tarpon, invoke all
arapaima launched itself into the side of
casts to a resting fish at the back of a large
the head scratching frustration of permit,
the boat, nearly tipping us. We looked at
bay. On the third cast the fish lunged at
are pursued using an addictive blend of
each other, not sure what to think or say.
the fly, exposing its entire profile above
hunting and fishing, and when hooked put
Whether the fish had struck us on purpose
the water. It looked twice as big as the
up a fight unparalleled by anything but the
or by accident Jairo and José agreed I was
200-pound fish we had seen earlier in the
largest saltwater species. The mere presence
cursed. Superstitions like this are common
week, but because it came directly towards
of such a fish changes the feeling of the
in the Amazon. Each evening when we
the canoe, Guevara was unable to set the
entire landscape.
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25
Fowl with a Flourish
Well before dawn Agustin knocks on the
hall to Brian’s room and then back toward
and pulls the covers to her chin, sinking back
bedroom door to make sure we are awake.
the kitchen. He will stop to stir up the fire
into sleep that’s nearly spent. I get up and
It’s one of those early mornings that slips
and put the kettle on and lay out a tray
go to the window. The floor is cool under
out of a night in which sleep barely came,
of coffee and cookies. No doubt Agustin
foot.
and then only in whispers. I’m awake and
has been up for some time. I bet he’s been
expecting the three precise thumps as they
waiting just like me.
come. “Good morning,” he says. I answer by
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The stars are still high up, hung against the core of a blue-black night. Inexact, they
thanking him. I can hear his stocking feet
Kim has never been one to race the alarm,
are there and then gone when I look at
on the tile as he makes his way down the
even on hunting mornings. She rolls over
them hard, winking like sputtering candles.
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Words by Reid Bryant, Photos by Brian Grossenbacher
The sum of them creates a disconcerting
world away from home. The mallards and
montage: these are the southern stars, their
woodies that fill my autumn mornings—and
anchors set in a southern sky, and for a
occasionally my dinner plate—are miles and
moment I feel an acute self-consciousness
months away.
about my presence here. The North Star is the one by which I normally travel, paced
It is fall in June, in itself a paradox, and
off in finger-lengths from the slanting
the ducks below these southern stars are
edge of the Big Dipper. Looking out at the
heading north for the winter. Our paths will
night, I’m upside down and backwards, a
collide here; Kim and I will interrupt their
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journey, as duck hunters are wont to do.
in the kitchen; the red kettle whistles on the
as hot water, as cookies, as north-flying
burner. Kim and I are hunched over coffee
ducks, deserve our consideration and our
Kim stirs in the bed. “Do we have to get up
cups, half-dressed in muted browns and
gratitude.
now?” she asks.
greens. Our friend Robin wanders in from his bedroom, sleepy-eyed and smiling. We eat cookies smeared with dulce de leche, and
precipice of duck season. Our friend Agustin
our fingers are sticky. It seems a decadent
“Are you ready to go hunting?” he asks,
has started the coffee, and to let it go cold
wake-up, one in keeping with Augie’s canon.
screwing the cap on the thermos. From lofty
would be a travesty. In the face of anarchic
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He sees the divine in the tiniest details.
Of course we do. We are in Argentina on the
heights we descend to finish our coffee and
time and celestial bodies, memory reminds
Augie turns off the burner, gathering his
follow him out to the truck.
me how to do this. I fall into the rituals of
dented thermos in one hand and the kettle
the morning as Kim sits up and yawns. We
in the other. He tips the kettle into the
pull on layers laid out the night before—
thermos mouth and scalding water flows
socks and long johns and fleece pants—and
from the swan’s-neck spout. Still pouring,
Kim and I are lucky ones indeed. We’ve been
blacken and dull our shining faces with a
he lifts the kettle higher and higher until
places and seen things, and we have run
burnt wine cork.
his arms are spread nearly as wide as
around in enough boats through enough
they can be. The water falls, tinkling into
nights and early mornings to know there is a
I hear Augie’s feet on the tiles once more, a
the thermos, and the sound of the vessel
way to do it right. We sit on the floor of the
bit more insistently now. Kim goes into the
filling swallows itself. Steam rises and
johnboat with the weight of the decoys and
bathroom to brush her teeth. I close the
hot water dances down. It’s a disarmingly
gear in the bow. The gear will keep the bow
door softly and head to the kitchen.
beautiful act, our friend filling his thermos
down, smoothing out the ride, though there
in the morning. In Agustin’s world, all such
is little chop to jostle us and the wind is low.
mornings deserve their elegance, their
We face rearward with our hoods up and our
ballet. In Agustin’s world, each moment gets
shoulders hunched. We watch the gathering
My friend Agustin does most things with a
remarqued. He thinks like that, Agustin. It’s
day as it emerges over the wake; it is hard
flourish—with elegance and grace—with or
why we like him. He pours hot water like
not to make eye contact with Oscar who
without an audience. Augie believes that the
Fred Astaire, but not to impress or draw our
mans the tiller.
universe deserves as much attention. He is
attention. He knows that things as simple
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Spray and intermittent rain hit our bent backs as we force our way into them. At the intersection of falling water and Gore-tex, our bodies take shelter somewhere behind. We are warm and comfortable, hands tucked in pockets, and we are feeling a bit superior. Around us in the boat are friends old and new: Santi and Brian, Robin and Agustin, Oscar at the helm. All save Oscar are looking backward, hands in pockets. The boat twists deeper into the Parana delta where the ducks redouble millionfold out of subdued light, rising in waves as we pass. The day takes on a dim glow. We find ourselves suspended between dawn and morning as we thrust forward through light rain toward the blind. The earth all around is saturated, pools of standing water black against the flooded rangeland. Channels curl through the green, moving lazily toward the Atlantic. Most of the marsh is a floating mat, weeds and lily pads so thick as to seem nearly walkable. The mud hummocks appear insufficient to maintain the trees upon them. Shadows against the marsh, cows wade like moose above their briskets, eating the succulent stuff with their noses plunged deep in the water. We turn into the main channel, and small dorado, the prized gamefish of Argentina’s northern tier, begin to leap from the water. Our backs are turned to such hazards, and we watch Oscar maneuver the tiller quickly, ducking and smiling a broad and toothless smile. This seems a good joke to Oscar: fish flying about in the dim light, a whimsical gesture of nature. A 16-inch dorado splats against Robin’s back, and flops to the bottom of the boat. It wriggles at Oscar’s feet. He is delighted. His eyes nearly closed with glee, he says something in Spanish and giggles, bends, and picks up the fish in one scarred brown hand. He chucks it back overboard, and everyone laughs. The rain starts a little bit harder, and the ducks continue to rise.
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I hunted this place once before. Not this
a hunting estancia owned by a stately
place exactly, in that there is so much space
Argentine with a booming baritone and
in the delta marsh that no man might
a plane of his own. I arrived six years
hunt the same chunk of it twice. But I have
ago telling myself that I’d duped them
hunted this property, a 40,000 acre sweep
into thinking I was an outdoor writer,
of wetland in Entre Rios Province. I think
that I was a bird shooter of repute, that
about this again as the motor whines, and I
I would somehow add value by virtue of
study my feet. I hunted this place six years
my presence. Marinating in self-doubt,
ago, when I was younger and far more self-
I seemed to manifest my own destiny: I
conscious, burdened by the thought that I
loved the parakeets and ombu trees, the
didn’t deserve the chance. Truth be told, I
smell of wood cookfires, the gauchos riding
probably didn’t, but I was there anyway, and
horseback down dirt tracks—but I shot
in hindsight I should have known enough
like an idiot, and I failed to drink deeply,
to let go of the inferiority complex. I could
without reservation. Choosing to dwell on
have just opened my heart, been grateful,
my unworthiness, I missed some part of
and shot some birds. But at the time I
Argentina, of the miraculous gift of an
couldn’t, and it cluttered me up in the head.
adventure. I missed something that I knew I
Hindsight, as they say.
was missing even as it passed me by. In the years since, I had grown up and hoped for
I came that time as a green young writer,
a chance to return. Deserved or not, that
the guest of my photographer friend
chance had arisen, and I’d learned enough to
Brian and his longtime friend Agustin. The
not think too hard on how or why.
property, Los Ombues, was and remains
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Six years later, the morning spits rain, and I feel less driven to justify anything. Oscar banks the boat into a channel in the weeds and throttles back. We weave into brush and ditch the boat when the way forward gets clogged, but the footing is firm and shallow. We get out in thigh-deep water. Agustin hands us bags of decoys, guns, and boxes of ammunition. Already the ducks we kicked up in our entry are swinging back and preparing to land. There are hummocks of scrub and reeds, plumes of cover easy to sink into but hard to rise out of and shoot from. Augie leads us to a ring of woody brush staked in the mud, inconspicuous among the textures of the marsh. It is a rough circular blind, hollowed out on the inside and big enough for three. There are
tule seats in there, and Santi has lugged along a few boxes of shells. Oscar wades out in front dragging a decoy sack. He stops on the way to light a cigarette. Kim and I move to follow him, but Augie waves us back. “No, no—he is just putting out a few more. Get loaded up and ready, so when he comes back you can start shooting. The ducks will want right back in.” And sure as the sun will rise tomorrow, the ducks want right back in. A jumble of teal dips and swings while Oscar sloshes and smokes among the decoys. He looks up and smiles, and the ducks buzz on by. He stakes a spinner and turns it on. He assesses his handiwork, seems to approve, and wanders back into the thick stuff behind the blind. The marsh has already swallowed up Augie and Robin and Brian. Santi is hunched off of Kim’s right shoulder, his chin tucked and his eyes trained up. He is watching, periodically looking behind. Kim is watching, too. For as far as any of us can see, skeins of ducks are rising and settling, rising and settling, materializing out of and disappearing into water and fog. Santi whistles a three-tiered whistle through his teeth. He is fixed on something to our right, and I try to turn and see it, too. The teal come in fast from the south, a flock of six or more, the Cappucine birds so lovely and prized on the plate. I watch them pass and I wait for Kim, who holds her gun loosely and waits for me. From the reeds behind us, Agustin asks, “Why did you not shoot?” I look at Kim who looks at me, and we decide to get serious. Santi smiles and points out to the front. “Roseee…” he says quietly, rolling the leading R. Two birds, silhouetted against the morning, are low and coming. “Wait,” says Agustin from the place where he sits hidden. “Wait….”
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Soon enough, two rosy-billed pochards are
spasmodically. We have done what we came
though I am sure she and I both did. I’m
in our lap: a hen and a big bull of a drake.
to do, and we drop back down and sit in
proud she didn’t even try for the hen.
They cup and commit to their downward
the mud in the drizzle. We move between
Her words remind me of six years back,
cast just as Kim and I rise and fire. The
triumph and regret, noting that a piece of
of my commitment to my own perceived
ducks try with all they have to combat
the living world has been snuffed out.
inadequacy. I don’t say as much.
their conviction. Shots punctuate their
Santi smiles, and behind us in the brush
Instead, I think of how time passes, how
change of heart, and the drake turns limp
Oscar croaks out, “Bueno!”
we reap what we sow, and how things that
gravity and momentum, to retreat from
in the air. He folds as the hen regains height
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offer joy can be toted along or left behind,
and leaves. The drake splashes into the
Kim ejects her hulls and reloads. She shrugs
depending on our will. I am thinking this
decoys to lie upside down, one foot kicking
and says, “I’m sure I didn’t hit that one,”
when more teal come in from the right,
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making a swing behind us. The birds cross,
She is left with no choice but to shrug her
we miss with both barrels, Augie sometimes
and I rise and mount the gun and pick one
shoulders and smile a little bit, hoping I
takes a long poke from his place behind us,
small bird from the pile. As I do, Kim comes
don’t see.
showing us how it is done. This makes Oscar
up and folds the lead bird into the decoys.
giggle and cough.
We hunker back down, and she turns to me and announces again that she has missed.
The ducks become a vibrant pile against the
“No, you didn’t,” I say, to which she responds
The morning passes, and the birds keep
mud and the sodden grass. There are teal
that I am just being charitable. I open
coming. We kill some birds and miss far
of many colors, the flat black rosies with
my gun and show her two full shells, the
more, and we are grateful for both. Augie
their resplendent bills fading from rouge to
primers undented. “I didn’t even shoot.”
and Robin and Oscar wade out to grab them
pearl-white, the long and leggy tree ducks
sometimes or to stretch their legs. When
with the glorious rust-gold plumes. There is
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meat enough for many, and stories enough
Near the launch, Oscar powers down, and
saddle. He turns his horse with one hand,
to tell. The rain lets up and releases the sky.
we creep into shallower water where coots
looking at us as he does so. The dogs take
It cracks open a wedge of blue, and sunshine
dabble and dip. We ease our way to the
up the space behind the horse. They follow
pours through. It is time to pick up.
makeshift dock, to the clearing where the
the gaucho up the dirt track and off toward
trucks are parked. It is late morning, and
the wheat fields and higher ground.
Ducks are gathered, slung, and loaded; spent
the sun has done its work now, burning
hulls are piled in a grain sack. We climb over
color and warmth back into the land. Beside
We watch him go. Agustin carries the
the gunwale and settle in our seats, the
the trucks, a gaucho sits on his horse and
remaining ducks over to the truck and lays
weight of the ducks making up for that of
watches us approach. His face is creased
them on the tailgate. He smoothes their
the shells we’ve emptied. Oscar is the last to
and brown. On his head, a blue beret sits
feathers, wiping droplets of water from the
load, giving a big push out into the channel,
rakishly off to one side. His horse stomps a
wings, allowing the vanes to regain their
heaving himself up and in. He turns the key,
front foot, and the dogs hop out of harm’s
intended order. We stand there quietly and
and the engine kicks over and catches.
way but quickly return. The gaucho wheels
watch him work. In due course, the ducks
the horse in a circle, and it settles down.
will be plucked and breasted, the feathers
The fog lifts, and Entre Rios emerges from it, far to the south.
left to blow across the wheat fields, the We tether the boat and unload the gear,
breast meat scalloped off the bone. For
shuttling it up to the trucks. Agustin slings
now, Augie takes care to make the world
half of the ducks over his shoulder and
symmetrical once more.
carries them up toward the gaucho, who It is hard to speak over the engine noise.
lights a cigarette. The two discuss the birds
In the big house on top of the hill, the
Agustin opens a battered leather bag and
in Spanish, and Agustin pulls out individual
cookfire is burning aromatic espinillo
takes out his thermos. He prepares the
ducks for the gaucho to look over, holding
wood. Tendrils of white smoke lift into the
mate: loose tea in a dry gourd, the dawn’s
their breasts out. The gaucho nods. Agustin
morning sky. Soon it will be lunchtime.
lovely water poured over the top. He tastes
pulls a dozen teal from the bunch and
it, sucking the bitterness of the first brew
lays them on a clean patch of grass. He
Augie closes the tailgate, hops into the
out through a metal straw, then adds more
smoothes their feathers and places them
driver’s seat, and turns the key. The truck
water. He passes the gourd to Oscar, who
carefully in a dry grain sack. He adds two
roars to life, and Augie closes his door. He
finishes it in three long pulls, squinting into
big rosy drakes, their heads tucked under
leans out the window. “We go?” he asks.
the spray. Agustin fills the gourd again and
a wing. He rolls the bag neatly, and hands
passes it to Robin. We drink mate in this
the bundle back up to the gaucho, who nods
way, and the engine is too loud, so we don’t
again, and sets it in front of him on the
And so we do.
try to speak. The nutria have congregated on the broad mats of weed. They look like little mounds of mud, but occasionally they drop to all fours and run across the surface. Kim is fascinated. She points at them and smiles and drinks her tea.
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Into the Alps Words by Dave Zoby, Photos by Marco Simoninni
High in the mountains by a deep ravine inside my massive block, enclosed, alone but then brought down and stripped, I now am seen against my will and destitute of stone. — Michelangelo
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Val Rendena is a picturesque hanging valley in the autonomous region of Trentino-Alto Adige in Northern Italy, a boulder-strewn, glaciated region defined by plunging rivers and exposed peaks of dolomite limestone. Sunlight strikes the mountains and the stone glows, or seems to glow as if there is something alive inside the rock itself. The three villages of Madonna di Campiglio, Spiazzo, and Pinzolo are known for alpine and cross-country skiing, family-owned restaurants that feature farm-to-table fare, homemade grappa and wine, and hazelnuts gathered from the local trees after windstorms. Fall fishing takes place between the busy summer festival season and the glamourous ski season when Europeans flock to the area for its fresh power and steep runs. The area is known for its apples. You see them stacked, for sale, by the side of the road. You see a taciturn farmer standing by his stall in the passing rain shower. There’s cider too. The Rendena cow is renowned for its milk and cheese. They graze by the banks of the Sarca River until a farmer calls them to the barn at dusk. Music of their cowbells multiplies as they jog toward the farmhouse. Trento DOC, the dry, crisp white wine from this region has all of the qualities of a clear, crisp trout stream, bottled and poised until you pop the cork. In the autumn, the slopes blaze with hazelnut and beech trees in full leaf. A small, enthusiastic contingent of fly fishermen and fly tiers has emerged. But there are no trout shops, none of that guide culture you find in the American West. It’s just a few Italians and their
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Euro nymphing set-ups. Their flies are unlike the flies you see elsewhere. These are more jig-like, sparsely tied, weighted, and fished on fine, light tippet. The prize fish is the marble trout, which, with its limestone hues and furtive habits, fits the scenery. Marble trout, salmo marmoratus, are secretive fish that live in only a handful of river drainages that lead to the Adriatic Sea. These fish have an enormous growth potential. Black and white photos on the walls of family-owned restaurants portray giants from a bygone era. Most likely, you’ll encounter fish in the eighteen
to twenty inch range. Their golden, vermiculated patterns bring to mind the exposed limestone outcroppings of the Dolomites. Marbles survive by ambushing smaller fish, and their heads and mouths belie a true gamefish with teeth that are surprisingly treacherous. These trout, like brown trout, are fall spawners. Hybridized fish are common, and one finds great delight in examining individual fish and determining if it’s a pure marble trout, or some blend, some extraordinary mashup of brown trout and marble. The dozens of tributaries which flow into the Sarca River are crystal clear rills
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that require light tippet, tiny flies, and stealthy techniques. Anglers leapfrog each other from pool to pool, haul out and sneak through the beech and hazelnut trees, lean over mossy boulders to cast at feeding trout upstream. Guides like Paolo Ferrazza at Sarca Fly
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Fishing introduce anglers to this unique dreamscape of crystalline streams and ancient forests. He proudly showcases the Rendena Valley, the many places to catch wild trout, and the unique flies one needs to rise a stubborn marble from its feeding lane. At the end of the day, Ferrazza brings anglers to one of
the many restaurants that dot the valley. Local wine and cheese from the famous Rendena cows is featured at every stop. Italy is the origin of our language, the birthplace of philosophers and artists who sculpted our culture with their bare hands. The landscape does not feel
distant; rather it aches with a vague familiarity. With the sound of the river still purling through your thoughts, you look across the valleys and think about all of those streams, all of that raw limestone, and wonder if you’ll ever have a chance to make it back.
Epilogue
At the time of writing this essay, Italy remains one of the nations hardest hit by the novel coronavirus. In the coming months and years, it will be of particular importance to the professional fishing guides and sport fishing conservationists that those who thrive on the adventure of new and exciting fishing destinations add Italy, and the haunts of the infamous marble trout, to their lists of priority destinations.
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OF DARKNESS OF DARKNESS Words by E. Donnall Thomas, Jr. Photos by Lori Thomas
This story deserves a segment on “The
ebony hide bespoke trouble as eloquently as
on a buffalo despite multiple frustrating
Blackness of the Buffalo” for reasons
the contempt in its eyes.
attempts in other areas. Bill was carrying his recurve that morning, but I couldn’t even
analogous to Melville’s chapter “The
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Whiteness of the Whale” in Moby-Dick:
The creature was perhaps justified in
manage that much: Recent neck surgery to
Perfect lightness or perfect darkness seems
his disdain. Aussie mates Bill Baker, Brad
repair a damaged nerve had left me unable
to represent all the human mind needs to
Kane, Dan Smith, and I had organized this
to pick my nose with my right arm, much
know in order to understand each of these
trip to explore the possibilities of guiding
less draw a bow heavy enough to kill a tough
imposing creatures. The first time I saw a
bowhunters in pursuit of Australia’s most
one-ton animal. Furthermore, in a classical
wild Asiatic buffalo lumbering toward me
dangerous big game animal. Despite his well-
example of “It seemed like a good idea at the
through the lush green cycads that blanket
deserved reputation as one of the country’s
time” thinking, we hadn’t brought a single
Australia’s Melville Island, its mud-streaked
best bowhunters, Bill had never connected
firearm with us to the island.
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The bull ground to a halt 15 yards away and
motionless for exactly 29 minutes. The arrow
We easily located the fallen bull 50 yards back
gave us the stink eye, and our plan was that
on the riser of Bill’s bow began to shake. I
in the brush. Bill’s long quest for a buffalo
Bill would put an arrow through him while I
struggled to control the cramps developing in
with his bow was over, but three seasons’
backed him up—with my camera. The bull’s
my legs. The buffalo began to drool and run
worth of adventure on Melville Island had just
belligerent attitude had already eliminated
his tongue inside his nostrils in an attempt
begun.
the need for an elaborate stalk; he had been
to pick up more of our scent, a doomed
Australia is the home of biological anomalies.
closing the distance between us since first
effort since we had been careful to put the
making eye contact. Unfortunately he was
wind in our faces as soon as we spotted him.
facing us head-on, and a frontal shot with a bow at any big game animal—let alone one that large—is a recipe for disaster. There was nothing for us to do but wait,
No placental mammals are native to the
and nothing to do while we waited
full broadside angle, I watched Bill come to
island continent. (Descended from the Asian
except gauge the distance to the
full draw and release the arrow. The impact
red wolf, the dingo arrived from the mainland
made a sound like a baseball bat hitting a
courtesy of Malay traders long before first
pumpkin, and the stricken bull seemed to
European contact.) Instead, Australia was
should the situation go to hell
hesitate between flight or fight. Fortunately
populated entirely by marsupials like the
in a hurry.
he chose the former, and the long spell broke
kangaroo and the world’s sole egg-laying
as we listened to him crash off into the
mammal, the duck-billed platypus.
how we’d try to climb one
For some reason I glanced at my watch at the beginning of the standoff, which is how I know that all of us (including the buffalo) stood
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worth his time and turned to walk away. The moment the axis of his body reached a
nearest gum trees and decide
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Finally, the bull decided that we just weren’t
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brush. Had my outstretched arm not come up solidly against a gum tree, I might have collapsed to the ground.
New arrivals during the colonial era
introduced a variety of large ungulates,
and body structure, although the horns
we anticipated being able
ranging from pigs and goats (which now
on the Asiatic species are crescent-shaped
to subsist on some of it
wreak ecological havoc throughout the
rather than down-curved. On the basis of
ourselves. Unfortunately, we
country) to a half-dozen Eurasian deer
my three seasons of extensive experience
quickly learned that meat
species to camels. (No kidding: Australia is
with the Asiatic buffalo, I believe it lacks
from any bull worth shooting
now home to the world’s largest free-range
the malignant edge of the Cape buffalo’s
was too tough to chew even though it tasted
camel population.)
personality. Although bowhunting them
just fine.
without benefit of firearm backup was not Asiatic buffalo went aboard Noah’s ark to
as suicidal as it had initially appeared, we
Although a fly rod may seem an inefficient
Australia in the early 1800s, where their
did bring rifles along when guiding clients on
survival tool, I always carry one on wilderness
first stop was Melville Island, a lonely strip of
subsequent trips because we never forgot
trips. My four-piece 7-weight has served me
tropical wilderness in the Arafura Sea that
that these were large, dangerous animals
well all around the world, from feeding sheep
could have served as landfall for Robinson
that could and did kill people in the Outback
hunting camps with char and grayling on the
Crusoe. From there, colonists engaged in
every year.
North Slope of the Brooks Range to providing
another exercise in “It seemed like a good
My useless right arm kept me from carrying
our party with sea-run Dollies on exploratory
idea at the time” thinking by introducing
hunting trips to Siberia. I couldn’t imagine it
the buffalo to the Australian mainland.
failing to do the same in the fertile waters
Apparently the plan was to domesticate
surrounding Melville Island.
them as a source of meat and hides, but the buffalo had other ideas. They proved
And did it ever. We were camped on the
impossible to contain and were soon
my own bow on that first trip, but I still
island’s remote east end, far from the
marauding everywhere across the country’s
found plenty to do: scouting new cover,
little Tiwi community of Snake Bay. The
wild “Top End.”
spotting game, tracking, skinning, and, best
area’s only inhabitants were Laurence and
of all, supplementing our meager larder.
Marjorie Priddy, members of Australia’s “Lost
Unlike our North American bison, these
We had only been able to import a minimal
Generation,” whose parents had hidden them
animals are related to the African Cape
amount of food to the island. We salvaged
in the bush when authorities began to round
buffalo, to which they invite obvious
all of the buffalo meat for distribution to
up Aboriginal children and pack them off to
comparison. The two are similar in size
the island’s Aboriginal Tiwi population, and
boarding schools to “civilize” them by erasing
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all traces of their traditional culture. Twice a year, Laurence walked to Snake Bay for a bag of rice. Otherwise, the couple subsisted on vegetables raised in their garden and on barramundi, Australia’s signature estuarine gamefish. The evening after we’d each invested an hour trying to chew our way through a bite of Bill’s buffalo, I showed Laurence my fly rod and suggested a fishing trip the following morning. “That’s fine, Don,” replied Laurence, who had evidently viewed some fly-fishing television at some point, “but there’ll be no kissing them and throwing them back in the water. When we catch barra, we kill them and eat them.” “Perfect,” I replied. Early the following morning I met Laurence at his house and climbed into his ancient “tinny,” as Australians refer to their small metal skiffs. The creek in front of his house was flowing briskly inland on a strong building tide, and we let the current carry us across a long, open flat toward the jungle. It soon became apparent that if one of us bailed constantly with the coffee can bobbing in the bilge, we could just keep pace with the water pouring in through the tinny’s perforated bottom, a state of affairs that made me acutely aware of the area’s ominous apex predator: the saltwater crocodile. For as it happens, the range of both buffalo and barramundi overlaps almost perfectly with that of the “salty,” a prehistoric monster that even the fearless Aussies regard with profound respect. I’d already seen evidence of their presence the day before: a huge, waddling drag mark that led into a buffalo wallow and didn’t come out, motivating me to give the mudhole as wide a berth as possible. When I pointed to croc tracks covering the creek’s muddy banks, Laurence confirmed that the water was full of them. This was not the place to swamp a skiff. To my disappointment, the brisk tidal flow had muddied the current—never a good sign for a fly rod angler. Laurence encouraged me
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to have at it anyway, and I did. To my delight
but the stumps and snags littering the little
enjoy a tremendous reputation as food fish,
and surprise, on my third cast something
series of pools would make landing a fish the
and our evening meal that night confirmed
whacked my streamer out in the turbid water
size of those I’d already caught challenging if
it. From then on I was charged with providing
and then gave me a glimpse of a yard-long
not impossible. I shot a roll cast through the
fresh fish for dinner every night—a tough job,
length of silver flashing in the tropical sun
debris and received an immediate strike. The
but somebody had to do it. And I did. To the
before it threw the hook. Newly alerted, I
leaping barra soon had my fly line festooned
chagrin of my concerned Aussie companions,
didn’t miss the next strike and eventually
across the snags like tinsel on a Christmas
not even the crocodiles could keep me out
managed to haul that 20-pound fish over
tree, and when the fish threw a half-hitch
of the water. Those missions began my love
the tinny’s gunwale. In accordance with prior
around one I chose to break the leader
affair with barramundi, which continues to
agreement, I did not kiss it and toss it back in
deliberately rather than wade in and try to
this day.
the water. That was my introduction to a fish
salvage the fly. No snapping handbags for
With the strength in my arm finally
that has haunted my imagination ever since.
me.
I finally expressed my reservations about
By the time I had finished replacing my fly
the cloudy water despite landing two more
and leader, I had the eerie sensation that I
fish. Laurence paddled us toward the rapidly
was not alone. I scanned the water for croc
vanishing shoreline and directed me to the
nostrils but saw none. My sixth sense proved
recovered, I returned to Melville Island over
nearby jungle. “The water will be clear up in
accurate, however, for when I glanced up into
the next two seasons to guide bowhunters
those little pools, Don,” he assured me. “But
the trees I saw a buffalo bull staring back at
and save the camp from tough buffalo
be careful in there. Don’t want you stepping
me from the shadows no more than four rod
steaks. It didn’t feel right to guide others for
on one of our snapping handbags.”
lengths away. The animal showed no interest
an animal I hadn’t killed myself, however; so
in yielding the right of way along the series of
on the first morning of my next trip I headed
Croc tracks littered the mud as I slogged
shrouded pools, and I decided then and there
off into the bush with my bow.
across the flat. Entering the shade of the
that we had enough fish for dinner.
gum trees felt like reaching Conrad’s “heart of darkness.” The water was indeed clear,
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It didn’t take me long to spot a lone bull As indeed we did, but just barely. Barramundi
I WAS THERE NOT FOR A TROPHY BUT FOR THE EXPERIENCE OF TRYING TO TAKE A LARGE, DANGEROUS ANIMAL WITH NOTHING BUT A STICK AND STRING.
wandering down a clearly defined buffalo pad
back in the trees the buffalo had switched
turmoil in the local Tiwi community has left
through the cycads. In terms of horns this
paths; instead of continuing down the
the island all but closed to visitors. We just
was no monster, a shortcoming about which I
one I’d set up to shoot across, he was now
happened to be in the right place at the right
could not have cared less.
proceeding down the one right beside me.
time.
It was too late for me to move, so I held my ground and hoped for the best. When
This coda doesn’t mean, however, that
the bull passed me broadside at four yards,
our adventure was all for naught. The
I waited for his near front leg to come
experience was always about more than
forward, concentrated on a patch of mud
hunting buffalo—it was about friends and
that happened to be in just the right place,
fish and exotic wildlife, about the excitement
drew, and released. In retrospect I can’t
of exploring a brave new world of tropical
recommend this exercise in hubris, but as
wilderness. Brad, Dan, and I remain good
it happened the heavy arrow passed all
friends. I still return regularly to Far North
I knew where the trail the bull was following
the way through the buffalo’s chest. The
Queensland and the Northern Territory, to
led, and after carefully checking the wind
bull spun, galloped 50 yards, and collapsed
visit friends and explore new saltwater with
I set out to circle ahead of him. Just as
without giving any indication that he was
my fly rod. And whenever I head back home, I
I arrived at my destination and found a
ever aware of my presence.
miss everything about the wild.
conveniently located cycad to crouch behind,
a flock of sulfur-crested cockatoos noticed me and sounded a raucous chorus of alarms. I’d seen careful stalks unravel before because of these beautiful but profoundly irritating birds, but when I finally spotted the bull lumbering toward me he seemed to be
It all seems so long ago now, as if these events
paying no attention to the alarm bells ringing
took place in a galaxy far, far away. Bill Baker
overhead.
is dead, a victim of gastric cancer. Political
I still had a major problem. Somewhere
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all but gray By Jim McCann Floating a big river and hauling in 10-pound
Hugely satisfying pursuits, no doubt, and
After a relatively short, leisurely drive along
rainbow trout on an 8-weight rod with large
much recommended to the visiting angler—
a two-lane road cutting through a gorgeous
flies made to resemble the rotting flesh of a
but don’t be foolish and leave your 4- or
wild forest where I often see moose and
dead salmon. Fishing deep with gaudy, flash
5-weight rods and dry flies at home. After
ruffed grouse along the way, I parked my
flies in hopes of compelling a king, sockeye,
engaging the big fish in heavy battle with
Jeep in a familiar spot. Finishing my coffee,
or silver salmon to strike. This is what the fly
your hefty rods, sinking lines, and weighted
I climbed out and geared up for a few hours
fisher’s dream trip to Alaska looks like.
flies, you’ll welcome the opportunity to break
of dry fly fishing bliss on my home water.
out your favorite lightweight rod and cast dry flies to Alaska’s plentiful Arctic grayling.
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I’ve fished this small freestone river for
My first casts directed my fly to settle
I replaced the small Elk Hair Caddis fly with
nearly 50 years, and it’s never dull. Heavy
upon the bouncing current above the deep
a large ant imitation, and after retracing
mountain runoff in early spring means
pool, a place where I always expect a fish
my steps, I began fishing the choppy water
that the runs and holes are forever
to slash at the offering on the first drift or
coming down into the large pool at the head
changing; each year it’s like fishing a new
two. Today wasn’t one of those days. After
of this run where I’d started the day much
and different river, providing me with new
thrashing the pool with nearly a dozen
earlier. I’ve learned over the years that
challenges and adventures. As the spring
drifts, I moved a few steps downstream
some of these big fish will only move off the
turns into summer, the number of fish that
and started over. As my fly settled onto
bottom if the effort seems worth it—and
have migrated up into the higher stretches
the flatter water just beyond the riffle, a
that to catch the big fish, one must fish big
where I love to fish is considerable, perhaps
grayling left the water with my fly hooked
food.
bordering on mind-boggling.
securely in the side of its mouth. Although he measured only a bit over 12 inches, this
The larger dry fly with a tiny tuft of orange
The path down to the river’s edge is
fish put up a good struggle right up to my
tied on top was easy to watch as it bounced
narrow, steep, rocky, and cuts through
net. The fine and delicate Sage 4-weight rod
along on the faster water. Midway through
thick alder, but it’s a familiar path because
I typically use for grayling all over Alaska is
the drift, a large grayling engulfed the fly
I’ve been down it so many times over the
perfectly matched to grayling in the 12- to
off the surface in a spray of water and dove
decades. I like to think of it as “my” run,
17-inch range—but sometimes, on some
straight back down to its deepwater lie. A
but occasionally I find the boot tracks of
rivers, when I’m catching broad-shouldered
simple lift of the rod tip set the hook, and
another fly fisher and even a passing grizzly
grayling topping the 20-inch mark, it seems
the fight was on. After a gallant struggle,
bear or moose. Alone, unlikely to see another
a bit light.
the fish was finally in my net. He was thick
person on the river all day, I prefer to stand and watch for a bit before I begin fishing.
in the body with a large, brilliantly colored Slipping that first fish of the day back into
dorsal fin, and by holding him up against
the water I wondered if
the ivory markings on my landing net I
Alaska has pretty much the same insect
someday I might meet
determined he was just over 18 inches—a
hatches as the Lower 48 states, but the
this same fish again,
really good fish for this particular river.
hatches tend to be rather small and
and how many of the fish I’ve caught and
often insignificant. Arctic grayling are
released over the decades have been in my
opportunistic feeders and will generally
net for a second or third time. Since Arctic
take most any dry fly properly presented—
grayling can live for up to a whopping 32
but not always. To my delight, I often find
years and habitually return to the same
Arctic grayling inhabit most of Alaska. I’ve
grayling to be just as finicky about the
breeding and feeding areas each season, it’s
caught them on the Alaska Peninsula to the
size, color, and shape of a fly as the trout
a possibility I often ponder.
south and on up into the Arctic region to the
I learned to fish on the hallowed waters of Upstate New York where I grew up.
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north. Most of the streams along Alaska’s I worked my way down along the run and
mainland road system also offer excellent
caught and released nearly a dozen scrappy
fishing for grayling. But if it’s trophy
As I expected at this hour of the morning,
grayling, all taken on an Elk Hair Caddis dry fly
grayling you’re after, in my experience
no flies were coming off the long gentle
but none breaking the 15-inch mark. I knew
anglers should consider a trip to Nome
glide below the deep and fast pool upriver.
there had to be bigger fish in this run, so I
on the Seward Peninsula. Alaska’s current
I opened the fly box, and my fingers knew
figured they were occupying choice feeding
record-topping Arctic grayling was a 24-inch
to reach for a size 16 Elk Hair Caddis to
spots down deep and near to the bottom. I
fish that weighed in at five pounds and
tempt a fish to rise from the depths of this
had a decision to make: Do I fish a wet fly? Or
one ounce and was caught along the road
exceptionally clear and icy cold river.
should I tie on a meatier dry fly offering?
system leading out of the rustic gold mining
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town of Nome. And on the same Seward
grayling in the 15- to just-over-20-inch
water before me, and yet I have been
Peninsula, I can report once having found
range. Sorry, but discretion prohibits me
unable to take a fish despite careful pattern
and fished a small river out of the remote
from naming the water; let’s just call
matching. Now I count those as some of
village of White Mountain where I caught
it Persnickety River, because these fish
the best days of fishing: I like to
grayling over 23 inches on a dry fly.
are leader shy and often quite particular
solve mysteries.
about the size, color, and pattern of dry Along the road system in Alaska’s vast
fly offerings. And it turns out that the
A fly box well stocked with a variety of
interior region, fly fishers can enjoy excellent
mayfly hatches on this river are somewhat
standard trout flies used anywhere else
fishing for large numbers of hard-fighting
respectable in size and frequency and
in the Lower 48 states will also work for
grayling on numerous rivers. Most of these
present unique challenges to ardent dry fly
Arctic grayling. In my fly boxes, you’ll likely
rivers might not hold fish larger than about
anglers.
find Adams, PMD, BWO, Mosquito, Elk Hair
15 inches, but on a light fly rod these fish
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Caddis, Irresistible, and even Renegades.
will provide hours of dry fly action in a
Grayling are well known for their eagerness
Last season I was stumped during a mayfly
gorgeous wilderness setting.
to take most any dry fly, wet fly, or small
hatch on my home river and finally reached
streamer. Still, it’s nice to know that larger
for another fly box where I found some Light
Fishing another river in my home area
and older grayling that have lived long
Hendrickson flies tied by my late father-in-
requires a jet boat to get you where you
enough to be highly suspicious of what they
law, a former commercial fly tier in Upstate
need to go—but once the boat is tied off,
try to eat will require particular strategies
New York. I take these flies with me out of
prepare for an entire day of wading up and
to entice them to rise. I’ve watched hefty
respect for Dave, but I’m not particularly
down river casting dry flies to plentiful
grayling smash mayflies coming off the
eager to use them because I never want to
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lose one. On this day, I decided to use one
had caught plenty of fish already during the
of Dave’s flies, and I immediately started
day, and it was time for me to head toward
catching fish.
home—but what dry fly fisher could turn his back on such an opportunity?
Grayling thrive on tiny midges, so make sure you have a good selection of Griffith’s Gnats for those times when grayling are taking something just under the surface. Small size 18 midge flies work! And always have a good selection of ant patterns; even a large Chernobyl Ant works wonders on huge grayling. As the day lengthened, I spied a few mayflies hatching along the surface of a smooth deepwater glide just upstream of a submerged log. During the brief moment the light-colored insects sat drying their wings on the surface, first one and then a dozen or more grayling began a feeding frenzy. I
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On Safari, Fly Rod in Hand:
A Guide’s Holiday in
Cameroon By PETER W. FONG
Photos: Stuart Harley 58
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BECAUSE WE HAD scouted this pool the previous afternoon, I knew better than to wear my river sandals again. On that excursion I’d fallen twice and slipped countless times. Something about the intersection of hard sole and smooth rock seemed to negate friction, leaving me more off-balance than normal on this unfamiliar water. Even fortified by wading boots and neoprene socks, however, my steps remained tentative. Perhaps it was the predawn murk hemming the narrow beam of my headlamp, or the sheer variability of the river-bottom terrain: damp patches of sand interspersed with ridged vertebrae of dusty rock, thigh-deep depressions alternating with ankle-breaking riffles of polished stone. Maybe it was the
noisy exhalations of the nearby hippos, or their guttural, big-bellied calls— almost like laughter. Deeply ironic laughter. Greg moved ahead of me—barefoot, leaping nonchalantly from stone to stone—while I splashed through the shallows, preferring the more reliable footing of sand or gravel. Somewhere farther into the moonless dark were Bill and Tom, two well-traveled anglers who’d spent the previous week fishing in Gabon, and Stuart, the head guide, a rifle slung loosely over one shoulder. Soon we would reach the pool’s rim and disperse to our assigned positions along the rocky ledges, where Bill, Tom, and I would cast our flies in search of
a fish known by archaeologists for its association with the unknowable future and the chaos of the night. The Nile perch (Lates niloticus) was sacred to the ancient Egyptians—so important to the culture that it merited its own hieroglyph. According to the Encyclopedia of Religion and Nature, these nocturnal predators symbolized “the turbulent stage of the journey of the deceased.” At the ruined city of Esna, on the west bank of the Nile, the slightly less ancient Greeks discovered a necropolis filled with mummified perch, dedicated to the goddess Neith, “the terrifying one.” They accordingly renamed the city Latopolis.
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Neith is the oldest of Egypt’s gods, the mother of Ra, the sun god, and the personification of the primordial river. She is also the goddess of hunting, war, and wisdom, among other things, so it makes sense to appease her with fish. Since the mid-twentieth century, increasing numbers of non-Egyptian anglers have targeted perch of 100 pounds or more with spinning tackle, usually from boats, and mostly in reservoirs. But what I’m enjoying here in Cameroon is a different sort of experience: the fishing is catch-andrelease, using single barbless hooks. On foot. In a crocodile-infested river. With the ultimate goal of providing a model for sustainable tourism in a country beset by many of the sadly familiar ills of post-colonial Africa: rural poverty, social unrest, terrorist insurgencies.
Photos: Stuart Harley 60
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Because I’d been daydreaming about this trip for months, I knew that my destination—a hunting reserve on the northeastern border of Faro National Park—would be many, many miles from Cameroon’s political danger zones. The only real hazards, as far as I could tell, were the ones I manage every day: the danger of distractibility and the peril of inattention. To prepare, I’d spent many hours tying large streamers with luminescent materials, articulated patterns as long as—or longer than—a trout. No evidence suggests that perch might like such flies, but at least, I thought, we’d both be able to see them in the dark. Now, when the strikes come, hard enough sometimes so that the fly line rattles against the rod, I react too late, or too timidly, or not at all. The strength
and savagery of the fish both exasperate and tantalize me. What, I wonder, am I doing wrong? I try to calm myself by widening my stance on the rocks. I toss the fly blindly into the darkness, mark the sound of the splash, then count silently to ten as the stars wink and waver in the sky. Greg tells me that the pool is several meters deep, and that I’ll know when the fly hits bottom because it will return festooned with short strands of half-digested grass—the hippos’ contribution to the river’s nutrient cycle. Although Nile perch in lakes and reservoirs are known to feed during the day, the perch in the Faro conform to their ancestral habits, becoming most active at darkened moments of transition: the last brief shadows after
sunset or that faint hour between moonset and sunrise. As the sun begins its departure from the underworld, I begin to decipher the not-yetfamiliar confines of the pool and am able to expand my repertoire of casts accordingly. At one point, a heartrending swirl appears at the place where I know my fly must be, and yet I detect nothing. Not even the slightest tug. When the fly is in my hand, however, I find the palm-length fibers of hair and tinsel looped around the bend of the hook: clear evidence that it has recently been inside the mouth of a fish. Though I work several months a year as a fishing guide in Mongolia, I often go weeks without picking up a rod myself. I disclose this fact to put my inadequacies in context. True, I love to fly fish and have been doing it all my life. But as I enter my seventh decade, the opportunities to practice what I preach have become increasingly rare. This is partly because my job requires that I focus on helping other people find fish, and partly because I spend the off-season in Tangier, Morocco— an interesting place but far from any wild, free-flowing rivers. To get here to the Faro—a river as wild as any in Africa—I took the train from Tangier to Casablanca, then boarded a nonstop flight to Douala, Cameroon, followed by a short hop to the northern city of Garoua and a half-day drive to camp. Because there was no change in time zone—and I never left the continent— it felt a bit like taking the bus from Vermont to Boston, flying to Miami, and then driving to Key West. Except, of course, for the hippos. Despite Cameroon’s recent struggles with poaching, the country’s northern region plays host to the largest population of hippos in West or Central Africa. The Faro River is a
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Photos: Peter W. Fong
tributary of the Benue, part of the vast Niger watershed. For many centuries, Europeans and Arabs suspected that the Niger was somehow connected to the Nile. It wasn’t until 1830 that an English expedition definitively proved them wrong. Although protected as a reserve since 1947, Faro National Park was not established until 1968, less than ten years into Cameroon’s independence from France. Its borders encompass about 1300 square miles, just slightly more territory than Texas’s Big Bend National Park. Egypt’s last wild hippos had disappeared by the early nineteenth century, driven to extinction by hunting and habitat loss. In the case of the Faro, however, it is hunting that now drives the area’s conservation goals. The national government has leased much of the land surrounding the park to hunting concessions; Bill, Tom, and I fished in zone 13, operated by Koen Maes, a former zoology professor turned safari guide. In 2016 an independent team of scientists studying the park’s hippos declared, “We attribute the conservation success in Faro to the private protection
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afforded by the adjacent safari hunting operations, which compensates for reduced state protection efforts.” At that time, the scientists observed, there was approximately one ranger for every 54 square miles in the park, compared to one per every 19 square miles in zone 13. (For comparison, the whole of Manhattan occupies slightly less than 23 square miles.) Furthermore, “The hunting zone guards are not only more numerous but also better equipped, with motorcycles, GPS, and field rations, than the Faro National Park guards.” What the researchers failed to mention is that zone 13’s anti-poaching unit is more satisfactorily armed as well. Several of our excursions to the river begin like this: We all climb into a yellowing four-wheel-drive pickup truck. The guides, Stuart and Greg, sit in the cab. The anglers—Tom, Bill, and I— perch atop an ample bench in the truck bed, where we have a wide-angle view of the savanna and its resident wildlife. Two or three guards—including the tall and lanky Bibi or a sternly smiling man known respectfully as The Minister— occupy a plank seat behind us, bearing pump-action shotguns. As soon as the truck is parked, the guards leap over the tailgate and trot toward the water, on the lookout for lions, leopards, or
rogue hippos. If they surprise that even more elusive and unpredictable of predators—the human—there will be gunfire, followed by punishment. The guards don’t shoot to kill, but they will attempt to capture the poachers. Failing that, the team will destroy the lawbreakers’ camp and confiscate their belongings. After one such raid on a group of gold miners, I find a small square of plastic on the sand. It’s the discarded husk of a nip of whisky, packaged like a single serving of soy sauce or a one-time dollop of shampoo. Greg says that many things in Africa can be purchased in this form—a strategy for providing market access to people who rarely have much cash in their pockets. I’d already guessed from the makeshift gold pans and cheap bedding that the outlaw miners must be poor, but the sight of that meager ration of whisky provides a visceral reminder of the real appetites involved in the conflict between habitat conservation and human livelihoods. The miners have no vehicle—they’ve walked from their homes, which must be 20 miles away or more. Because they cannot afford ammunition, they do their poaching the old-fashioned way—with snares and spears. Now that our team has confiscated their food and
equipment, however, they will return home empty-handed. The heart of the issue is not, of course, the ability of an intact Faro ecosystem to support a limited harvest of game animals. In fact, the management of zone 13 is precisely designed to provide such a harvest. Because a hunt was in progress during our stay, we enjoyed fresh game at every dinner: mostly Buffon’s kob, a deer-sized antelope and the most commonly encountered animal on our drives, but also roan antelope (a much larger species, built like a horse) and red river hog. The real dangers—if Bibi and The Minister were to allow them to occur—would be over-harvest and habitat destruction. Unchecked mining would degrade gravel banks and inject silt into the river, while the attendant use of mercury could poison both the environment and the miners themselves. During the dry season, which extends from October to April, domestic livestock such as cattle and goats would compete with wild grazers for finite resources. Meanwhile, fragile populations of fish, crocodiles, giraffes, and eland, among others, would quickly be decimated for food. These are worrisome concerns, their immediacy reflected in the determination that Stuart and Greg bring to their efforts to show us the river’s diversity of species: from predators such as perch and tigerfish; to omnivores like the yellow-gold Niger barb; to aquatic grazers and cleaners, fish that perform the same services for hippos—removing parasites and dead tissue—that saltwater wrasses perform for certain denizens of a coral reef. To me, it seems as if every jaunt to the water yields multiple beautiful and
Photo: Stuart Harley
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surprising events. It seems this way because it’s true. What makes it hard to remember to worry is the repeated accretion of wonders. After releasing a remarkable tigerfish that jumped five times before coming to hand, I think, Did I really also catch a Nile perch this morning, at dawn, within casting distance of a mother hippo and her calf? The answer is an astounding Yes. Most days I carry two rods of differing weights, sometimes three, along with two cameras and a pair of binoculars. On many occasions, I am uncertain which item to hold in my hands. We encounter, among other marvels, baboons foraging for freshwater mussels; two hyenas, the larger suffering from a blood-filled eye socket, apparently wounded in a fight; a warthog and two hoglets; vervet and colobus monkeys; three species of mongoose; as well as many incredible birds, all of which seem to require at least two adjectives plus a hyphen: short-toed snake eagle, red-throated bee-eater, snowy-crowned robin chat. On one afternoon there are elephant tracks on a sandbar from at least three distinct individuals, as well as the sharply edged prints of a West African savanna buffalo. And once, while prospecting for tigerfish, I see the water 70 yards downstream provoked into a hippo-like uproar, then realize that the section of river I’m looking at is hardly big enough to accommodate a baboon. Though I keep watching the little pool, it shows no sign of the previous disturbance; it’s a small fraction of the overall flow, perhaps waist-deep, constrained by ledges and fringed with a mix of boulders and gravel. Eventually, Greg signals that the group should proceed downriver. (For safety’s sake, we almost always fish within sight of each other.) When the pool looms within range, I crouch and cast,
not knowing what to expect. It was either a hallucination, I’m thinking, or a crocodile, startled by our presence. Nevertheless I strip the fly so that it darts across the current, then pauses vulnerably for a moment at the gravel’s shallow edge. When nothing happens, I raise my rod hand to lift the line from the water. That’s when the pool comes to a boil—a swirl the size of a café table, suitable for four. I slap the fly down again and again, repeatedly, frantically, but the fish is gone. Nobody else witnesses any of this—it’s a singular spectacle, a gift for me alone. After 10 or 15 minutes, my heart rate returns nearly to normal. In ancient Egypt, as elsewhere, there are many paths to transcendence. Some invoke the supernatural, but others merely comprehend it. One of my favorite memories of the trip is strictly auditory: In the darkness after moonset, Greg and I hear a hippo quick-step to the edge of a steep sandbank, then shoosh down to the water like an otter on a slide. Do I wish that I’d seen this miracle? Yes—but only because I know the visual confirmation would not diminish its mystery.
Photo: Peter W. Fong
“Animals don’t have votes,” Koen says. “People do.”
Several Egyptian goddesses were depicted as hippo-like, in a motherly or
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protective way; the best known of these is Tawaret, the goddess of childhood and fertility. But like the mothers of our own species, hippos were both revered and feared. A departing soul of high social standing, for example, might be sent off in the company of several hippo figurines; just to be safe, however, the figures’ legs would be broken, lest an unexpected trampling occur on the way to the afterlife’s Hall of Truth. Neith (she of the mummified perch) was one of the 42 judges of souls in that Hall, where one’s heart was weighed on a golden scale. If it was deemed lighter than the white feather of truth, one might graduate to the Field of Reeds, an eternal paradise populated with loved ones and favorite pets, blessed with flowing water, and well-stocked with beer. If, however, one’s heart was judged harshly, then it would be thrown to Ammit, the devourer of the dead, an amalgam of the Nile’s most fearsome beasts: part lion, part crocodile, and part hippo. On our last morning session, the patrol nearly catches a group of miners in the act: four men and two women. As is the custom, shots are fired and the miners’ camp is looted and then burned. Among the plunder: a gillnet, a fish spear, several gold pans and shovels, and a substantial cache of dried fish, including a large tigerfish and at least one perch. As noon approaches, a weather phenomenon known as the harmattan descends on us. Triggered by winds blowing across the Sahara Desert, the harmattan is a dust storm on a subcontinental scale: It obscures the nearby mountains, shrouds the opposite bank, and infiltrates our lungs like powdered heat. My legs, already heavy
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with fatigue, feel like they’ve been weighted with sandbags. As we make our way to a designated tree for lunch, I struggle to catch up with Stuart, only to find him peering expectantly beneath slabs of stone. Turns out that he is looking for a python whose track has led him to this shady spot. “Not a big one,” he says, “maybe ten feet.” After our meal I meticulously re-rig my perch rod, tying new knots and sharpening the hook point, then
time to shuffle my feet. Before I could breathe, it was past me. Later, when I remarked on the calmness with which he had issued his warning, Stuart just shrugged. “It’s important,” he said, “to deliver the proper amount of information.” Because I have guided many highly accomplished anglers, I know for a fact that my own skills fall somewhere short of mastery. Over the preceding five days, my fishing has bordered on incompetent; on our final evening, everything falls apart. While Tom lands one perch after another, I again struggle to set the hook. The first fish twists off after I’ve weathered its initial two runs. The third pulls free after a heavy surge that feels more substantial than anything I’ve encountered so far. Each disaster wounds me like a little death. Though Tom’s success keeps Greg busy, he makes time to check in on my dark state of mind. “Still feeling fishy?” he asks.
“Peter,” he said coolly, “I think you should take two steps toward the bank.”
I search my memory for a platitude, something I might use to console a guest in Mongolia, but the truth is I’m beside myself with frustration. Catching is manifestly not the point of fishing, but here I’m barely managing to fish at all. My casting has deteriorated into unpredictability, piles of tangled line interrupted by occasional long forays that snag themselves on the far bank. By the end of the session I’ve broken off two flies and destroyed another—after not previously losing any flies at all.
I’m not sure what I replied, but I do know that I was moved to look behind me. What I saw when I turned my gaze upstream was a hippo coming through the rapids, like a giant surfboard with little ears and big teeth. There was no
The next day, while waiting for our plane to Douala, we have lunch with Koen Maes. He tells us that his two camps provide steady jobs for 12 guards—along with multiple cooks, assistants, and drivers—and that they
repair to the river for a cooling swim. Before selecting my swimming hole, I think back to the moment when I was standing knee-deep at the head of a large pool, just downstream of a substantial set of rapids. Stuart was watching from the nearby shore, rifle slung over one shoulder as usual.
don’t encounter poachers every day. Considering the numbers of miners on the river this week, however, he has requested a military sweep, with a patrol of 20 government soldiers, to begin tomorrow. Koen is a confident storyteller, a Belgian citizen with a long history in Cameroon. (When he was younger, people said he reminded them of Richard Gere, but now—as Bill observes aloud—the resemblance is more like Jay Leno.) He has no faith, he says, in the national park’s rangers. And from what we’ve seen, his opinion is justified: The miners who escaped from The Minister ran directly toward the park. When Koen took over the hunting concession in 2002, hippos, crocodiles, and Nile perch were all threatened. Since then, a comprehensive census has shown the river’s hippo population growing from about 525 to at least 685. “It was you Americans who brought democracy here,” he jokes. Democracy, he thinks, has been good for roads and hospitals but bad for wildlife conservation. “Animals don’t have votes,” Koen says. “People do.” Given these constraints, he thinks the only way to preserve the Faro’s wild resources is with “outside money”—by which he means fees from international hunters and anglers, combined with substantial contributions from absurdly long-named organizations such as the European Union’s Regional Support Programme for the Conservation of Biodiversity and Fragile Ecosystems in Central Africa (Ecofac). Now in its sixth phase, Ecofac has promised 100 million euros in new funding for seven countries, including Cameroon, having already invested 137 million euros since 1992 in “anti-poaching activities, poverty reduction of surrounding populations, capacity-building and regional governance.” This is hopeful news, I think, but
also a little sobering, a reminder that conservation initiatives must be ongoing in order to remain effective. To stop paying attention means, in essence, to forego any prospect of attaining the Field of Reeds. The same principle applies to perch fishing, I suspect, recalling all of the strikes that occurred while I was admiring constellations or eavesdropping on hippos. Or maybe it’s simply luck—when I asked Tom for advice, he confided that all the ones he caught appeared to hook themselves. If the archaeologists are right, the trove of perch mummies, bound in linen and entombed at Esna, were votive offerings, prepared by priests and then purchased by supplicants who sought favor from Neith.
history of combining catch-and-release fly fishing, community development, and international conservation initiatives in sustainable partnerships. The fishing season in Cameroon runs from January through April, and groups are limited to a maximum of four anglers. For more information, contact co-founder Keith Clover at keith@ africanwaters.net.
With my first visit to Cameroon now available to me only in the rear-view mirror, I plan to arrange the appropriate sacrifices before scheduling my next trip. Tom and Bill have fished all over the planet, and both told me they were impressed with the possibilities on offer at the Faro: not just the wildlife, but also the cold beer, hot showers, and flush toilets—rare luxuries in a remote camp. In a long career on the water, this marked only my second experience as angler rather than guide; nevertheless, I was far more than impressed—I was imprinted. A week here is an adventurous angler’s dream—like going on safari with a fly rod in hand. Months later, hippos still populate my dreams. The question is this: how best to appease “the terrifying one”? If tying my own flies was not a sufficient offering, then I am manifestly prepared to do more: ritual, devotion, indulgence, prayer. Yes, the fish gods are fickle, but that’s the main part of their charm.
IF YOU GO Fly fishing tours of the Faro River are available exclusively through African Waters (africanwaters.net). Based in South Africa, the company has a long
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Champagne Taste on a beer Budget By Tom Keer Once upon a time I fell in love with a sweet little Abercrombie & Fitch 20 bore. Odds are if you got to her first I wouldn’t have had a chance to buy her. This 1934 Belgian guild gun was a double-trigger over/under with over 95 percent blue and dazzling case color. Save for her threepart forearm, her light walnut stock had 20-line checkering with a single border and fleur-delis, and her fit and finish resembled that of London’s Best Gun. Choked .008 over .000, she was the perfect grouse, woodcock, and bobwhite quail gun, but that wasn’t why I reached for my wallet. The only reason I bought her was because the price was so low. No one wanted a doubletrigger over/under, and for me that was fine. I have champagne taste on a beer budget.
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But something nagged at me about her
Early season grouse hunting is tough. Hazy,
straight ahead, and neither dropped to the
dimensions. I measured the stock, and there
hot, and humid conditions are hell on dogs
ground. I could have wrapped the A&F around
was a half-inch more drop at comb, and
and hunters alike. The green leaf canopies
a tree; instead I returned to my truck and
three-quarters of an inch too much at heel.
are densely thick. Scenting conditions are
grabbed my Parker. Rather than invest in a
Her 5 ¾ pounds snapped to my cheek, and
poor, and after a while even well-roaded
new stock I sold the A&F the next day. Life’s
logic went out the window. It’s easy to work
dogs overheat. The only salvation came from
too short to be hacked off by a poorly fit
around the measurements, and Saturday’s
the sweet smell of drying timothy in the
shotgun.
range day couldn’t come fast enough.
fields. It was strong enough to overshadow the rest of the day’s stink.
A few rounds of skeet and wobble trap revealed I couldn’t hit boo. I shucked and
Rowdy pointed in Freight Train, just ahead of
jived with my mount, I fiddle-faddled
the mountain-ash and highbush cranberries.
A visit to Lars Jacob, owner of Lars Jacob
with my head position, and I changed my
Two birds flushed straight away, a station
Wingshooting in Dorset, Vermont, could
footwork. Nothing worked, but I shrugged it
seven low house shot in skeet, the easiest
have prevented that mess. His Legends
off nonetheless. The way I looked at it the
shot in the book. As if on cue, one rumbled
Program was hatched out of the idea
A&F was a new gun, and new guns always
out, and I fired. A second followed, and I fired.
to supply consumers with unique, high-
require an adjustment period. Momma didn’t
I winced when no birds fell but confess to
quality shotguns at affordable prices. Jacob
raise a quitter, so the following week I pulled
enjoying the crisp ejectors that kicked out
provides instruction to those unaccustomed
her from her case on the opening day of
the hulls. No sooner did I close the breech
to shooting side-by-sides.
grouse season.
than two mature cockbirds blasted straight away. One flew slightly to the left, one went
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The Legends Program focuses on the
Continental trend. “Firearms of all types—
Joseph Harkom made fewer than 3,000
through the mid-1900s. In the middle of the
rifles, pistols, and shotguns—follow trends
shotguns in his entire life, with each being
last century Americans became enamored
which emerge over time,” Jacob says. “Some
nearly custom made to order. Charles
with shotguns with single-sight planes. The
trends reflect economic conditions while
Ingram’s classing engravings, complete with
result was a shift in shotgun preferences
other times they mirror new user groups
Celtic accents and deep grapevines, are
from side-by-sides to over/unders, pumps,
entering the sport. Three decades ago I saw
stunningly gorgeous. You’ll see functionality
and semi-automatics.
a high demand for bespoke English guns.
and durability in Dixon’s round-action trigger
Twenty years ago shooters favored bespoke
plate, which is one of the most dependable
Ask a contemporary wingshooter if he can
Continental firearms, with vigorous sales
designs ever. The trigger mechanism is
hit with a side-by-side, and he’ll say “heck
coming from Italian-made shotguns. A
uniquely built over-and-behind the trigger,
no.” But that belief isn’t usually accurate:
decade and a half ago, small-bore American
which results in a small, tasteful design.
“The biggest reason many shooters can’t
Classics were all the rage. But for the past
Look at a rack of Scottish guns in my
hit with a side-by-side comes from incorrect
decade, the Scottish firearm market has
showroom and you’ll see one trend: They’re
gun fit and chokes that are too tight,”
been booming. It’ll be here for a while
all unique. In the era of CNS stamped
Jacob contends. “Older American classics
because Scottish shotguns offer nearly
firearms, Scottish guns provide average
were built according to dimensions that
bespoke quality at rock-bottom prices.”
hunters and shooters with unparalleled
were popular at the time. They have a
quality at affordable prices.”
tremendous amount of drop at comb and
The Scots, says Jacob, “have always
at heel. When a stock has too much drop,
understood the boutique nature of the
Caveat emptor: Let the buyer beware. The
shooters do not look down the barrel.
fine gun business. And gunsmiths created
Scottish guns in the Legends Program are
Instead, their eye sees the safety. Add to
shotguns with individuality. For example,
mostly side-by-sides, just as shotguns were
it that stocks were shorter in length, and shotgunners have poor if not unnatural
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mechanics. Stock dimensions is one of the
particularly if you’re carrying it all day. Due
45-degree angle to the front hand. Full-
reasons I source my firearms from Scotland.
to the simplicity of their design, side-bys are
pistol grips, while great for recoil reduction,
UK shooters have always favored slightly
a pleasure to carry in the fields and in the
run at a near 90-degree angle.” Shooters
longer lengths of pull and flatter drops
woods.”
who say that they didn’t get a good mount
at comb and heel. Those measurements
on the missed bird “are really referring to
are nearly perfect for modern American
Form follows function, insists Jacob, “and
the difficulty of mounting a single sight-
shotgunners, and they make the
the Brits carefully thought through their
planed shotgun,” he argues. “Beavertail
transitioning to a side-by-side far easier
stockwork. Their goal was to create a
forends and full-pistol grips are great on
than to most American classics.”
shotgun with a nimble, alive feeling. Most
a clays course. Their weight explains why
modern shotguns have heavy Beavertail
they are preferred when shooting heavy
As the saying goes, If the Lord wanted
forends. American shooters gain confidence
waterfowl loads. Yet those forend and grip
folks to shoot an over/under, He’d have
by grasping a large block of wood with
differences are precisely why shooters who
arranged our eyes in our heads differently.
their lead hand. Yet on a Scottish, or really
are used to them have a difficult time
But American gunners prefer a single-sight
any side-by-side, you’ll find only a small
shooting a side-by-side. But with a little
plane for good reason. “While UK shooters
sliver of walnut called a splinter forend.
practice anyone can shoot a side-by.”
grew up shooting shotguns,” continues
That’s because the Scots didn’t create
Jacob, Americans are a nation of rifle
a forend as a grip. The only reason for a
Jacob is fortunate that he has been “able
shooters. Over/unders, pumps, and semi-
side-by-side’s splinter forend is to hide the
to study with some of the great names in
automatics remind American shooters of
cocking mechanisms. The diminutive piece
shooting instruction both here and abroad.
the very first firearm they shot. Maybe it
of wood means the side-by-side sits in
I’ve learned a tremendous amount from
was a BB gun or a .22, but in whatever case
close contact with the shooter’s lead hand.
Alan Rose at the West London Shooting
the shooter’s eyes moved down one rib, one
That increased contact results in enhanced
School and from Ken Davies at Holland and
barrel, and one plane. It’s the American’s
pointability when combined with proper
Holland. The kind of upland bird hunting
natural view of shooting, and it carried over
technique.
that we do stateside is very different from
from rifles to shotguns. Side-by-sides offer
the Brits, and so I’ve distilled a lot of their
an unfamiliar view. The wide, horizontal
And side-by-sides were designed “so that
wisdom with my own experience. I believe
profile of a side-by-side creates perception
the shooter’s lead and rear hands work
that a key foundation lies in the instinctive
issues, but they’re easily overcome. A bit of
together,” continues Jacob. “Straight English
technique, and I like that approach because
instruction and a case of shells at a clays
stocks align the rear hand with the front
proper body mechanics are so critical to
range cures all ailments.”
hand so that the two are nearly parallel.
success.”
Since the shooter’s wrists are relaxed the Wingshooting is a dynamic sport, which
resulting gun mount is ascending and
makes the upside to shooting a side-by-
flat. There is minimal if any muzzle rock,
side manifold. “The side-by-side is the
especially because the firearm’s lighter
quintessential game gun,” Jacob argues.
weight offers responsiveness to the moving
Life’s too short to hunt with an ugly gun.
“Because of their slim design, less metal
target. The result is simple: When used
Thanks to Lars Jacob’s Legends Program,
mass is used in each shotgun. Frame sizes
correctly a side-by-side kills more birds.”
acquiring a new, gorgeous, high-quality
are typically smaller than in other actions,
shotgun doesn’t have to break the bank—
and with less metal comes a reduction in
By way of comparison, says Jacob, “go to
even for those of us champagne drinkers
weight. A proper field weight for a 12 bore is
your gun cabinet and inspect an American
who find ourselves on strictly beer budgets.
below 7 pounds. 20 bores usually weigh no
shotgun with a semi- or full-pistol grip.
You only go around once in life—but if you
more than 6 pounds. I have a Parker VH 12
While a semi-pistol grip offers comfort,
do it right, once is enough.
bore in the rack and it weighs 10 ½ pounds.
the two hands are out of alignment. In a
That 3 ½ pound difference is significant,
semi-pistol grip, the rear hand runs at a
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strung S U M M E R magazine
GEAR GUIDE
1. Smithey Cast Iron Skillets $100-$295 (smithey.com) Reviving the American tradition of cast iron manufacturing, Smithey Ironware offers beautiful heirloom-quality skillets that your grandchildren can give to their grandchildren. Hand-forged in the USA, these skillets range from 8 to 14 inches in diameter, meaning you can sear a steak for one or roast game birds for a crowd. The inside of a Smithey skillet is pre-seasoned and smooth as glass, creating a polished finish perfect for anything you can throw at it. We tested it to cook eggs, delicate trout fillets, whitetail backstraps, and turkey tenderloins with no problems. Smithey skillets are a pleasure to look at yet tough enough for everyday use. 2. Orca 58-Quart $340 (orcacoolers.com) A cooler shouldn’t be a status symbol; it should keep your catches, kills, and drinks cold while taking a beating. That’s what coolers are for. The Orca 58-quart cooler does exactly that with industry-leading ice retention, a lifetime warranty, and a compact design that is easy to handle while holding more than enough supplies for a week of hunting, fishing, or camping. Other great features include a well-designed drainage port, flexible carry handles, and cargo netting tailor-made for holding the things that seem to be constantly cluttering your boat. Considering Orca coolers come with a lifetime warranty (as opposed to a five-year warranty from other brands) and are made in the USA (other coolers are not), Orca is arguably the best cooler for all your summer adventures. 3. Camp Chef Mountaineer Two-Burner Aluminum Stove $300 (campchef.com) If you’ve been using your dad’s old camp stove, you probably don’t realize how far portable stoves have come in the last few years. The Camp Chef Mountaineer has roughly twice the heating capacity and one-and-a-half times the cooking surface compared to stoves of old—but being aluminum, it’s less than half the weight. It’s also designed to hook up to any size propane tank, so you can stop filling your camp trash with disposable propane cylinders and hook up to a larger tank for long trips. Its suitcasestyle latching lid makes it easy to transport, whether you’re traveling by vehicle, canoe, raft, or on foot. 4. Peak Design Camera Cubes $50-$90 (peakdesign.com) A perfect example of Peak Design’s ingenuity and innovation is the category-defying Camera Cube. In truth, cameras are just the beginning: The Camera Cube will organize and protect anything you can stuff into it. Available in three sizes with a tear-away top opening and side pockets for instant access, we’ve found these cubes to be perfect for traveling with fly reels, spare spools, and terminal fishing tackle. Peak Design’s FlexFold dividers offer efficient modular storage that is completely customizable, and the cube’s padded, weatherproof design will keep your gear safe and sound. 5. Sea to Summit Tek Towel $13-$40 (seatosummitusa.com) As hunters and anglers, our adventures often take us a long way from high-thread-count sheets, expansive wine menus, and room service. On a wilderness trip, a towel can be a luxury. The Tek Towel from Sea to Summit is a soft, durable, and super-absorbent microfiber towel ideal for adventure travel, car camping, or drying your bird dog after a day in the field. Lightweight with a snap-on loop for hanging, the Tek Towel comes packed into a molded pouch with vents to promote drying and avoid mildew and is available in five sizes ranging from smaller hand towel to beach towel. This machine washable, fast-drying towel is a welcome comfort on any hunting or fishing trip. 6. Ignik Gas Growler $150 (ignik.com) An estimated 48 million single-use propane bottles end up in landfills each year. You’ve probably seen them overflowing out of campsite trash bins or fished their charred remains out of campfire rings. Ignik’s Gas Growler is a refillable, no-waste solution for camp cooking. The Gas Growler has a five-pound capacity and comes in an attractive and rugged case with room to store the included hose, wrench, and hookup adapter. The exterior of the case is stitched with MOLLE webbing for attaching accessories or strapping it down for transport. Best of all, refilling the gas growler costs roughly the same as buying a single-use bottle but holds five times the amount of fuel.
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7. Ursack AllMitey+OPSack $147 (ursack.com) The Ursack AllMitey protects your food from critters big and small. Not only will it keep out a bear’s teeth and claws (IGBC approved), but it thwarts mice, raccoons, squirrels, and any other sharp-toothed creature. The OPSack interior is a sealable plastic 17,000 times more odor-resistant than standard plastics, which greatly reduces the chance of a bear winding your cache. The Ursack AllMitey carries five days’ worth of food and comes with reflective strips on its exterior as well as reflective guidelines for easy retrieval in the dark. At 13 ounces, the system is less than half the weight of the lightest bear canister on the market, making it perfect for long hikes into national parks that require bear-safe storage. 8. Jetboil MiniMo Cooking System $150 (jetboil.com) Built with speed and efficiency in mind, the MiniMo cooking system brings Jetboil’s reputation for reliability to a stove designed for backcountry hunters and anglers. The MiniMo reaches a boil in just over two minutes with half the fuel consumption of traditional systems. Unlike other lightweight stoves, the MiniMo can be adjusted from a light simmer to a full boil—perfect for searing meat, sautéing greens, simmering sauces, and more. Metal handles and a redesigned cooking cup—optimized for both cooking and eating—mean fewer dishes to take care of at the end of the night. At under 15 ounces the MiniMo is ideal when traveling fast and light. 9. Rubbermaid Action Packer $50-$100 (rubbermaid.com) Organization has its perks. For one, when your friend invites you on a last-minute adventure, all you have to do is grab your gear and go. But low-quality storage bins are notorious for cracking, snapping, and warping in the sun. Rubbermaid’s line of Action Packers is a storage system that doesn’t fall into the “disposable” category. Made of impact-resistant material that can withstand harsh temperatures and fitted with double-walled weather-resistant lids, these storage totes are made for the outdoors. We’ve used them for dry food storage on long float trips, for storing our equipment in hunting camp, and for staying organized on long road trips. Four sizes ranging from 8 to 48 gallons are stackable, durable (you can stand or sit on them), and lightweight. 10. Messermeister Adventure Chef 6 Piece Summit Set $250 (messermeister.com) Messermeister, known for producing extremely high-quality knives for nearly 40 years, has come out with an Adventure Chef set that should be the envy of outdoor cooks everywhere. The six-piece set includes a 6-inch folding chef’s knife; 6-inch folding fillet knife; all-in-one folding fork, bottle opener, steak knife, and spoon; folding peeler and parer with fish scaler; and sizable folding cutting board all packaged in an attractive and durable waxed cotton case that easily packs into a glovebox, backpack, or back pocket. The result is a chef-quality kitchen kit you can take with you anywhere. 11. Duck Camp Hooksetter Shirt- $79-$89 (duckcamp.com) Part of Duck Camp’s new fishing line of apparel, the Hooksetter shirt has you covered whether you’re on the bow of a skiff or casting poppers at your local bass hole. Available in long or short sleeve and in a variety of colors, we’ve found Hooksetter shirts to be thoughtfully designed and extremely comfortable. Their Nylon Supplex construction makes them breathable, light, and quick drying while maintaining UPF40+ sun protection. Hidden inside the bottom hem, a microfiber sunglass cloth keeps your shades in working order for reading the river or spotting tails. 12. Black Rifle Coffee $10-$75 (blackriflecoffee.com) Too often companies promote a halfhearted “commitment to veterans” just to sell you something. Black Rifle Coffee Company (BRCC), owned and operated by veterans, is the real deal. Not only are they committed to supporting veterans, deployed service members, and law enforcement personnel, but they also make some damn good coffee. BRCC imports high-quality coffee beans from Colombia and Brazil and roasts them to order. Their coffee club lets you pick your preferred roast and ensures you’re well supplied with coffee each month. Their instant coffee is some of the best we’ve ever tried, so you can enjoy an awesome cup of coffee wherever you are without having to pack an espresso machine, beans, and a grinder with you.
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By Ryan Sparks
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WEATHERING THE STORM About the same time the word “pandemic”
your dinner imbues a certain sovereignty
started to appear in the news, hunters
that most people don’t enjoy. I’ve been
and anglers began posting photos of their
thinking about this sovereignty a lot lately--
well-stocked freezers on social media as if
specifically, how we can expand it. Filling the
to say to the world, “See, we were right.”
freezer is only half the equation; the next
I must admit, they have a point. It has
most pressing question is, How do we fill
always felt good to have a freezer brimming
ourselves? Put more simply, what will we eat
with game and fish. It feels especially
for dinner? Some insightful answers to that
good now. Hunting and fishing are, at their
question came in a book my wife handed me
core, food-acquiring activities, and having
last week: An Everlasting Meal
the knowledge and skill to kill or catch
by Tamar Adler.
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In a collection of wonderful essays, Adler writes about cooking (and living) fully, responsibly, and well. To do so she suggests wasting nothing and cooking meals that stretch ingredients to their maximum potential. Adler never directly addresses hunting and fishing, but famed chef Alice Waters, who has written the foreword to An Everlasting Meal, summarizes Adler’s philosophy this way: “What we eat and how we eat it is inextricably linked to our happiness.” This is something hunters and anglers know at their core: Being in the mountains or on the water feeds us in more ways than one.
An Everlasting Meal is also a book about process—something hunters and anglers can certainly appreciate. For many people I know, deer hunting or fly fishing simply isn’t enough; they have to hunt with a bow or fish with a dry fly they tied by hand. Process matters more than the result. Adler suggests the same is true of cooking. All this high-minded thinking might come off as idealistic and impractical, but Adler translates it into practical advice for home cooking. For one thing, she reminds us that good cooking is intrinsically economical— nothing should be wasted. We pride ourselves on using as much as we can from the animals we kill; how many of us do the same in the kitchen? I’m as guilty as anyone of throwing out the last bits of a sauce, letting fresh herbs get dark and slimy, or relegating the cut ends of an onion to the garbage. But what happens when we treat a lowly vegetable with the same respect as a backstrap? Often the best meals rely on the ends of the meals that came before--or as Adler eloquently puts it, “Meals’ ingredients must be allowed to topple into one another, like dominoes.” Running a thrifty kitchen isn’t hard. Start with meal planning. For our household that means looking at what we have that needs eating and planning the coming week around those things. Treat meal planning as more of an outline than a rigid schedule. Come up with a plan that fits your needs and schedule and build flexibility into it. Waver as life dictates. If these times remind
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us of anything it’s that life is unpredictable, and that it is best, especially when time and money are short, to be able to make choices based on circumstance. I must admit that I don’t like to eat the same thing for dinner two nights in a row. Leftovers are for lunch or for giving a second life as creative assemblages of what’s on hand. My wife and I have created some of our favorite meals from leftovers. Once we turned stale corn tortillas into chips, topped them with the last scoops of wild turkey chili, and sprinkled on some gremolata (herbs, lemon, and garlic) we had left from a previous dinner. Now it’s a meal I crave every spring. On another occasion, we topped falafel with leftover Moroccan carrot salad and beet hummus to make a meal we’ve since made dozens of times and is now distinctly our own. It’s amazing how often improvisation leads to discovery in the kitchen. Just like we use everything from an animal, we should strive to use everything in our kitchen. Cooking a mallard for dinner? Leave the fat in the pan and use it for the next meal or put it in a container and save it in the fridge for later. The difference between homemade and store-bought stock in things like sauces, risottos, and soups is unbelievable. Vegetable tops, stems, and peels can go into stock or soup. The same goes for bones, shrimp shells, cheese rinds, and fish spines. When I worked at an Iowa butcher shop, we scraped salmon spines to make fish cakes. It’s a technique I still use for almost all fish species. Stems from cilantro and parsley are every bit as flavorful as the leaves and will save you time while chopping. Stale bread makes excellent bread crumbs or can be cut and toasted to make croutons for panzanella or to accompany melty cheese atop French onion soup. I have heard several people despair about cooking out of their pantry. To be fair, I haven’t seen their pantry. But a few well-stocked items can yield a variety of excellent meals. There is little that can’t be turned into soup. Maybe you have some canned venison on hand? You can combine just about any mixture of vegetable, carb, and meat to make something tasty. There
is a whole chapter in An Everlasting Meal on olives, capers, anchovies, and pickles. If olive oil, salt, and vinegar are the backbone of a pantry, those four things are vertebrae. Tinned fish like anchovies and sardines might not seem wild, but once upon a time they were--and the people who know how to can them well do so by preserving that wildness. Look for canned fish packed in olive oil. It’s good sprinkled over a salad, on a piece of toast with butter, or to deepen and enrich almost any dish. Eating from a pantry will make you more mindful of how you shop, how you cook, and how you preserve what you bring home from the field. In addition to economizing in the kitchen, I think this period of isolation and quarantine has a lot of us realizing that we need to rethink our reliance on takeout and frequent grocery shopping--not only because we should cook for ourselves more frequently than we rely on others to cook for us, but because takeout produces too much waste. We aren’t in need of a new “quarantine recipe” as much as we are a shift in the way we feed ourselves. Hunters and anglers are a step ahead of most people, but there is still room for improvement. “Get out a pot and a pan,” writes Adler near the end of her book, “and decide that no matter how hard the wind is whipping at the windows, you will be well fed through the storm.” Perhaps when you read this, the storm of pandemic will have passed and my words will seem dated. I certainly hope so. Nevertheless, this unusual, unpredictable, locked down moment presents an opportunity to make fundamental changes in the way we think about home cooking. When the doors open and restrictions lift, have that night out, go to that restaurant, and enjoy the luxury of having someone cook a gourmet meal for you and clean up after you. Run to the grocery store for lastsecond items when needed. But remember that home cooking is the culmination of a greater process--one that starts with a shotgun blast, arrow, or fly cast and ends at the dinner table. This too shall pass. Let the lessons it teaches us last.
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Times are tough. People are stuck at home, stressed, bored, overworked, unemployed, out of toilet paper, and thirsty for that perfect end-of-the-week cocktail they used to order at their neighborhood bar. Isolation can be trying. Might I suggest an old fashioned? Or rather, I suggest we learn the principal lesson this simple cocktail teaches us: In frugality is finesse. To me, an old fashioned is the perfect quarantine cocktail because it’s more of a template than a specific recipe. All it requires is a base spirit, sugar, and bitters. If you want to add citrus, go ahead. Lemons, limes, grapefruit, and oranges aren’t hard to come by these days (and some extra Vitamin C couldn’t hurt either). A standard four-pound bag of sugar contains over 400 teaspoons of sugar. A bottle of bitters is enough for hundreds of drinks. Even better, you can make an old fashioned with whatever spirit you already have on hand. If you love añejo tequila, adding a bit of sugar, some bitters, and ice takes what you already love about añejo and amplifies it. The same goes for whisky, vodka, gin, rum, and most other spirits. Play around and see what surprises and delights you. When this is all over, you’ll be damn good at mixing up this classic cocktail around a campfire with friends.
INGREDIENTS: • • • •
1 tsp. white sugar Enough bitters to soak the sugar (Angostura is traditional and works just fine.) A splash of water (You can use club soda if you have some on hand.) Your choice of spirit (In my opinion bourbon, aged tequila, and rum are quite good.)
METHOD: 1 2 3 4 5
In a rocks glass, add the sugar. Then add bitters until the sugar is saturated. If you like more bitters (I do), go for it. Add the splash of water or club soda and muddle everything into a paste in the bottom of the glass. Add your spirit of choice. Be brave. Try something different. Add ice. Stir until well mixed. Run a citrus peel around the rim of the glass before tossing it into the drink. Call a friend. Drink up.
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BUDDHIST
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BUTCHERS AN IMPROVISED TRACTOR HAULING MEN TO WORK SWERVED TO AVOID COLLIDING WITH A COW. IN A SHOW OF FORCE, A LIMPING STREET DOG RUSHED ANOTHER INVADING ITS TERRITORY. ONLOOKERS IGNORED THE COMMOTION, CONTINUING TO PRAY AS THEY WALKED TO WORK. INCENSE AND GASOLINE COMPETED IN A CONTEST OF AROMAS. BUSINESS AS USUAL IN THE COMMOTION OF KATHMANDU, NEPAL. By Christopher Bancroft In fact, the scene’s only oddity was the tall,
primeval villages and eke out an existence
buses. Workers leaned out of the swinging
sheepish American. I bounced from one food
at high altitudes. Large, snowmelt-fed rivers
doors to scream (in Nepali) their energetic
stand to the next, eating every novelty I
provide water to Nepal’s “desert”—a region
sales pitch at the crowd in an attempt to
could find. If I’m not poisoned by my own
in the rain shadow of the Himalayas where
entice potential riders. Finding the right bus
poor choices, I’ll be the luckiest man alive,
for countless generations these hardy souls
seemed as likely as climbing Everest. As I
said the voice in the back of my head.
have lived in stone homes and raised sheep
stood pinned between the mass of people
and yak. I had no fixed plans for my month-
and the building behind me, I made two
long trip in the region, and I needed to find
important decisions: One, avoid being the
something to write about.
clueless tourist targeted by the beggars
Turns out I’m the luckiest man alive. I had avoided foodborne illness.
in the front of the gathering; two, find
Nevertheless, the constant snaking through
“One ticket to Jomsom in Mustang District,”
someone who knows which bus I should be
busy streets and the heavy pollution were
I said to the bus stop teller.
on. The man yelling at everyone looking for
taking their toll. After three days of aimless
their bus seemed a likely candidate, and
wandering, I decided it was time for a
“That will be 1400 Rupees. Be at this
before long this coordinator directed me to
change.
location at 7 tomorrow morning.”
the appropriate decrepit vehicle. I took one
Before flying to Asia I had heard about
I showed up on time and was greeted with
into a seat built for a person with a much
Nepali “cowboys” who live in widely spaced,
what can only be described as a parade of
smaller frame.
last breath of polluted city air and snuggled
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Through the dusty window I watched the crumbling brick buildings of Kathmandu give way to ripe banana trees. Humid, macheteproof jungles were only occasionally interrupted by roadside markets. For 12 hours we climbed the road-gashed green mountains—and my head smacked the ceiling each time the bus hit a rut. We only traveled for about 220 miles, but it was slow going. About 10 hours into the trip, the landscape began to change. Trees became less green and the land more barren. Bananas were no longer on offer during the regular market stops. We had finally reached the outskirts of the Mustang. The sun began to set before we reached Jomsom, the largest town in the area, and I wandered the streets before finding a small guest house. I woke up the following morning to the dulcet tones of a rooster announcing that it was time to move on, stuffed my pack with the few clothes I had, and set out on the dusty road for a threehour walk to the village of Kagbeni. Arriving around noon I drifted the cobbled streets, exploring the ancient nooks and crannies of the village. Walking one narrow street, I heard a commotion from behind and turned in time to see a man running after a group of renegade cows that blew past me as I flattened against a wall. This was the Nepal I had hoped to experience. With the next day’s rising sun, I rolled out of the bed in my cheap rented room, crammed my belongings into my small pack, and swung the blinds open. I made out five Nepali men standing over a hobbled yak in the stone corral below. The beast struggled on its side, its horns cutting the dirt as it swung its head violently back and forth. Half a minute later silence reigned: The slaughterer pulled a 10-inch kukri knife from the beast’s abdomen. I grabbed my camera and sprang to action. The butchers, indigenous to the Mustang, sharpened their rusty knives on loose river rock even as, according to Buddhist belief, the spirit of the yak remained close by.
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Buddhists consider the killing of any living being forbidden. Nevertheless, the realities of life in such an unforgiving climate require the infrequent slaughter of yaks to guarantee a family’s winter food supply. My camera’s snapping shutter struck me as inappropriately loud in the solemn moment, but the oldest man in the corral spotted me watching from outside and waved me in with a smile. “Namaste,” I said, ducking under the wooden door frame. Again the man smiled in response, this time pointing to the yak and making a pushing motion. He hoped to flip the yak on its back, and it was all hands on deck to budge the brute. I peppered the company with questions in English while we rocked the animal as if it were stuck in snow; I received no response, either because they couldn’t speak English or because they pretended not to, hoping I would fall silent so we could work in peace. It may be rare for these people to kill a yak, but this certainly wasn’t the butchers’ first rodeo. In unison the men removed the hooves, set them aside, and then ran a blade from bow to stern. With the skin now bisected, one of the men pulled out a piece of webbing and fed it through slits in the hide. One pulled on the skin using the straps as grips while another struck the wooly pelt with the backside of the hatchet. Inch by inch, he chopped the hide from the lifeless carcass. The rhythmic swinging of the axe came to an abrupt end, and one man snipped a piece of wool from the deceased yak. He then fed the 8 inches of black hair through a knitting-sized needle and began to stitch the meat around the mortal wound inflicted by the kukri knife. It was a strange practice, indeed, but strictly utilitarian: They did not want any blood to drain onto the dirt. Once the mini-surgery was completed, they began to slice. A rusty blade slit the stomach open, and when it hit rib they began to ferociously hack at the brisket. Bits of blood and muscle misted the workers as they fought to expose the organs. A small hand entered the cavity and out came a mess of congealed blood. The old
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man smiled at me and popped the viscous
this case, dried yak. Each simple ingredient
mess into his mouth. The look on my
is separated on the plate; they are mixed
face must have entertained him, because
together when consumed. It is flavorful
he was now smiling more broadly than
and hearty, and Nepali cooks compete to
ever with bloodstained teeth. He reached
produce the very best dal bhat.
back down into the cavern of the yak and grabbed another handful, extending it in my
Following tradition, I squatted down and
direction. Feeling peer pressure—and not
began mixing the lentil soup into the rice
being one to turn down food—I obliged. Still
with my fingers. The cheerful old man then
smiling with blood smeared across his face,
poured me a cup of cloudy liquid from the
he waited until I joined the club. Turns out
mystery thermos. “Raksi,” he shouted,
yak blood tastes just as you would imagine:
motioning to me to drink. I took a sip and
hot and messy with a touch of iron. The
damn-near fell over as the homemade
roughly five gallons of blood collected were
rice wine burned my insides. No doubt the
to be mixed with the organs and stuffed
lingering yak spirit enjoyed the poetic justice
back into the intestines to become sausage.
of it all.
Apparently blood is not taboo in Nepal as it is in some Western cultures.
With the majority of the work behind us, we moved on to less appealing jobs. This
It was smooth sailing from this point on.
included cleaning the intestines in a creek
The legs were separated from the carcass,
nearby, throwing some yak bits to the street
and each worker assumed his own role.
dogs, and preparing the meat for transport.
Each leg met its maker on the wooden tree
One family member at a time would enter
stump used as a chopping block. With a
the corral, load up a bamboo basket called
cigarette dangling from his mouth, the man
a doko, and brace the weight of the haul
wielding a cleaver chopped each piece of
on his or her forehead with a plastic strap.
meat into four sections. The finished cuts
Although it looks uncomfortable, the
were laid carefully on top of the yak’s hide
practice has stood the test of time, used
in four separate piles. Each mound would go
by the hoards of porters who attack Mt.
to one of the families participating in the
Everest annually.
slaughter. The butchers carefully measured each portion.
The corral was now empty, the only remaining evidence of what had transpired
Hidden as I was behind my camera, I missed
a feral cat gnawing on a piece of intestine
what initially set off the screaming, but
in the corner. Absolutely nothing considered
apparently an old woman leaning against a
edible had been wasted: The organs, blood,
wall realized she was unsatisfied with the
meat, bones, hide, and head had all been
meat in her pile. She barked at her husband
hauled away by the families. Even in death
while holding a mound of congealed blood
the yak supported these people.
in her hand. Halfway through the argument she ate the handful, never pausing in her
I shook hands with the butchers, thanking
tirade, blood spraying between her teeth.
each one in turn. When I finally reached out
The passionate scene drew to a close when
my hand to the old man who had invited me
the portions were redrawn and she returned
in that morning, I said, simply, “Thank you.”
to her role as supervisor.
He looked back and answered with that nowfamiliar smile. The blood had been washed
The youngest Nepali kicked off the post-
from his teeth by the rice wine so that his
mortem celebration with a cigarette, smoke
grin shone like a beacon of happiness on this
billowing from his nose. He smiled at his
day of death. Meat meant life.
family as they entered the corral, carrying the ubiquitous Nepalese dish of dal bhat as well as a mystery liquid. Nepalese dal bhat consists of rice, lentil soup, curry—and in
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Elevated:
Why I Fish Mountain Lakes
Words by Joshua Bergan Photos by Joshua Bergan and Liz Juers
As recently as five or six years ago, I’d fish
My name is Josh and I’m a mountain-lake-
many more 20-inch browns and rainbows in
mountain lakes once or twice a summer
aholic.
the valleys than there are 20-inch trout and
like most resident Rocky Mountain anglers.
grayling in the mountains, it can be argued
I’d pick out a couple that I’d heard about,
Nowadays, from runoff to autumn flurries,
that a whopper from between the peaks is
that were relatively easy to access, and get
you can find me at or near the timberline
a greater trophy than a humdinger from
up early on a Saturday morning to have
casting black Buggers in front of cruising
between the McMansions.
a grand old adventure. But that was back
cutthroat and ants in front of rising golden
when I would rather have dropped a raft
trout on these spectacular stillwaters.
onto a buggy section of a popular river than
I spend my winters looking back through pictures of bedazzling mountain fish and
spend too much time hiking to small fish.
Some view mountain fisheries as fly
tanned, beaming faces, of preposterous
Because that’s where the donkey browns
fishing’s minor leagues, and I get why: They
gneiss peaks and all that I’ve left in the
live, and it’s the kind of fishing that my
think there are only small, stocked, dumb,
valleys below. My seasonal melancholia
fellow anglers were most impressed with.
easy trout that don’t see many flies. But let
shifts to hope.
me be the first to dispel that notion. I can’t But a few years ago I was offered an
tell you how many times I’ve seen a 16-inch
Filling my mind are visions of hiking
opportunity to write a guidebook about
cutthroat astutely rebuff my stripped
through meadows overflowing with bright
fishing Montana’s mountain lakes. I
slate scud. Or why the lake you slayed last
wildflowers en route to lakes heralded
dedicated the weekends of three summers
weekend feels barren today. Or how a 10-
by Gary LaFontaine or John Gierach. One
(and some Mays and Octobers) to driving
inch golden trout has the sensibility of a
late-summer trip, after touring through a
up rugged roads, hiking, taking pictures and
master sommelier. But it’s often true.
mysterious ghost town, we went off-trail
notes, and learning which alpine ponds had
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and uphill over scree fields and through
natural reproduction and which ones held
Nothing against lowland browns and
rugged forests to a peach of a pond with
mere gossip. It was a great excuse to finally
rainbows—they are truly lovely. But I don’t
sharp granite peaks and rumored hefty
get to these far-flung fisheries. And just
believe they compare with the lavenders
fish. After a few casts, my wife netted
when the experience would start to wear
and bronzes of a flawless westslope or
a stunning 19-inch wild Yellowstone
me out, I would figure some things out and
the improbable oranges and magentas of
cutthroat, but the others seemed to wise up
get excited for the next trip.
a golden trout. And since there are likely
quickly. So I put some of my own advice to
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the test—“When the fish get tough, anglers
my fondest memories. Add the connection
It’s the deep talks on the long walks in which
should get wacky”—and added a couple of
it provides to my long-gone father and
you plan out the rest of your summer or
split shot over my foam hopper. Within the
faraway brother, and sprinkle in dreams of
discuss your finances or your dogs’ recent
time it took for a couple of quick strips of
raising a child with these same traditions
quirks or have a confidante-prescribed
my line, I had hooked an ornery 16-inch
and memories.
therapy session.
Allow me to be more specific about why
It’s the alchemy of spirit-lifting endorphins
fishing mountain lakes has seeped into my
stirred alongside your first beer back at
soul:
camp, with a vitamin D garnish. Or a sip of
westslope cutt. A couple more fish followed, and we had a fabulous day. Maybe it’s related to growing up in the Land
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of 10,000 Lakes, curiously fishing Babe the
whiskey on top of head-spinning fatigue and
Blue Ox’s filled-in hoofprints and creating
the feeling of accomplishment.
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It’s deciding whether or not to carry on to
It’s the anticipation of someday hiking the
It’s finding a frozen lake after post-holing
the next basin after a twisted knee, or play
steep 18 miles to that remote tarn that
through knee-deep snow in July—and the
it safe and accept that the glistening teal
might have a couple remnant 12-year-old
ensuing snowball fight.
gem in front of you is good enough.
colossal cutthroat.
It’s the momentary bears that turn out to
It’s succulent berries and mushrooms
be rocks and the anxious thrill of sharing
crammed into old sour-cream tubs—and the
this land with animals that could kill you.
pancakes to come.
It’s the pine aroma on the brightest bluebird days. It’s elbow room and space to breathe in the increasingly pressured Northern Rockies.
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It’s all the stories. It’s an honest excuse to get out of range—to escape the anxiety of a dreaded phone call or the pressures of social media. It’s keeping yourself honest through exertion, fear, and the wilderness. It’s acting on the awareness that we all have a limited number of days in this often-difficult existence, so we should spend as many of them as we can in ways that elevate us. It’s living life to its fullest. I suspect my little sermon won’t sway many, and that’s fine. My book has come and gone, and with it the excitement and obligation. But my enthusiasm for the alpine has only deepened. I still occasionally enjoy floating acclaimed mainstems and traversing twisting tributaries during the dog days. But there’s something about the high, high country that feels more comfortable now. Maybe someday we’ll meet and cast to cruising cutts, or clink cups around a campfire in the crags. Until then, you know where to find me.
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Between Copper & Calamity: ON THE EMPERILED FUTURE OF MONTANA’S LEGENDARY SMITH RIVER By Reed Knappe
Winding 110 miles from its montane
After the initial hurdle of drawing a permit
Compared to the groups of 15 that often
headwaters to an unassuming juncture with
comes the question of timing: The float
ply the river in midsummer, our cadre of
the Missouri River, Montana’s Smith River
season extends from late spring into early
four was scaled for relative solitude: three
has long been recognized as a priceless
fall, but within that window conditions may
old friends from the environmental history
treasure by the state’s citizens and outdoor
fluctuate wildly, and only certain river levels
program at Montana State University, plus
enthusiasts. Just over 60 miles of the
allow visitors to make the most of the river’s
a younger brother tagging along on his
river flow through a steep-walled canyon,
mythologized trout fishery. If the river
first river experience. That this legendary
weaving through serpentine bends flanked
gods should grant the right combination
destination might be in imminent danger
by lush meadows, fragrant pine forests, and
of insect hatches, temperatures, and flow
was the last thing on our minds, dizzy
varicolored limestone cliffs arching hundreds
levels, an angler can take fish averaging
as we were with anticipation of flashing
of feet overhead. Bordered along much of
around 15 inches from sunrise to sunset,
trout, nights around the campfire, and
its length by private land and labelled as a
with specimens pushing 20 inches not
cold rushing waters under open skies. For
“semi-wilderness,” the Smith feels self-
uncommon. In recent years, however, rising
months before our put-in date, we tracked
contained and otherworldly like few places
temperatures and inadequate snowpack
the river’s surging and ebbing flows on the
on the continent.
have delayed, disrupted, and shortened
USGS website. As it happened, 2019 was
float seasons, and the quality of both
a good year for Smith floaters, owing to a
The Smith easily ranks among the state’s
fishing and floating more and more often
combination of moderate rainfall and lower
most iconic and scenic destinations, as
hinges on perfect timing. If the water is
temperatures than preceding seasons. When
well as the most regulated: It is Montana’s
too low, navigation becomes difficult and
we launched on July 16, flows measured
only river permitted with a lottery system.
fish populations suffer; if it rises suddenly
around 330 feet per second—modest enough
Applications open in February, and
as snowmelt releases too quickly, the river
to make for excellent fishing but still
competition for a few days in paradise is
becomes swollen and murky, and late season
comfortably navigable in our boats.
fierce. The odds of drawing a golden ticket
flows down the line are impacted. Also
range from year to year: Between 1 in 6 and
linked to the higher annual temperatures
Only our intrepid leader had floated these
1 in 9 applications receive a permit, entitling
of recent years, algal blooms have become
waters before, albeit in subpar conditions.
the recipient to float in a group of up to
the recurring bane of fisheries biologists and
(Two in the party were veteran anglers who
15 individuals between the put-in at Camp
anglers alike.
owned boats and had worked as fishing
Baker and the take-out at Eden Bridge.
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guides.) This time around luck smiled on us,
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and we enjoyed five days of round-the-clock
wolves—and have not returned. Other
fish rises, congenial weather, and sublime
organisms were introduced, including a
natural beauty. Indeed, we had lucked out
variety of invasive or domesticated species
twice: first by drawing a permit, and then
and, eventually, the non-native rainbow,
by receiving a launch date coinciding with
brook, and brown trout that delight today’s
prime conditions.
anglers. A relict population of native cutthroat is still found on Tenderfoot Creek,
To the hardcore trout bum the aesthetic
but its future is uncertain. The hardy, native
and ecological qualities of a river sometimes
mountain whitefish is still abundant, but
amount to so much background noise;
the Arctic grayling has gone.
on this trip, however, the phenomenal fishing had to fight tooth-and-nail for
In recent decades the river has become
our attention with the river’s astonishing
a battleground for competing public
succession of scenery and wildlife. On the
and private interests, including ranchers
one hand, the Smith is indeed timeless: a
and landowners, recreation workers, and
pristine, primordial ribbon that is home
government agencies. Montana Fish, Wildlife
to countless species of plant and animal—
& Parks (FWP) achieved preeminence over
and that provides a balm to humans
other agencies in the ‘70s, but battles
from the chaos and stress of modern life.
over property and water rights, recreation
Looked at historically, on the other hand,
development, taxation, and environmental
a more dynamic and ambivalent picture
regulation have persisted up to the present.
emerges. Since long before the first Euro-
Indeed, the Smith River has always been a
American settlers arrived, the river has
place in flux, an environment of remarkable
been inhabited, utilized, and modified by
richness—and an object of powerful
diverse communities of people. Much of that
competing visions.
history, as well as the Smith’s ecological richness, is tied to the fact that the Smith is
To make these observations is not to
an ecotone—a transition zone between two
diminish the exceptional qualities of
biomes. Neither fully of the plains, which
the Smith as a place for recreation or
stretch away eastward, nor belonging to the
for contact with the natural world. As
mountain vastness of the interior Rockies
environmental writers from Barry Lopez
looming to the west, the Smith’s high grassy
to Bill Cronon have argued, understanding
plateaus and plunging wooded canyons
the natural world as a setting that has
embody a mixture of both landscapes,
always been marked by human presence can
providing a refuge for ancient peoples as
actually deepen our ability to appreciate
well as later Euro-American populations in
“wild” places, while also motivating us
transition.
to appreciate the smaller-scale natures found in our communities and backyards.
In centuries past, the river valley hosted a
Compared with locales like Glacier National
succession of indigenous cultures: initially
Park or Yellowstone, where the lines
the Flathead people, then later Blackfeet
demarcating human and natural seem
and Shoshone populations. Occupation by
more inviolable and neatly drawn, the
these groups ebbed and flowed, sometimes
Smith’s patchwork of ranches, forest
violently overlapping and other times
plateaus, private cabins, float-in campsites,
flowing along peacefully. The arrival of
and fishing holes is a remarkable setting
Euro-Americans, and the mining and
for contemplating the entangled fate of
ranching booms in adjacent valleys and
humans and nature.
mountain ranges, signaled the twilight of indigenous control over the river, bringing
Drifting languidly down a placid river in
new modifications to its landscapes and
summer, it is tempting to banish such
ecosystems. Some of the river’s original
arcane thought and likewise to forget a
inhabitants were killed off—including
more concrete but no less crucial fact—that
the grizzly bear, mountain goats, and
the region has always been defined by Photo: Scott Morrison
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aridity. All living things in and around the
delay or modify these plans. The threat
many have previously opposed; bold, hand-
Smith are touched by seasonal changes in
of mining on the Smith has made strange
painted signs on private land abutting the
the availability of water: water encased in
bedfellows: Conservationists, landowners,
river exhort boaters to save the Smith and
alpine snowbanks, precipitated in storm
and activists alike have greeted this news
authorities to stop the mine from moving
cells, seeping underground, and flowing
with dismay and frustration, fearing acid
forward. Similarly, river guides, outfitters,
along the riverbed. It is water, too, that
leaching, explosive nitrate residue, high
and others who depend on the millions of
flows through the center of a long-standing
arsenic levels, water depletion, and more
dollars generated annually by recreation on
controversy that has made bumper stickers
environmental damage as a result of the
the Smith view the decision with predictable
declaring “Save the Smith” or “No Smith
proposed mining interests. For Smith River
fear and skepticism.
River Mine” a common sight across Western
landowners, the prospect of mining is
Montana.
even more alarming than the government
By contrast, the thousand-or-so residents
oversight and recreational development
of nearby White Sulfur Springs have their
For upwards of 20 years, a diverse field of conservation organizations, from Montana Trout Unlimited to the Save Our Smith coalition, has worked to block extraction of an exceptionally high-grade copper deposit located a few miles up one of the Smith’s two most significant tributaries. Entering the river just after the float launch at Camp Baker, Sheep Creek represents both a vital source of the river’s flow and a crucial stretch of trout habitat; in fact, FWP studies indicate that roughly half the trout that spawn naturally in the Smith’s tributaries are born in this stream. In the years since the discovery of the phenomenal copper deposits underneath Sheep Creek, however, mining interests have moved
Photo: Scott Morrison
forward with purchases of land and water rights around the tributary while waging a running legal battle with the state over extraction permits. Several years ago the original interest, a small Canadian mining concern, partnered with Sandfire Resources, a publicly traded Australian conglomerate, gathering legal and financial momentum like a powerful storm roiling across the Pacific. This April, having rejected the mining interests’ previous draft proposals, Montana’s Department of Environmental Quality (DEQ), citing Sandfire’s guarantees of unprecedented water protection measures, mitigation investments, and consent to government oversight, finally issued permits for the mine development to proceed. Construction of facilities and excavation are scheduled to take place over the coming two years, although it remains to be seen whether circumstances surrounding the COVID-19 pandemic will
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reasons for welcoming Sandfire’s mining
Moreover, the projections in official
project. Like countless others in the rural
documents surrounding the permit are full
West, these locals have struggled for
of caveats and qualifications, underlining
decades as the ranching economy stagnated
the point that the deposit’s unique
and growth passed them by for better-
geological characteristics preclude ironclad
situated regional hubs. To the citizens of
predictions and necessitate experimental
this small community, the approximately
and admittedly capital-intensive mining
240 middle-income jobs promised by the
techniques, including cutting-edge methods
mine’s 16-year development plan represent
of tunnel backfill and water purification.
a major—though necessarily finite—
What emerged from my discussions with
economic windfall.
water experts and examination of reports in the public domain is a picture of irresistible
Recent approval of the Black Butte Mine on
financial and legal momentum coupled with
Sheep Creek is a puzzle embedded in several
deep-flowing uncertainty about the Smith’s
larger puzzles—from the long regional
ecological and recreational future. Perhaps
history of degraded Montana waterways to
the mine’s mitigation technologies and flow
the evolving palimpsest of state water law
remediation will protect the fragile and
and resource management. I spoke at length
already imperiled Smith; perhaps they won’t.
with a water rights consultant, formerly
The only guarantee on these fabled waters
employed by the Montana Department of
is a future of uncertainty.
Natural Resources and Conservation (DNRC), about the proposed development, and he
Perhaps the greatest enigma of the Smith is
dug up some revealing figures. Although
that it is none of the things it is commonly
the mining company has purchased what
described as: It is neither a pristine
appear to be adequate water rights for its
wilderness nor a well-kept secret nor even,
projected needs and mitigation planning,
simply, a treasured public resource. It is
the vast majority of rights in Sheep Creek
a complex hybrid environment, a product
and elsewhere are what experts refer to
of entangled and often conflicting human
as “paper water.” That is because the
and natural forces. It is at once a messy
combined volume of all rights held on the
patchwork of private and public land, use
Smith, nominally for agricultural use, vastly
rights new and old, native and non-native
exceeds the total water available in the river
organisms, ancient and novel ecosystems,
and its tributaries—even in the best years.
and watery riparian spaces that confound tidy legal and economic frameworks. As
In fact, like many Montana rivers with
anybody who floats down the river comes to
extensive backlogs of contested and
understand, it is all the more mysteriously
largely hypothetical water rights, the
beautiful for this complexity: The non-native
Smith is under adjudication, which after an
trout flashing under the water’s surface, the
unpredictable number of years will result
moldering cabins of earlier generations, the
in significant reductions in the number and
Smith’s soaring limestone walls with their
extent of water claims. The rights now held
cryptic indigenous traces, the campfires
by Sandfire’s Black Butte project, whether
that twinkle along the river’s banks—all are
or not they prove adequate in the long run
parts of a remarkable, enduring whole.
to offset depletions involved in operating a large-scale mine, are likely not based on real
In his memoir of growing up on a Smith
historical use and may have little relevance
River ranch, Montana author Ivan Doig
to the Smith’s future water predicaments.
penned the line that perhaps best expresses
They are better understood as a legal
the fate of the Smith River as well as those
foothold that anticipates a contested future
who love and depend upon it: “There is more
rather than a true guarantee of protections
time than there is expanse of the world and
for a river basin in which neither man-made
so any voyage at last will end.”
nor natural changes in the environment are wholly predictable.
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Tsimane: Sustaining the Amazon
By R. Valentine Atkinson Small and landlocked, Bolivia is frequently overlooked by world travelers. And that’s a shame, because this unassuming, richly historic South American nation actually boasts an enviable biodiversity: from tropical savanna to altiplano to rainforest to the iconic Andes, Bolivia seemingly has it all. The Amazon rainforest, by contrast, has garnered more than its fair share of headlines in newspapers all over the world, though those headlines rarely scream anything but bad news. But what many don’t realize is that there is more to the Amazon than Brazil. Yes, the Bolivian Amazon, mysterious and fascinating, has much to offer ecotourists.
Founded in 2001 by a group of South American entrepreneurs, Untamed Angling partners with indigenous peoples and local authorities to combine fair employment, world-class catchand-release fly fishing, top-shelf tourist accommodations and guided fly fishing experiences, and environmental stewardship in one of the most important—and threatened—regions on earth. This partnership model’s first project was Tsimane in Bolivia’s Isiboro Sécure National Park and Indigenous Territory. That sounds obscure, perhaps, but getting to Tsimane is easier than one might expect: Major airlines fly out of Miami to Santa Cruz, where Untamed Angling puts up its clients overnight in a nice hotel close to the municipal
airport. In the morning, anglers board a twin-engine charter that flies directly to a landing strip in the jungle. I have fished the Bolivian Amazon twice now, and I have found Tsimane to be one of the most unusual and rewarding experiences in my lifetime of angling travel. Why? Well, first, Tsimane guests interact directly with the indigenous people of the region and enjoy closeup encounters with their rich and enduring culture. Many of these friendly, colorful individuals still live a huntergatherer existence that most of us have only read about in history books. With an extensive, almost awe-inspiring knowledge of local flora and fauna, these indigenous peoples are excellent archers
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who procure a good deal of what they eat with bow and arrow. They are also talented watermen, using long wooden dugout canoes for their daily transport. The only thing more exciting than watching them shoot through the rapids in their canoes with only 2 or 3 inches of freeboard is being in the canoe with them when they do it. Bolivia is also absolutely brimming with diversity: colorful birds, butterflies, and insects; giant, several-hundred-year-old banyan, mahogany, and sable trees; and exotic species like tapirs, armadillos, giant otters, river dolphins, anacondas, and jaguars. Bolivia’s butterflies alone are considered a national treasure: Hundreds of colorful and exotic butterfly species populate the region and are protected by the Bolivian government. Tsimane’s piece de resistance—and its main attraction for visiting anglers— is the golden dorado (oddly enough, not related to the saltwater fish of the same name). This large and predatory freshwater bruiser weighs in at 5 to 20 pounds and is found only in central South America, where the locals have admired the species for many, many years. Tsimane fly anglers quickly come to appreciate the dorado’s tenacious, hard-fighting, tackle-smashing, badass fighting. Dorado take the fly well, jump like crazy, and are stunningly beautiful— as colorful as Inca gold. The Bolivian Amazon has a lot to offer even jaded, cosmopolitan traveling fly anglers who would swear they’ve seen and done it all. From unique cultural encounters with indigenous Bolivians to the opportunity to pursue one of the world’s great gamefish, Tsimane demonstrates that responsible ecotourism and carefully cultivated local partnerships can help to sustain even one of the world’s most important and precarious places.
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