Things have changed around here.
Imagine it being January at one of the most desolate lakes in America—Pyramid Lake. You’re standing on your ladder in the water, bundled up in what never seems like enough layers, and donning ever-so-flattering neoprene waders. Just as you wonder why you brave the stinging cold and miserable wind, you feel it and set. It feels like a car engine is on your hook, and your line screeches as the fish takes you into your backing almost before you can blink. The fish porpoises through the water’s
I recently had the opportunity to be a guest on Mark Hopley’s podcast, “Fly Fish 97” out of British Columbia. He asked some really great questions throughout the conversation, but one question especially intrigued me. I’ve thought of it several times since and decided to paint that picture in writing. The question was, “How would you paint your perfect fishing day?” I love early mornings for a number of reasons. I’ve grown to love the pre-dawn stillness, the first glimpse of light as the
Mayflies crawled, tickling, over my arms, legs, and face—something only a fly angler would be excited about. I couldn't get my rod together fast enough. This was my second lake of the day. I’d hiked five miles to the first lake, along a dusty trail, later through a stretch of my beloved ponderosas, and finally up to exposed rocky lookouts. While incredibly scenic, it was dotted with backpackers and way too windy to cast. I usually fish rivers or unnamed alpine lakes, but on this solo trip, I dec
The Tennessee creek was small, the water swift, and channels deep in some areas. Wild rainbows swam in this mostly unknown tributary sourced by a cold underground spring. It was the perfect scenario to try to master Euro-nymphing or French, Czech, Spanish, or Polish – take your pick. My friend Susan Thrasher, founder of Nashville's Music City Fly Girls, had invited me out for a special day on secret water. She gave me a few pointers and waded further upstream. In a few hours, I had landed a coup
Picture a 201-level angler fishing 501-level water. Not a pretty sight, right? Now imagine that 201-level angler flying across the world and paying mucho dinero while leaving her husband and 6 and 7-year-old boys to fish said 501-level water. Well, that is what I did and it was oh-so-very eye-opening. Welcome to Mongolia! One of the few remaining homes for taimen, the largest salmonid, a finicky, and majestic apex predator that often rests in shallow glassy water with complete confidence.
Fly fishing is addictively fun because there are so many facets to understand and improve. If the sport starts to lose its luster, there’s almost always something to hone in on and work at. That sense of improvement reignites our love for the sport, then we’re back to obsessing and spending too much money again. Such is the cycle of fly fishing. In this article we’re going to point out a few facets of fly fishing that lovers of fly can geek on until the cows come home. The Zen of the Cast It’
September in Alaska. The sun is still warm, and the bustle of summer is winding down. Most of the tourists have come and gone. The streams and trails are returning to their quieter state, and locals are reemerging to take advantage of the final days before the snow will fall on braided streams and the peaks of the Front Range of the Chugach Mountains. As a year-round resident of Alaska, the shoulder season represents a true transition. Fall is a time to reflect on the adventures of the months
I will always remember the first time I caught a fish. It was a beautiful yellow perch about twelve inches long. I was eight years old, fishing with my parents, aunt, uncle and cousins at Oxbow Lake near Defiance, Ohio. It was one of the proudest moments of my childhood. Back then, we used to fish to actually take the fish back home to eat. While my family enjoyed fishing for food, I always viewed fishing more as a way for me to connect with nature, as well as enjoy some peace and quiet. Once I
When I first got the idea to chase some trout this past fall in Western North Carolina (WNC), I had no idea that the words delayed harvest, private waters, and Lake Toxaway would become a standard part of my vocabulary. As a lifelong New Englander, I was a bit surprised when I heard that WNC had quantity and quality bows and browns. I left Boston on a chilly day when stripers were making their last push through the beaches of Cape Cod. I put down my Clousers, grabbed some well-recommended Girdl
A while back I was asked to be part of a blog post, and to say I was excited was a bit of an understatement. This was a new experience for me. No one had ever reached out to me to do a post on anything, ever, and I was taken aback by their interest. It all seemed pretty simple. They would send me a list of questions, I would answer and include some photos for their post. Then I read their questions, and my heart sank. I was not the person they were looking for. I fish in interesting water, but I
"We do not inherit the earth from our ancestors, we borrow it from our children." Wendell Berry I have always loved that proverb, but as a non-child bearing woman of nearly 40, I never really had a personal connection to the statement – until one hot September day on the headwaters of the Chattahoochee River. This past year had me thinking a lot about youth. My nonprofit’s silver anniversary was not only a celebration of 25 years of keeping watch over our waters but also served as an opportuni
