Fishing a di erent river every day in the wilds of Chile. by Tom Rosenbauer
32 CAT TRACKS
Tough hunting, ne dining, no kidding. by E. Donnall omas, Jr.
38 REDEMPTION ON THE BIG HOLE RIVER
Maybe there's still something to this whole Montana thing after all. by Scott Sadil
44 NO EASY TASK
A photographic essay. by Kendrick Chittock
50 THE TROUT ALSO RISES
e Spanish Pyrenees o er a fascinating mix of y shing and cultural history. by Philip Monahan
56 RIDING SHOTGUN
A cross-country upland hunt with ve complete strangers. by David Schlake
64 COMES A KUDU
If not now, then when? by Kevin Kennedy
70 PREDATOR
A photographic essay. by Dušan Smetana
Columns &Departments
6 JOURNAL: TIME TRAVELERS
Redbellies and mastodons. by Mike Floyd
18 GRAY’S BEST
Our favorite new gear in shooting, angling, apparel and accessories. by the Editors
76 ANGLING: BY ANY NAME
e sh are where they're supposed to be, eating what they're supposed to eat. by Scott Sadil 82 SHOOTING: A DARLING BEAST e 28 on the catwalk. by Terry Wieland
108 BOOKS: SOME ANGLING HOW-TO FOR THE ROAD
What to read along the way. by Chris Camuto
112 POEM: ON OUR OWN by Ken Craft
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Gray’s Sporting Journal
Vice President / Publisher John Lunn
Associate Publisher / Editor
Michael Floyd (706) 231-0826 / mike. oyd@morris.com
Editorial
Wayne Knight, Art Director
Terry Wieland, Shooting Editor
Scott Sadil, Angling Editor
Nina Eastman, Advertising Production Coordinator
Sherry Foster, Copy Editor
Contributing
Editors
R. Valentine Atkinson Brian Grossenbacher
Barry & Cathy Beck Georgia Pellegrini
Denver Bryan Will Ryan
Christopher Camuto Dušan Smetana
Brooke Chilvers
Dale C. Spartas
Pete Fromm E. Donnall omas Jr.
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BX-4 RANGE HD FIND IT. RANGE IT. FASTER.
Time Travelers
Should one be curious as to how Old Florida looked to Spanish explorer Hernando de Soto when he and his fortune-seeking rufans ventured up from Tampa Bay to the Panhandle around 1540, a canoe trip along any of these coastal rivers is a great place to start. While much of modern-day Florida has succumbed to urban development, Disneyization and migration by fellow Americans seeking refuge from excessive taxation in frigid native lands, little has changed here. is part of the state is largely untouched by outsiders and mostly forgotten by those passing through. It’s a land of bears, armadillos, panthers and, thanks to the wandering Spaniards, an abundance of wild hogs. e de Soto expedition landed in Florida with 13 porcine companions, and by the time his fever-ridden body was committed to the depths of the Mississippi River three years later, history tells us pig numbers had exploded to more than 700. at population has grown to unknown millions today, arguably the most damaging invasive species introduction in world history, albeit then, as now, few will argue they aren’t delicious when slow roasted over an open re.
Natural springs, frigid and crystal blue, feed many of these rivers, while ancient cypress draped in heaping layers of Spanish moss shade them from the worst of the summer sun. Alligators as large as your canoe roam the surface of these time-capsule streams while snapping turtles the size of trash can lids lurk silently below. is is no place for a curious dog.
Not everything remains as it was, of course, so don’t go mistaking any of this for virgin forest. While some of the hard-to-reach sections of swamps and river bottoms survived largely unscathed, beginning in the 1890s, timber companies set up shop and spent the better part of ve decades felling enough longleaf, tupelo and cypress to support an entire industry of lumberjacks, sawmills and satellite businesses. ere was even a short-line railroad— e Live Oak & Perry, aka the “Lopin’ Gopher”—built for the sole purpose of transporting
it all back to civilization.
Today, only pilings remain where bridges once provided wetland passage for lumber trains. Bait shacks sell live minnows and frozen shrimp where frontier trading posts once stood. And there are still a few river retreats, accessible only by boat, in areas that have mostly reverted to pristine wilderness. If you know where to look, there’s even the occasional riverside juke joint, complete with waterfront deck, smoked mullet dip and ice-cold beer served straight from the bottle.
Local pickers will play some Jimmy Bu et on request, but if you’re after the Keys experience, brace yourself for a 10-hour drive covering more than 500 miles, rst east, then due south, through the heart of a state that’s seen its population double since 1980 and has the tra c to prove it. But not here. Not along this stretch of what is still one of the most desolate and forbidding places on the Gulf Coast.
Change has come slowly. People still smoke in bars and restaurants, although not so brazenly as they once did. And you’ll nd loosies for sale in most convenience stores from Perry to Pensacola, staring back at you during checkout from plastic containers that formerly held pickled eggs or hot sausages.
Spend much time in these woods and you quickly realize de Soto was a bit of a late comer. Native pottery and arrowheads are as common as water moccasins and cat sh, and the likes of Smithsonian and National Geographic have long sent teams of archeologists deep into the surrounding wetlands to investigate the origins of mankind in North America. at ancestors of modern man were wandering these parts far earlier than history books have long taught us is no longer up for debate.
Only recently, a discovery within a nearby sinkhole revealed that inhabitants slaughtered a mastodon and broke open its bones in what was then an isolated watering hole more than 30 miles from the ocean, approximately 14,800 years ago. ese early men were seeking a di erent sort of fortune in the form of highly nutritious marrow, sustenance in
their hardscrabble quest for survival. e nd predates the Bering Strait theory of North American settlement by more than 2,000 years, proving that humans lived side by side with these giant, forestdwelling beasts for centuries longer than we realized and calling into question much of what was widely regarded as fact among the archeological community. ere is much left to study.
Our aspirations, on the other hand, are far more modest. We’re down here looking for redbreast sun sh. ey inhabit these dark rivers all year, but the peak of the run comes in late spring, ideally after early season rains have swollen the streams out of their banks and into the ood plain. ere, the stunningly pretty pan sh—“redbellies,” colloquially—can spend weeks at a time feasting on the delectable forest oor before the waters recede into the rocky banks of home.
is is a limestone stream that ows clear but tannin, resembling a good glass of iced tea in both color and clarity. It travels at a snail’s pace for most of its 90 miles, meandering down from the heart of quail country in southwest Georgia’s tall-timber region into this sliver of Florida’s past.
anks to the slow but steady build-up of sediments over many thousands of years, it’s an ideal preserver of archeological treasures. Intermittently subterranean, the river often drops into the earth in an awe-inspiring whirlpool or “sink,” only to “rise” back up hundreds of yards away on its trek to the Gulf.
We’ve set up camp where the river ows to a dead end, then vortexes hypnotically into what seems an impossible illusion. With canoes at the river’s edge and y rods armed with popping bugs, woolly buggers and “bream getters” decked out in a long-defunct pattern featuring an impossibly orange foam body with white legs, John takes a leap of faith, pushes o to lead the way, and begins the slow paddle upstream. e rest of us glide silently behind, and within minutes we’ve begun a routine of paddling, casting, paddling, casting.
Our approach is a bit sloppy as we adjust our
rhythm to the light current, dropping our o erings into tight pockets that only open when the angle through the looming canopy is just right. But presentation matters little; the sh aren’t picky. We catch them at the base of massive trees with root balls that have harbored our quarry for time eternal. ey creep from cover along the edges of lily pads and ambush our ies before ducking back into dark sloughs born of storm-dumped hardwoods. And they idle in eddies formed by giant lumps of limestone that peek just above the river’s surface at low tide.
ere’s the occasional largemouth bass, along with sun sh that come in a striking array of sizes and colors. We boat bluegills, pumpkinseeds, stumpknockers, warmouth, black crappie and shellcrackers. Even the occasional channel cat sh. e best ghter in the bunch? Go with the primitive bow n, and there’s no close second. But mostly it’s redbellies, and only the sinking sun and darkness of the swamp put an end to the festivities.
e current carries us downstream and back to camp, where the real work begins as the moon rises above the tree line. Canoes are secured, a re is lit, and we prep our catch for dinner under a hissing Coleman lantern. Soon enough, we’ll have bone-in sh, lightly breaded and fried to a crisp in an iron skillet lled with peanut oil that snaps and shimmers in the moonlight. e meat falls o the bone while the crispy tails crunch like potato chips. Hush puppies, Dutch-oven collard greens and re-roasted potatoes round out a menu that won’t change much over the next few nights.
A rising cacophony of tree frogs, mixed with rustling in the nearby brush by an unknown creature that merits further investigation—we’re all too tired to bother—brings the day to a close. And here come the mosquitoes. We’d best make our way to the tents, for the expedition starts again at rst light.
Hernando de Soto never had it so good. S
Mike Floyd is editor and associate publisher of Gray’s Sporting Journal. He has no fear of alligators, but if a water moccasin crawls into the boat, it’s every man for himself.
IT’S NOT THE HOLIDAYS WITHOUT GAME NIGHT
Magic Wa THE PATAGONIA
By Tom Rosenbauer
ters OF Fishing a different river every day in the wilds of Chile.
My rst trips to Chile were aboard a luxury 150-foot yacht called the Atmosphere, where I hosted anglers and took a dozen people from the yshing media back when an operation called Nomad of the Seas rst began. It’s truly the lap of luxury, with an extravagant vessel that accommodates 18 guests, all of whom get to enjoy the bene ts of a Bell 407 helicopter and eet of jet boats.
Every day we’d sh coastal Chile, with access to remote rivers, often with glimpses of blue whales on our way into the mountains. Although it was the experience of a lifetime, the river shing did not meet expectations. Yes, we caught many large trout and saw spectacular glaciers, pristine lakes and beautiful rivers, but all the shing was with streamers in highgradient streams and remote stillwater in coastal rainforests. e impenetrable underbrush was so thick that once you entered a river it would be tough to get out on the bank to walk to another spot. I never once shed a dry y or a nymph.
Someone should slap me for being so picky, but even though I love streamer shing, I like to mix it up with dry ies and a bit of nymphing. I like to walk the banks. And, most of all, I enjoy variety. It’s why I have fallen in love with Magic Waters, on the other side of the rainforest in eastern Chile. Here, you have access to the mountain rivers of the Andes temperate rainforest, yet the same day it’s possible to sh a spring creek or larger river in the wideopen pampas for a totally di erent experience. It’s the most diverse trout shing location I have ever seen. And you don’t need to sh streamers unless you want to.
PATAGONIA
e main lodge is 14 miles as the crow ies southwest of Coyhaique, nestled between Lago Barroso and a chain of smaller lakes in the foothills of the Andes. It’s a rugged landscape, and all their neighbors are sheep herders, tough descendants of Basques who emigrated to Chile beginning in the 16th century. ey still wear the traditional berets of their ancestors and provide local lamb you’ll often enjoy cooked over an open re.
ere are several great shing lodges in the Coyhaique area including Cinco Rios Lodge and Estancia El Zorro, and shing access in Chile is similar to what you’d encounter in Montana. If you can get into a stream at a road crossing, you can sh within
Top: Although brown trout are the primary species in this part of Chile, rainbows are also common and naturally reproducing. Bottom: Brown trout with a large average size are found everywhere from lakes to spring creeks to mountain streams. Although originally stocked, their populations have exploded and Chile no longer needs to stock them anywhere. Main image: e Simpson River near Magic Waters Lodge is the most famous trout stream in the area. Despite its notoriety, you will seldom see another angler.
the highwater mark. So, DIY trips in Chile are possible, but to get to many of the best spots you’d need to walk miles from the nearest road. Chances are, when shing with a lodge you will never see another angler or boat. ere are so many rivers and lakes in the region that lodges and guides don’t need to overlap on the same waters as they do in many other parts of the world. Additionally, many of the rivers ow through large, remote estancias, where the lodges have obtained access to drive through many primitive gates for walk/wade or oat trips through local connections with landowners. I found it interesting that even on one farm, you might have to open a dozen gates, but each one would have a different arrangement of wire to keep the gate closed. So, you’d have to stop and examine a di erent Rube Goldberg combination of old wire and wood for every gate. Eduardo’s father is a beloved local schoolteacher, and his relationships with local ranchers have opened many doors for access. It’s more about relationships—most of them don’t want money in exchange for access but will happily accept a bottle of wine and a brief chat.
Trout shing in Chile is probably what shing in the American West was like a century ago. ere are no native salmonids in South America. Brown trout from Europe, along with rainbows and (to a lesser extent) brook trout from North America, were introduced in the early 20th century and exploded in the rivers and lagunas, which had a dearth of native sh. As you would expect, few predators have evolved to eat them. It’s estimated that 80 percent of the sh biomass in Chilean Patagonia consists of invasive brown and rainbow trout.
Unfortunately, early stockings were poorly docu-
mented and interaction between the trout and native species was not well studied, but it’s obvious they lled an ecological niche that was not fully exploited because they now occur almost everywhere in Patagonian Chile, even in remote lakes high in the Andes. Most local people have never known river sh other than trout. Many lower altitude lakes and river systems are interconnected, and you can understand the abundance of trout in the river valleys, but how trout got into lakes that can only be reached today by helicopter is a mystery that may never be solved. Years ago, I caught a native sh they called a perca (perch) and it looked somewhat like a white perch, but you catch them rarely today.
Besides their main lodge in Coyhaique, Magic Waters operates two other venues that expand their operation into a broad range of experiences and a large geographic footprint—each dramatically di erent. Let’s start at their southernmost location, a new lodge on the banks of the mighty Baker River about 100 miles south of Coyhaique. And it’s a long 100 miles, because the main northsouth road in Chile is dirt and gravel, so it’s a vehour drive. Travelers with a big budget can arrange a helicopter ride instead.
Its saving grace is spectacular scenery with rugged mountain views, and much of it hugs the banks of Lago General Carrera, the second largest lake in South America. is breathtaking lake shines dark turquoise in the sun due to the extensive marble deposits along its western shore. It’s known for its giant trout, and I’ve shed it, but you must pick your moments because on a windy day (which is most
every day in Chile) waves can pile to over six feet. I’ll take the rivers and smaller lakes, thanks.
e Baker is monstrous, likely the river with the highest CFS I have ever shed. At normal ows (the river does not uctuate much during the season) it runs at 30,000 CFS. After receiving all the water from Lago General Carrera, the Baker moves downstream at a breathtaking pace. It’s deeper than you can discern, more than a hundred yards wide, and you’ll sh from boats with motors because if you need to get back upstream or hit a spot multiple times there is no way the guide can row it.
Trout won’t live just anywhere in this river, but it seems there are three primary places to nd them. My favorite spot is along shallow gravel bars where the river slows. You can get out of a boat and wade these areas to nd big rainbows rising to midges and caddis, or you can sight- sh to them with nymphs. e brand-new lodge is perched on the banks of the Baker, just downstream from a set of gravel bars that o er some of the best shing in the river. e view from their porch may be the most spectacular of any y- shing lodge in the world.
In a river this large it’s no surprise that some of the best trout habitat is along the banks where the water is slower and shallower. Here, you can pick along the edges, casting to trout rising to caddis in the evening or pitch large streamers from the boat. Along with the predominant rainbows that aver-
age about 16 inches, the Baker hosts giant brown trout that will emerge from their haunts to tackle a streamer under the right conditions. Make sure you have some meaty ies in your box.
One of the most fascinating aspects of shing the Baker is the rainbows that cruise the giant eddies and boils common to a river this size. I have always told people that trout prefer to feed in water that is two to four feet deep, with a speed of about one foot per second and without turbulence. ese sh make me sound like a fool. I have no idea how deep these eddies are, and don’t want to nd out. And they are turbulence personi ed. But the boils are so predictable that the rainbows can surf the plumes well above the bottom and move with the vagaries of the current, so you never know where they will pop up. ey regularly feed on midges, and shing a size-20 Gri th’s Gnat in water this vast is a leap of faith. Never mind having to go to 5X—a rarity in Chile, where the average dry- y tippet is 3X.
ere are other interesting rivers in this area, particularly the Cochrane. It’s a smaller stream and much richer, with a dense insect and trout population and the opportunity to sight- sh for large trout. Like most biologically productive rivers it can be moody, and I’ve never been able to hit the Cochrane in its prime, but even on slow days I’ve managed to catch dry- y trout up to the 20-inch mark. And seen sh much larger.
Not every trout you catch in Chile will be a monster, but the average size is better than most North American rivers and big dries are a reliable way to catch them.
This year, we proudly celebrate our 50th anniversary. It’s been a journey filled with fun, firsts, camaraderie, and a half-century of handcrafting high performance fly rods.
In contemplating the most fitting tribute to the anglers who fish Scott rods, the rodsmiths that craft them, and the rod designs of Harry Wilson, Larry Kenney, and Jim Bartschi, we picked one rod from each decade that exemplifies Scott innovation and, in some way, changed the way we fish.
Each was chosen from an award-winning series of Scott rods that are even more celebrated by the anglers who fish them. For those anglers, these are ‘never part with’ rods.
Rather than replicating the originals, we decided to build the blanks to spec with a resto-mod approach to finishing them. They will be instantly recognizable to Scott history buffs, but we’re introducing some new surprises by finishing them with today’s best-in-class components and construction techniques.
In celebration we offer these tribute fly rods with a heartfelt thank you to the whole Scott family.
Check them out at: www.scottflyrod.com
Magic Waters also o ers many tiny freestone streams and spring creeks. A 3-weight rod on these rivers is fun, and casts on these streams are short so the wind is not much of a problem.
The Cochrane and the Baker are not wilderness rivers but are instead located in a mixture of pastureland and small towns. If you move north to one of Magic Waters’s other locations, you will be more remote. e River of Dreams can only be reached with a two-hour horseback ride over rocky terrain. Not being especially comfortable on horses, I think I spent 90 percent of the ride with both hands hanging onto the saddle. But it’s worth the whiteknuckle trip. (Yes, for the less adventurous there is the more expensive helicopter option.) e camp for this operation is comfortable wall tents with electricity, and a main dining tent with food that is amazingly well prepared and varied, especially since everything must be brought in on horseback. No one else shes the River of Dreams. e terrain is dense and rugged, there are no roads, and impassable falls at either end of the 15-mile stretch protect its waters from outsiders. ere are numerous spring creeks that feed into the main river, and the best one is located right at camp, a few steps away from your tent. It shes best when the river is high, so there is always a great option regardless of conditions.
e river is interesting in that it holds a dense population of large trout, but sparse insect numbers and no pancora, which is a large aquatic crustacean common to many Patagonian Rivers, similar in size and habits to our cray sh. ere are no bait sh, so the trout cannibalize their young or eat anything else that swims or drops into the river. ey are not fussy about their diet. On our rst day we motored seven miles upstream, passing intriguing streamer water the whole way until I was ready to just ask them to stop the boat and let me sh. But motoring upstream to the falls meant we had the entire rest of the day to leisurely oat all that juicy water. Every few feet there would be another overhanging tree, deep slot, or jumble of rocks just perfect for a brown trout ambush. It’s a good thing we weren’t oating fast because you wanted to hit every pocket, almost all of which produced either a sh or a follow.
Some were smaller rainbows, but most were browns anywhere from 10 inches to a bit over 20. In the tail of one pool, my streamer moved two sh, one about 18 inches and one much larger. Of course, the smaller sh grabbed the y, but after we landed it my guide Hayden Dale motored us quietly back into the pool above and we oated down to the same spot. is time the big one had no competition, but it followed the streamer an agonizingly long time before nally chomping.
Later in the day, my shing partner, Mark Melnyk, oating with guide Andy Manheim, decided to try a mouse. e oating y, shed actively, drew just as many sh o the bank as the streamers so we both shed with mice the rest of the day because even though we could see all our streamer eats, getting big browns to crush mice during the day when you can see the sh inhale it on the surface is a rare treat. Besides, we were hooking so many sh on streamers that we were shaking o most of them after the strike. I won’t say we got bored with the streamer shing, but it just felt a bit greedy to play all those sh.
Magic Waters’s main lodge on the River of Dreams is about 40 minutes south of Coyhaique, half of the drive on paved roads and half on dirt. You navigate the dirt road past sheep pastures on rugged hillsides where gauchos handle small ocks on horseback or on foot with dogs keeping the sheep in line. Continued on page 96
Our Top for Angling & Hunting Gear in 2025.
GRAY’S BEST
GRAY’S BEST awards are anticipated by long-time readers of Gray’s Sporting Journal and coveted by hunting and angling manufacturers. The reason? GRAY’S BEST carries the weight of authentic sincerity. Many sporting magazines publish an end-of-the-year roundup of new products. Gray’s publishes a distinguished selection.
Our editors cover areas of expertise and experience—Angling, Shooting, Apparel, and Accessories—and select gear that not only makes good rst impressions, but also satis es during repeated use. We make choices of our own volition, absent encouragement and incentive from the manufacturers. Further, GRAY’S BEST winners deliver on the claims of their makers but also have an extra attribute, an extra something that triggers a tenor of feel, remembrance or aesthetic, and can be de ned only as...satisfying. Much like Gray’sitself.
Choices
Angling
BY SCOTT SADIL
ORVIS 4TH GENERATION HELIOS
RGRAY’S
arely do I have the opportunity to actually sh, not just cast, a range of line-weight sizes for any particular new model of rod. But as luck would have it, after casting a “show-butcan’t-tell-you-about-it” version of Orvis’s fourth-generation Helios ($1,098-$1,198) six months before it was o ered to the public, I was able this year to sh a Helios 4 “D” 10-weight for East Cape roostersh, an 8-weight for some of Mag Bay’s notorious mangrove brutes and tippet busters, and your classic 9-foot 5-weight for a variety of those big-river trout in Montana and Wyoming that still make you wonder why you would want to be shing anywhere else during a Northern Hemisphere summer. e verdict? I can rattle o Orvis’s laboratory-documented claims for improved accuracy, increased rod strength and lighter swing weight, but if you’re like me, you’ll skip all that because you know it came straight from the manufacturer, anyway, and you’d really like me to tell you if these are good rods, even great rods, and whether you should go out and get one yourself. But is that really the point of a Gray’s Best Award? Instead, I’ll o er up that these are fast, crisp, progressive-action rods, with all the strength you’ll ever need down deep where you want it, and an absolutely true tracking path, which means your line will, for better or worse, do exactly what your stroke, and the rod tip, tell it to do. www.orvis.com
SIMMS TAILWATER ROLLER
Although it’s more common than ever these days to nd ourselves in the care of lodges or guides providing all of the equipment we need to go shing, very many of us who travel still like to show up with our own gear. Or we seek out less cushy locales, requiring the same level of self-su ciency. If that’s your style, take a look at the new Tailwind Roller ($450) from our good friends at Simms. Finally, a bag long enough I can lay rod tubes at, in line with the structural framing, allowing that much more space for boots and waders, y boxes and tying kit, not to mention the assorted back-up or just-in-case accoutrements a genuine angling adventure demands. With its voluminous 160-liter capacity, the Tailwind Roller even makes possible the timeless scheme of a sleeping bag, mini stove and backpacking tent, for that deep-space rental car expedition. Organizing compartments and internal compression straps help keep gear where you want it. Solid undersides and handles o er strength and durability where they are needed. Built throughout with the renowned quality we’ve come to expect from all Simms products, the Tailwind Roller might even inspire the kind of trip you’ve never before imagined, one you keep from a spouse, a sweetheart, or even your mother. www.simms shing.com
HARDY 1921 WIDE SPOOL PERFECT, 4/5/6
We love the sound of quality. e engine purrs. e prose hums. Our English boxlock closes with a satisfying snap. And for more than a hundred years now the “check mechanism” or drag on the Hardy Perfect y reel has accompanied anglers ghting good sh with the sweetest song imaginable, an elegantly pitched aria that inspires con dence even as the backing knot clears the rod tip, the odds appear headed the other way. is year Hardy o ers what they’re calling the 1921 Wide Spool Perfect ($795), a new and improved version of the classic “Perfect” that so many of us have known and loved during our careers. Reviews and ad copy point out materials and design elements that, for me, fall on deaf ears. Let’s get to the heart of the matter: Interested in how my little 4/5/6 model—with right hand reel, of course—would sound on some feisty Deschutes rainbows, I swung a pair of traditional soft hackles through the run at South Junction, only to come up tight on a summer steelhead. A hesitation, a hiccup, or hint of cackle or squawk and the trout tippet is toast. But in this case, once the singing faded, I was still connected to my sea-run sh, the little Hardy humming in my hands as I guided the sh in over the rocks. Only thing missing was a nearby angler, who would have heard the Hardy, delighted by the sound almost as much as I was. www.hardy shing.com
SAGE SPEY R8
Irecall a couple of seasons back, at the end of a Deschutes trout oat, spotting two guys struggling with two-handers, obviously beginners still trying to make sense out of what many of us now refer to as Spey casting. I wondered if they were too late. Steelhead runs had crashed; should we even pester these sh anymore? But this year the numbers improved, reminding Paci c Northwesterners, at least, of the best reason to love two-handed rods. And as luck would have it, this year also marks the launch of Sage’s new SPEY R8 ($1,300) line of double-handers. Sage, of course, has been designing Spey rods since the beginning—or, more accurately, the late 1980s, when Northwest steelhead anglers nally realized they’d had it all wrong shing single-handed rods for their anadromous sh. Marrying design elements with the complex array of Spey lines and line systems sprouting in the Northwest over the decades like so many morel mushrooms in spring, Sage has aimed for versitality as much as high-end performance with the SPEY R8. Whether you’re looking for your rst twohander, a rod for casting light, long-bellied dry lines for swinging waking muddlers, or a big powerful rod for wide rivers and sea-run sh, in places somewhere over the rainbow, the SPEY R8 lineup of two-handers has a model that will t your needs, a rod that will do what you hope it can do, as long as you’ve learned how to ask. www.sage yrods.org
GRAY’S
GRAY’S
Shooting
BY TERRY WIELAND
LEUPOLD RX-5000 TBR/W RANGEFINDER
The laser range nder has come a long, long way since its introduction in the mid-’90s, but Leupold’s new RX-5000 TBR/W takes it a quantum leap beyond. It will do far, far more, in a package far, far smaller, than anything yet seen, and all at a price that in actual dollars is less than makers were asking back in 1995. It is a comfortable one-hand, pocket-size bundle of technology that will measure distances out to 5,000 yards, calculate hold-under for uphill and downhill shots, and includes all kinds of features required by (and really only understood by) the most hard-bitten of long-range target enthusiasts. Ballistically, it can be set to accommodate dozens of di erent cartridge classes, allowing you to incorporate their performance into the range nder’s precise calculations for hold-over and windage allowance. It incorporates Bluetooth, for communicating with the inevitable app for your smart phone, and will even help guide you using various map applications. In “Long Range” mode (out to 5,000 yards) on a tripod (bracket included) it’s used, not for calculating ultra-long shots, but for navigation using its digital compass. Being a Leupold, it is naturally fog-, water-, dust- and shock-proof, and adjusting its settings and nding your way around is a lot simpler than those long-ago units. All this for $700, which is about what they wanted for one of those early range nders 30 years ago. My suggestion for mastering its capabilities? Take the handbook into your stand on a mountainside and practice while you wait. www.leupold.com
GARMIN XERO C1 PRO CHRONOGRAPH
If ever a technological marvel deserved a Gray’s Best award, it is Garmin’s Xero C1 Pro chronograph ($599). Since the rst personal chronographs came on the scene in the 1980s, they have become indispensable to anyone who shoots and has even minimal curiosity as to what his ammunition is doing. Alas, even the best traditional chronographs are tricky, requiring space to set up, and are vulnerable to wind, rain, clouds and errant sunbeams. Not the Garmin. It’s a neat little thing that ts in your pocket, sets up on your shooting bench a little to the side and behind your gun muzzle, and measures velocity by Doppler radar technology. You pull it out, set it on its tiny tripod, and press a button or three to tell it what you’re doing (ri e, pistol, velocity range, that kind of thing) and start shooting. You download an app to your smart phone and the Xero C1 will automatically send your velocity les over, where you can view, store and manipulate what seems like in nite amounts of data. Unlike some chronographs, which don’t deal well with shotshells, the Xero C1 is right at home with them. Batteries? Rechargeable even in your car. Try as I might, I cannot nd a single problem with other chronographs that the Xero C1 doesn’t solve: size, complexity, lighting conditions, wind, rain, occasional no-shows, internal features—all resolved or eliminated. For the record: More than 120 consecutive shots without a glitch. And dirt cheap at the price. www.garmin.com
CAESAR GUERINI INVICTUS
It’s not often one can use the word “remarkable” to describe a new shotgun, but the Caesar Guerini Invictus 12-gauge competition over/under is one of those times. I was with a couple of guys who, tiring of Skeet on a sweltering August day, wanted to shoot a round of trap. Sure, says I, why not? I hadn’t so much as pulled the trigger on the Invictus yet, so I took it to the line just as it was and, using the lower (I/C) barrel, proceeded to break the rst 13 targets I saw and nished with a 22. Normally, a new gun presents some hitches that require you to adjust: trigger pull, comb height, that kind of thing. Not the Invictus. e redesigned trigger mechanism was crisp, the gun was responsive and, altogether, it did nothing to get in the way. Opening, closing, ejecting, all smooth as glass, and the gun even has an adjustable forend that allows you to set the sti ness the way you like it. Guerini says the gun’s revolutionary modular construction has solved the problem of break-action guns wearing out (coming “o the face”) and that it will last, not just your lifetime, but several more, all the while breaking every clay at which it gets a fair chance. No way to measure that, but I’ve seen nothing to suggest otherwise. Oh, I almost forgot to mention, it’s classically, stylishly, beautiful. Starting at $22,000, it’s not cheap, but amortized over several lifetimes? A bargain. www.gueriniusa.com
SPRINGFIELD ARMORY MODEL 2020 BOUNDARY
Three years ago, we awarded a Gray’s Best to Spring eld Armory’s Model 2020 Waypoint, a semi-tactical style hunting and target ri e. It was, and is, a great ri e, but as a tool for traditional hunting, it left a few things to be desired— especially for a hunter who likes to walk and climb to impossible places, and shoot from tricky positions. Spring eld has followed up the Waypoint with the Boundary ($2,599). It corrects failings our backpacking editor found with the Waypoint: It has a traditional magazine with a hinged oorplate, and an almost-classic style AG Composites stock in discreet camou age, that is comfortable for shooting from any impossible position. Its carbon bre-wrapped barrel is light, contributing to an overall weight of just nine pounds, loaded with scope. It’s chambered in serious hunting cartridges, such as the .300 Winchester and 7mm Remington Magnums and has Spring eld’s .75 MOA accuracy guarantee. To tame these beasts in such a light ri e, it incorporates a removable muzzle brake. e integral Picatinny rail allows the scope to be moved forward or back easily. Best of all, the Boundary has one of the best trigger pulls encountered on any factory ri e. It’s a TriggerTech, adjustable from 2.5 to 5.0 pounds. Combined with the Boundary’s lightningquick lock time of a mere 1.9 milliseconds, this is a ri e that acts as a silky conduit between you and your target, instead of getting in the way. I wish I could think of something bad to say. Oh, well. www.spring eld-armory.com
GRAY’S BEST GRAY’S BEST
Apparel
BY MIKE FLOYD
CHÊNE GEAR SLOUGH BOOT
Swamp turkeys have always held a special place in my heart, but navigating the complex aquatic circuitry of their home turf can be cumbersome, even if you know your way around. Chêne Gear helps solve the problem with its Slough Boot ($300). Composed of 3mm chloroprene rubber atop neoprene lining, the boot itself is plenty dry, supportive and comfortable for long mornings in the damp woods or duck blind. But when setting up on a gobbler requires crossing creeks, ditches or standing water, a 12” extension comprised of four-layer nylon provides additional waterproof clearance, enabling you to wade through obstacles instead of being forced to walk around, saving both time and strategic ground. e extension includes an adjustable 9”-to-16” webbing clip that securely fastens to your belt or loop, and the extension itself can be easily rolled down around the top of the boot when not in use. Also ideal for waterfowl haunts like rice elds and ooded timber, shortening the path to distant deer stands, and following dogs into the unknown, the slough boot keeps you dry while getting you there. www.chenegear.com
BALL AND BUCK WAXED COTTON UPLAND VEST
The Waxed Cotton Upland Vest ($398) encompasses all the characteristics—timeless design, American-made, handcrafted, heirloom quality—that have made Ball and Buck one of the premiere manufacturers of stylish hunting and casual attire for sporting gentlemen since its inception in 2008. is is the warmer climate alternative to the brand’s iconic upland jacket, and you will not be disappointed with its performance a eld. An integrated rear game pocket is easily accessible from both sides, there’s a water-resistant stash pocket with a YKK Aquaguard zipper to keep essentials safe and dry, front-draining shell pockets, and both shoulders boast a double-reenforced pad for right- or lefthanded shooting. But its attributes also extend to the o ce or date night; 8.25-oz shelter tent waxed cotton provides a water repellant outer shell, while a 6-oz camo twill interior lends a handsome touch. Solid antique brass hardware, a heavy-duty front zipper and handwarmer pockets lined in British moleskin combine to create a look and feel that’s only going to get better over time. Guaranteed for life, this is a garment you can pass down to future generations, con dent that your son or grandson will one day enjoy it for the same reasons you do. www.ballandbuck.com.
TOM BECKBE PADDOCK QUILTED JACKET
For nearly a decade, Birmingham-based Tom Beckbe has manufactured heirloom-quality garments that excel a eld and at play, with its waxed cotton jackets, in particular, setting the bar for an innovative product line that expands every year while never losing touch with the vintage, traditional styles that have made the brand so successful. e Paddock Quilted Jacket ($525) is the latest addition to the Beckbe collection, and thanks to HD wool—a naturally breathable 75% wool/25% compostable biopolymers insulation—it thrives in colder temperatures, a boast few waxed cotton jackets can make. Finished with an alchemy wax that provides the same classic look, but without the oily feel and, let’s be honest, the distinct though not unpleasant odor of conventional waxed cotton, the Paddock features over-sized front handwarmer pockets lined with soft moleskin, antique brass hardware and a clever Napoleon pocket that can be accessed without opening the jacket. As always, a cotton liner inspired by the red clay found along the Tombigbee River in Alabama adds a signature touch. Available in the always popular tobacco, along with olive and rustic brown. Behold, a legitimate winter coat in waxed cotton. It’s an alluring, ruggedly beautiful unicorn. www.tombeckbe.com
KENETREK BRIDGER HIGH BOOT
Apassion for sheep hunting marked the genesis of Bozeman-based Kenetrek Boots, which has long set the gold standard for creating rugged, comfortable footwear designed to be worn above the tree line. Over time, Kenetrek has also provided exceptional boots for re ghters, linemen and backpackers, but only recently has it added a hard-core hiking boot to its extensive product catalog. e Bridger High ($335, also available in a lowcut model for $265) is a breathable, waterproof 7” warrior that proved incredibly comfortable and lightweight, whether we were running and gunning for spring turkeys, stalking wild pigs or hiking miles with our gear to reach distant mountain streams. Ankle supporting Kenetrek K-Straps and a padded ankle collar o er unparalleled bracing over unforgiving terrain, while there’s plenty of foundational arch support and a pronounced heel pocket for all-day wear. A protective rubber rand o ers excellent abrasion resistance, even while traversing loose scree, and the rst thing you’ll likely notice is they seem to weigh almost nothing; at just 2.9 pounds, you’ll practically glide across elds and trails with less fatigue at the end of the day. And if you get home in time for a night on the town, the Bridger is perfect for that as well. www. kenetrek.com
Accessories
BY MIKE FLOYD
YETI RAMBLER FRENCH PRESS
Like many of you, I’ve no qualms with primitive camping. Necessity dictates that, at some point, most of us are going to nd ourselves eating beans, cooked in the can over a struggling re, steeling for another night of sleeping in the dirt. It’s the price we pay to wake up beside an untouched stream, far o the beaten track, with trout rising beneath a translucent veil of eeting morning mist. But let’s be honest: A steaming cup of silky black co ee makes any experience a whole lot better, something a pair of Parisians understood all the way back in 1852, when the rst patent was granted for their cafetière à piston. Now, almost 175 years later, YETI has designed the Rambler French Press ($130/64 oz) for those of us who prefer elk camp to a sidewalk cafe. A proprietary Grounds Control lter stops the brewing process after plunging to avoid over-extracting, while double-walled vacuum insulation keeps your brew hot well into the afternoon. Simple, fast and so delicious you may nd yourself using it every morning from the comfort of home. Dishwasher safe, it’s also available in a 34-oz model ($110) if you’re packing light. www.yeti.com
COWBOY CAULDRON THE DUDE
Nothing contributes more to the ambiance of an evening outdoors than a roaring re, but the irony has always been that the bigger the pit, the more anchored it becomes to whatever spot you’ve chosen. Whether that place happens to be deer camp, lakeside patio or mountain villa, the one thing they all have in common is that, once established, any re pit weighing hundreds of pounds is there for the long haul.
at’s where e Dude ($1,200) abides, unfazed by limitations that hinder others. Boasting an easily transportable basin that weighs just 35 pounds and a roomy 24-inch diameter o ering ample cook space, e Dude is plenty burly enough to last three lifetimes. Lightweight, segmented legs provide added mobility and an economy of scale that allows you to enjoy it anywhere. Like many innovative products released on a limited basis during the days of Covid, e Dude debuted slowly and has been around a little bit longer than most Gray’s Best winners. But no matter. Today, it stands alone as the perfect companion for your tailgate party, beach trip or anywhere else you want to enjoy a blazing re without having to leave it all behind when the party is over. www.cowboycauldron.com
UNCHARTED SUPPLY CO. ZEUS AIR
Inspired to encourage people to be con dently prepared for any adventure, Christian Schauf founded Uncharted Supply Co. after a lifetime of working on farms, traveling the globe as a musician, conquering Ironman competitions, climbing mountains and hunting the remote Yukon Territories. Sufce to say, he knows a few things about dealing with unexpected emergencies. e Zeus Air ($219) includes a 150 PSI air compressor for tires, stand-up paddle boards and drift boats; a jump starter capable of sparking a 6L diesel engine; USB-C and USB output to charge phones, tablets and laptops; and a bright LED light with multiple modes (SOS, constant, strobe) for visibility in harsh conditions. It all comes in a compact storage case that ts easily into your glove box and includes jumper cables, an air hose and a collection of adapters, all within easy reach when things take a turn for the worst. When Hurricane Helene blew through town, leaving thousands without power for more than a week, the Zeus Air proved its worth by lighting our home and yard, charging phones for family and neighbors and jumpstarting the battery on our tractor so cleanup work could begin. Indispensable. Highly recommend. Do not leave home without. www.unchartedsupplyco.com
SITKA GEAR TURKEY TOOL BELT
Back when I still played golf, in the foolish days before I came to my senses and realized how much time I was wasting that could be better spent hunting and shing, I counterintuitively realized my game might not su er if I carried fewer clubs. Sure enough, hitting the links with only a 3-wood, 7-iron, pitching wedge and putter proved that traveling light wasn’t going to hurt my game. Years later, having long been burdened by the weight and disarray of carrying far too much into the woods, I would come to realize the same might be true of turkey hunting. e Turkey Tool Belt ($229) from Sitka Gear is a minimalist’s gear-management dream, merging the simplicity of a hip pack with the specialized storage features of a full-size vest without sacri cing space for anything you might need to bring a bird into range. A removable seat pad allows you to spin the pack to the front of your body, where you’ll have easy access to call pockets and a top-zippered compartment for snacks and essentials. ere’s a shock call pocket, two hip pockets for lamps and extra shells, a water bottle holder and a deployable rain y. It’s also far cooler than a vest, and your optics are never encumbered. Everything you need and nothing you don’t. Let the chase begin. www.sitkagear.com
Women BY JEN RIPPLE & TERESA MULL
SIMMS FISHING TAMARACK HOODY
When the cold threatens to slow your roll cast, the Women’s Tamarack Hoody ($179) from Simms Fishing keeps your mojo strong. is high-performance pullover is crafted from a windproof, water-resistant softshell, giving you maximum mobility without compromising protection from the elements. e plush, faux-fur eece interior wraps you in warmth, while the stretchy softshell exterior ensures you can move freely from cast to catch. oughtful touches include a three-panel hood with high collar and an adjustable drawcord to shield you from wind, zippered chest and hand pockets lined with high-pile eece for extra heat retention, and anticipated sleeves that enhance movement. e durable outer layer is built for long days on the water, ideal for the angler who braves the cooler seasons. e facefabric cu s prevent water from creeping in, while the bottom hem’s drawcord cinches securely for a snug t, keeping cold air at bay. Made to endure challenging weather without compromising comfort, the Tamarack Hoody’s TPU membrane ghts water and wind without sacri cing breathability. Engineered for warmth, comfort and style, you’ll be ready for anything the river throws at you. It will likely become your go-to garment when you’re o the water, as well. Available in Loden and Black. www.simms shing.com. - JR
DUCK CAMP WOMEN’S BRUSH OVERALLS
Hunting apparel for women has come a long way, and the Brush Overalls ($159) from Duck Camp stand out as a testament to that progress. ese overalls are crafted from a tough, water-resistant cotton canvas that’s both durable and breathable, making them ideal for long days a eld. A relaxed t o ers unrestricted movement, while articulated knees remain comfortable whether you’re crouching in a blind, scaling rocky terrain or wading through dense vegetation. Duck Camp equipped these overalls with six functional pockets, so you’ll have plenty of storage for small gear, calls or even snacks. Reinforced kick plates at the hem add durability for boot wearers and prevent tearing in rugged conditions, while adjustable shoulder straps ensure a custom t. oughtfully designed for female hunters seeking practicality without sacri cing comfort, these overalls are the perfect balance between utility and style. Available in wheat, they blend seamlessly into many environments, from open elds to forest cover, making them a go-to choice for a variety of situations. For women who demand both performance and durability, these overalls provide reliable protection and comfort season after season. www.duckcamp. com. - JR
ARXUS USA PRIMO COUNTRY ZIP
There’s a quotation that comes to mind when I think of the Arxus Primo Country Boot ($395), an observation, I’m sure, that rolled o the tongue of a gorgeous movie star to console the homelier members of her contingent: “Con dence is the most beautiful accessory you can wear.” Can a brown rubber boot be…beautiful? If con dence is key, then absolutely. Snugging my foot into these handmade Swedish boots, zipping up the heavy-duty Riri zipper and clamping down the metal strap buckles at the top—leaving them unbuckled results in a jingle reminiscent of an armed and dangerous Clint Eastwood strutting through a border town in spurs—makes me feel like Katharine Hepburn in the latter half of e African Queen. Not glamorous, per say, but cool and calculated, even in the muckiest conditions. e textile shaft makes the boot lighter than its all-rubber Arxus brothers, but it’s completely waterproof, nonetheless. e all-natural rubber, as opposed to plastic or synthetics, makes the steeper price tag worth the investment, as these boots, with minimal maintenance, will long outlast their competitors. Arxus also o ers a handy boot bag for easy, mud-free transportation, and the knee-high, wool Arxus Boot Socks are a must-have, striking the perfect balance between staying put and not cutting o circulation. Comfortable, durable, highquality and handsome, the Primo is the epitome of “form follows function.” www.arxususa.com - TM
SYREN ELOS N2 ELEVATE (TRAP COMBO)
As fun as the challenge of acquiring “the right tool for the job” can be, my dad sparked in me an admiration for the Germanic attitude that seeks to nd the right tool for many jobs. ink, for instance, of the three-barreled drilling and its capacity to serve as a ri e or a shotgun. Or the versatile German Shorthaired Pointer and its relative, the Weimaraner, both of which are bred to point and retrieve on land and water. ough Italian, not German, the Syren Elos N2 Elevate Trap Combo ($5,675) seamlessly joins this gang of all-purpose all-stars. is is a shotgun designed for lady shooters dedicated to the discipline(s) of trap, Skeet and/or sporting clays. ough it’s touted by its maker, Caesar Guerini, as customizable in “all critical speci cations,” I found the gun to be ne-tuned right out of the box. e Elos t like a glove and made my con dence soar with every broken bird; there were a lot of them, and the very few I did miss were diagnosable to human error. is shotgun for all seasons is a pretty little thing (7 lbs., 11 ounces) with walnut grain, and the only subtle clue that it is a lady’s gun is found in a few tiny touches of periwinkle on the receiver. is adaptable, versatile rearm is all the sporting woman needs. www.syrenusa.com - TM
Vintage &Editor’s Choice
BY THE EDITORS
RUGER NO. 1
Sturm, Ruger & Co. is celebrating its 75th anniversary this year, and for 57 of those years, it has been producing its wonderful No. 1 single-shot ri e. When it was introduced in 1967, almost everyone thought Bill Ruger had lost his mind. A single-shot? In the age of semiautos? As history has amply demonstrated, Ruger shrewdly read the minds of American shooters, and the No. 1 has been in production ever since. It’s a more or less conventional falling-block action, resembling the British Farquharson but with much cleaner lines. e “Tropical,” with quarter-rib and express sights, chambered in .450 Nitro Express, is pure Victorian express ri e; in .220 Swift and tted with a scope, it’s a long-range varmint ri e. It’s impossible to say how much the No. 1 inspired the later renaissance of ri es like the Sharps, and renewed interest in the classic Ballard and Stevens ri es. For sure, its popularity pushed Winchester and Browning to resurrect the High Wall in various guises. Over its lifetime, the No. 1 has been produced with barrels light and heavy, short and long, in 69 (!) calibers, from tiny .22s to muscular .458s. It has had Alex Henry-style forends and Mannlichers, some walnut, some laminates. It spawned a category of collectors who hoard No. 1s to the exclusion of all else. Most of all, it has shown newer shooters just how fascinating single-shot ri es can be—why some are works of art and have maintained a steadfast popularity for 150 years. MSRP: $1,299 and up. www. ruger.com - TW
XTRATUF KIATA DRIFT SNEAKER
The perfect pair of water shoes has long evaded me, probably because I’ve expected too much. Leave it to XTRATUF, a renowned workhorse in demanding climates like Alaska, to craft the perfect hybrid with its Kiata Drift Sneaker ($115). And, oh my, have they ever been tested. e past year has seen them become my go-to option for spending time in a drift boat and canoe, where they proved quick-drying, non-marking and breathable. ey’ve become an integral part of the gameplan when pedaling my kayak, which I frequently anchor so I can get out and cast from tabletop rocks; no blisters while pedaling, no slippage while shing. ey are lightweight and pack easily as I hike to distant rivers, where they navigate the shallows awlessly during the wet-wading months of summer. And, most recently, they proved indispensable atop my roof as I inspected for hurricane damage (the shoes thrived...the shingles, not so much). In every instance, they remained molded to my feet in a cozy way that sandals and slip-on boots cannot, thanks to a full lace-up system for a customized t and a TUFgrip outsole for added traction. Like any outdoor product, there must be a aw somewhere. I shall endeavor to keep looking for one. www.xtratuf.com - MF
OWNER AKI HOOK
The telling detail about the Owner Aki hook is that it wasn’t even designed for y shing. Yet over the years, it became recognized in certain saltwater y shing circles as the go-to hook for tying patterns intended for serious game. Why? I’m not here to badmouth anyone, and my science isn’t good enough to write knowingly about di erences in manufacturing processes that may or may not include stamping, tempering, forging and the like. All I really know is that 40 years ago, when I began tying ies for the Baja surf, I quickly discovered, as did others, that y hooks on the market, at least in our neck of the woods, were dull, prone to opening or breaking, and corroded quicker than the body of a VW bug in upstate Michigan. I think it was Gary Bulla who directed me to the Aki hook. Besides being forged and all but impossible to bend when knotted to a tippet that won’t break your rod, the Aki features a three-edged “cutting point” that penetrates esh and cartilage with less resistance than a typical hook with a stamped pyramid or ground pencil point. I buy and tie with other saltwater hooks, but the Owner Aki is the only hook I’m absolutely sure about—and the only hook I tie my bait sh patterns on if I’m faced with sh I may be measuring in increments of fear, not pounds. Available in a variety of sizes at y shops nationwide. www.ownerhooks.com - SS
DUCK HEAD WAXED CANVAS DUFFLE BAG
When it comes to luggage, nothing is more important to me than knowing a bag can take a beating and come out on the other side looking even better than before. Not unlike Duck Head itself, which goes all the way back to 1865, when a pair of brothers from Nashville bought post-war surplus tent material from the U.S. Army, a heavy canvas known as “duck,” to make durable pants and shirts for the working man. Much has changed since then, including a cavalcade of owners until 2016, when Atlanta-based Oxford Industries re-launched the brand in hopes of harkening back to the glory days of the 1980s and ’90s, when sporty college kids across the South developed a cult-like fascination with its chinos and casualwear. With that mission accomplished, Duck Head has expanded its product line into other accessories, including a line of waxed canvas luggage that, like the brand, promises to stand the test of time. e Waxed Canvas Du e Bag ($398) is American made with a double-waxed canvas bottom, rivet-reinforced handle and a detachable shoulder strap that transitions awlessly into a carry-on bag for weekend road trips. e line includes a dopp kit, tote and laptop bag, all of which combine to o er everything you need to pack light and look good doing it. www.duckhead.com - MF
GRAY’S
Tough hunting ne dining no idding. By Don Thomas
CAT TRACKS
Like most such hunts this one began in the dark, fueled by hot co ee and Pop Tarts, the o cial breakfast of cougar hunters. Undisturbed snow con rmed that no one had driven this remote mountain road ahead of us, certainly not that night and probably not all winter. We had just spent two unproductive hours studying the Morse code message of wildlife tracks passing beneath the headlights when regular hunting partner John suddenly shouted “Stop!”
I gave him high marks for spotting the track; the sun had risen, snow was melting even in the bottom of the canyon, and the cat track lay disguised by hoofprints a small herd of elk had left in its wake. Slushy snow made tracking conditions so bad we couldn’t be sure about the track even when we were standing on top of it. I volunteered to follow it uphill beneath the canopy for a better look while John organized gear, tried to calm excited dogs, and prepared our friend Dan for his rst lion hunt. I had to climb uphill for several hundred yards before I could conrm the track belonged to a mature male mountain lion and shout the verdict back down to the truck.
We had already held our usual snowshoe debate. When you need them, you really need them, and three pairs rode next to the dog box. However, when you don’t need them, they’re a burden, and we’d agreed there wasn’t enough snow to justify the inconvenience of packing them.
Since I hadn’t anticipated having to climb as far as I did to evaluate the track, I left the truck empty
handed. I wouldn’t have carried my bow, anyway, since Dan was going to shoot the cat if we caught it. And I didn’t want to climb back down the hill just to get my pack. But what I didn’t bother to bring with me would become important before the day was over. e hounds—Sadie, my treeing walker, and John’s two blueticks—were bawling their way past me before I had time to reconsider.
e chase began easily enough. e hill was steep, but there were no cli s, and the snow wasn’t even boot top high. I couldn’t help remembering how quickly the terrain had gone from challenging to exhausting before proceeding to downright scary on some cat chases. Piece of cake, I thought as the three of us regrouped and started up the hill. I should have known better.
Many seasons earlier John and I agreed that we would never use electronic tracking collars on our dogs, which would have felt too much like playing on a computer. One of several aspects of lion hunting we enjoyed more than catching cats was the challenge of sorting out a di cult track. Relying upon technology would have cost me the satisfaction of playing those games through to checkmate.
In the same spirit, we also agreed to conduct our cat chases on foot rather than letting o -road vehicles do the work for us. I never regretted that decision either. e older I’ve gotten, the more important staying in shape, as opposed to getting in shape, has become. It would have been easy to fall o the wagon during Montana winters, but one chase per week between December and March solved that
e tracks told the author this cat was a female from the start, but the dogs needed the exercise and so did the hunters.
problem. Another key element of cat hunting’s appeal was the excuse to enjoy the peace and solitude of the mountains during winter—a wilderness experience that’s hard to appreciate while listening to internal combustion engines.
We had barely reached serious climbing mode before the hounds were out of earshot, indicating they were likely hard on the scent of the cat. It also meant our only means of staying with the chase was by following a melting track all the way to who knew where.
While lion hunting has long been a controversial subject, all parties agree that Felis concolor is a remarkable animal. With a range stretching from the Canadian sub-arctic to the Strait of Magellan, it inhabits more country and a greater variety of habitats than any other large mammal in the Americas. Once declared extirpated from the eastern half of our country, they are now successfully repopulating states that haven’t seen cougars in many years. Save for jaguars, cougars are the New World’s largest felids, equivalent in size to leopards—dangerous animals by
anyone’s de nition.
But how dangerous are cougars, really? e quali ed short answer is not very, although they have certainly proven capable of killing people. Cougars take down mature elk in attacks that represent a wider weight ratio between predator and prey than that achieved by any other mammalian carnivore on the planet. Fortunately for those of us who live in cougar habitat, they are by nature shy, retiring animals even less eager for contact with us than we are with them. Although exceptions do occur, usually involving small women or children, with tragic results that receive extensive media coverage.
Lori and I have cougars around our rural moun-
Mark with a large Tom. An all day chase reminded the author he’s getting too old for this.
tain foothill home, and I’ve caught sight of several after walking out the door. I didn’t kill any of them in the name of “predator control.” I don’t worry about my own safety from them, but I was always on alert when our kids were little. Since our own parents would have regarded con ning naturebesotted children indoors as child abuse, we let ours roam—but only when accompanied by one of the dogs.
My con dence in that safety strategy raises an interesting question. Since a 90-pound female lion is perfectly capable of turning around during a chase and killing hounds, why do even mature toms instead choose to climb trees when pursued? at behavior represents classic interaction between cats and dogs. Studies done prior to wolf reintroduction showed that in areas where the two species’ ranges overlap, wolf packs displace cougars—which are solitary hunters—from roughly half of their kills. For mountain lions, climbing trees is a deeply ingrained escape behavior.
I hunted cougars on foot without carrying a rearm for decades and never regretted that decision, although I came close once. One winter day John and I treed a large tom after an unremarkable chase,
and he made a good shot with his recurve bow. However, we were hunting on a steep, icy slope and the cat wasn’t quite dead when it hit the ground and started tumbling downhill. at’s when Drive, my favorite bluetick, slipped his collar and went after the cat. As the two animals collided, I slipped and slid into the fray trying to save my dog. Fortunately, the cat was almost out of gas. By the time the tussle stopped Drive had sustained nothing but a torn ear—the only injury to a dog I saw in two decades of lion hunting—while I had a shredded coat sleeve. easco was pure pilot error, as I had no one to blame but myself for inadequately restraining the dog.
I’ve listened to many derisive comments about lion hunting from experienced hunters who claim it’s too easy, the dogs do all the work, and the climax at the tree is like shooting sh in a proverbial barrel. at criticism usually softens when I explain the absence of snowmachines and electronic collars, but some remain unconvinced. It has been my experience that, almost without exception, those skeptics have never actually been on a lion hunt. ey should
Continued on page 94
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Ispotted an open week ahead in the second half of September, a time of year no serious y sherman, but especially a trout sherman, should allow his or her e orts to wane. Small dry ies. Kids back in school. e pretty leaves. Crowds further tempered by the looming distraction of deer and elk. As luck would have it, just as I was beginning to think I might need to pull out my stack of gazetteers and concoct a plan, Matt Cornette, manager at the Complete Fly Fisher, an iconic lodge on the Big Hole River, reached out and o ered to put me up for a few days.
Surprisingly, it took me awhile to consider.
e thing is, I was kind of over Montana. I know that’s all but heresy, but there you have it. My sweetheart grew up in Butte, so there were plenty of reasons to visit, but as far as shing goes, I’d grown weary of the crowds, the river valley ranchettes, the bougie postcard towns, the arti cial tailwater sheries, the interminable pulse of drift boats creeping along the all too famous beats, the guides with clients opping bobbers and jig-headed nymphs into the obvious seams. I shed with a guide once in Chile who said he spent several seasons working out of a shop near the Beaverhead and the only English he really needed was “Mend it!” Another guide— or maybe he was just a guy who lled in now and then because he knew how to row—told me that when he’s on his own these days, without clients, he mostly likes shing for carp.
“??????”
“Golden bones!” he said, a sick or possibly stoned smile spread across his face.
Of course, anyone who lives in Montana, or who shes there regularly and has gured out how to navigate the crowds, won’t lose any sleep over my reluctance to visit as frequently as I might have in the past. I can imagine, as well, a few choice words in response to my absence, “Good riddance,” the only pair probably printable here.
The drive upriver, toward the tiny town of Wise River, goes a long way, however, in banishing any misgivings I might have about neglecting one of my usual September haunts. e valley opens onto broad blue skies and what appear, at a glance, to be
Redemption on the Big Hole River
Maybe there’s still something to this whole Montana thing a er all. By Scott Sadil
Rainbows and cutthroats are just two good reasons to keep returning to
Montana’s Big Hole River.
genuine working ranches. e river itself, low, reveals the uctuating dimensions of an undammed watershed. Striped parking lots at the put-ins and takeouts are all but empty. e wide, bare riverbanks rise toward outlines of cottonwoods the color of ripe corn.
What was I thinking?
By the time I’m delivered to the lodge by manager Cornette, I’m craning my neck for a better look at the water, trying as well to hold up my end of civil small talk with other guests before attaching myself to the all-important guides.
It takes but moments to feel right at home. Kelly Kimzey, from Dillon, grew up with Steve Fisk, the rst principal to hire me to teach in Oregon; Steve’s father, Russell Fisk, whom I looked up and shed with more than a decade ago, was Kelly’s highschool history teacher. e lodge’s other full-time guide, Max Lewis, from Walkerville, near my sweetheart’s old stomping grounds in Butte, discovered sur ng on a trip to New Zealand and now spends his winters in Central America, places, I explain, I visited nearly 50 years ago on a six-month surf safari from San Diego to the Panama border.
We’re practically family. Or so it seems as we pass through the lodge’s well-stocked y shop and changing room, where I’m quickly out tted with everything I’ll need come morning. One of the new
arrivals, I learn, has left his own waders here since his last visit; the lodge is that kind of place, where guests return year after year—and apparently, for some of them, this is the only trout shing they feel they need to do all season.
It’s not hard to see why. We fan out to well-appointed cabins and rooms, the kind of accommodations that feel decadently luxurious to anyone used to waist-high tents and roll-up sleeping pads. Inside the lodge proper we gather to enjoy drinks and the view of a long stretch of river shimmering in the fading autumnal light, the cottonwoods reaching into clear skies promising frost in the morning. No need to start early in this weather, everyone agrees, a consensus that makes it that much easier to enjoy the carrot and ginger soup, the beef Bourguignon, the dark chocolate pot de crème and that next glass of red wine nobody really needs but, what the heck, why not?
Yet we didn’t come here—did we—to indulge our baser appetites. ere’s sport to be had, a directive that slowly manifests itself as morning sunlight licks away at the edges of frosty shadows and the broad, pastured valley. I’m paired up this morning with guide Kelly, plus Rob P, son of one of the long-
Guide Kelly Kimzey keeps a watchful eye out for 20-inch browns lurking in pools throughout the Big Hole drainage.
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timers visiting this week. Rob has limited y- shing experience; at the rst run, Kelly sets us both up with dry-and-dropper rigs, an oversized u ball that could be called a hopper but is really a strike indicator or bobber, below which hangs a small hard-bodied weighted nymph. I ip my ies into the current, wait until the hopper stops, then strike, swinging the rod tip in a low crisp arc toward the bank.
“I guess you know what you’re doing,” says Kelly, freeing the little nymph from the lip of a white sh. “I’ll leave you alone while I give Rob a hand.”
I cast again, strike another sh.
“Don’t go to sleep,” hollers Kelly, picking his way upstream towards Rob. “Any one of those could turn out to be a big brown.”
He waves his net at me, turns away and nishes sidling up to Rob. Back to work, I hook and land at least a dozen more white sh, casting short, casting long, wading deep, aiming for ribbons of current indicating boulders scattered about the run. e urge to yawn? at big brown could be anywhere; Kelly has shown me photos of a monster landed here just last week. Meanwhile I keep the little nymph hunting, imagining, all the while, a great toothy mouth opening under the bath-toy-like hopper.
At some point I mosey upstream, past Kelly and Rob, and wade out into the ri e. Feisty foot-long
rainbows attack the dropper. en just below me, at the head of the pool, I spot a few tentative rises. e start of a trico hatch? I ask Kelly for a dry y, accept something small and gray, a parachute Adams more or less, and soon nd myself sliding a colorful cutthroat to hand.
“Westslope cutty,” says Kelly, watching me release the sh.
He takes the y and shakes it in a vial of powder.
“Aren’t we east of the divide?” I ask.
“Google it,” Kelly says.
I take back the y and search the run for another rise.
“Got one!” shouts Rob, downstream.
By the time Kelly arrives at his side, Rob has another white sh to hand. At that same moment, a sudden pu of wind wipes clean the slate of bugs and rising trout, emptying the surface as though a scene change in a rich, vibrant dream.
At dinner that evening I’m happy to learn that the long-timer I rode with from town, Robert “Kuppy” Kuppenheimer, got a couple of good trout at the end of the day, a 20-inch brown, he says, and an 18-inch rainbow. His success goes a long way in Continued on page 106
Gray’s angling editor Scott Sadil knows better than to turn his nose up at whatever size brown trout the Big Hole might share.
No Easy Task
Photography by Kendrick Chittock
Illustrations by Gordon Allen
In coastal British Columbia, boats open doors to areas that are otherwise inaccessible, but that doesn’t mean you’re going to find a trail. Every good goat hunt begins with a bushwhack. And sometimes, the wiser route is to turn back around.
Precipitation takes many forms here. Wind. Rain. Snow. Ice axes and trekking poles are essential. Flat areas for camping a rarity. Navigate the six-hour climb with care and choose your shot wisely, lest the goat be lost to a cli or ravine. It’s a dirty job for man and beast alike, but the hide and horns will clean up well. And when you finally make it back to the valley floor, so will you.
The Trout Also Rises
The
anish yrenees offer a fas inating mi of y shing
and ultural history.
By hili onahan
is page: e quaint town of Aren serves as the western base for Salvelinus. Opposite top: e wineries of the Somontano region are steeped in history. Middle: e rivers of Aragón hold wild brown trout, as well as the native Mediterranean variant, which feature faint vertical stripes on their sides. Bottom: One night at dinner, we were treated to a beautiful performance of traditional music by an accomplished trio.
Fly shermen love secrets— secret ies, secret tactics and especially secret spots or destinations. So, when folks learn that I’ve been traveling as a y- shing writer since the mid-’90s, one of the rst questions they usually ask is, “What’s a great place you’ve been that most people don’t know about?” My answer is always the same, and it’s one that never fails to elicit both surprise and skepticism.
“Really?” they’ll say. “I’ve never even heard of people y shing there.”
“Exactly.”
Anglers have long been aware of the y- shing history and wonderful chalk streams in the British Isles, but opportunities on the Continent barely register with American y shermen. Sure, a pilgrimage to Scandinavia is a bucketlist trip for anyone pursuing Atlantic salmon, but the rest of Western Europe seems to hold little allure. We know there is shing over there—we’ve all seen the YouTube videos—but it’s not worth traveling for, right?
Wrong. And Spain is the best example to make this point. I’ve now made two trips to the autonomous community of Aragón in the foothills of the Pyrenees— just a few hours’ drive from Barcelona— and both times I’ve been blown away by the quality of the shing, the incredible scenery, and the remarkable cultural history that makes you feel like the Middle Ages are within touching distance. Add to that the region’s remarkable food and wine, and you’ve got the makings of an angling-travel experience unlike any other.
e Iberian barbel (genus Barbus) is a fascinating and powerful game sh that looks and behaves like a cross between a trout and a carp.
e rst time I visited the region with Sandy Hays, my high-school buddy and sometime photographer, we had no idea what to expect and were quite skeptical about the claims made by host Ivan Tarin, owner of Salvelinus Fly Fishing. But the experience exceeded all expectations—especially the top-notch guiding of the Salvelinus team, with its unique methodology for running y- shing adventures—so it was with great anticipation that Sandy and I headed back to Aragón last October to see what new waters Ivan and his guides had discovered in the intervening years.
After spending the previous day sightseeing in Barcelona, we arrived at the small community of Arén—on the eastern edge of Aragón, along the border with Catalonia—which is one of two home bases for Salvelinus. ( e other is in Santa Cilia, a few hours to the west.) It’s a quaint, Medieval town, featuring cobblestone streets, narrow alleyways, and a central plaza in front of the lovely Iglesia de San Martín de Arén. It’s also within striking distance of an astonishing array of waters, from freestone rivers in the high Pyrenees to meadow streams in lowland farm country. Ivan and his guides have spent years scouring maps and scouting remote waters to nd some truly remarkable—and often hidden—places
to catch wild trout. All told, they have identi ed more than 1,500 miles of streams and 2,000 alpine lakes where their clients can enjoy remarkable shing without seeing another angler.
On our rst day out, we traveled to sh a gorgeous stream that’s home to both brown trout and Iberian barbel, a species I’d never caught before. Because barbel love rocky-bottomed rivers with highly dissolved oxygen content, they often coexist with trout, and I was thrilled that we would be able to target both sh on the same day. e river ows through a steep canyon, so we parked at the upstream end and hiked downstream, following our guide, Pierre, who led us through several river crossings. When we reached a point where we could go no farther, we dropped our gear and rigged up. Pierre told us there was a chance we’d see some dry- y action, but we’d start by casting nymphs until we saw rises.
Before I made my rst cast, I took a few moments to admire the remains of a stone bridge built by the Romans a thousand years ago. It was the rst of many experiences over the course of the week where the long, tangled history of the region involving the Romans, the Moors and the Spanish Empire was on display.
Almost immediately, Pierre spotted a barbel upstream, holding tight to the gravel bank. e water was crystal clear, making the sh spooky, so we crept
forward carefully, keeping our silhouettes low. On my second cast, the indicator went under, and when I set the hook, I was unprepared for the power of the sh as it rocketed across the river. I held on for dear life during the rst 30 seconds of the ght until the barbel nally stopped its frantic run. After a backand-forth tussle, during which I was able to bring the sh close a couple times before it tore o more line, Pierre was able to position the net.
When I nally got a good look at the sh, I was surprised by its strange beauty. Although the barbel is certainly carp-like—with large scales, big lips, and
Our guide, Aleix, celebrates netting a gorgeous wild rainbow, which fell for a nymph in a deep corner pool and then bolted downstream.
whiskers—it’s sleeker, with a long, sloping forehead and a body more like a salmonid. When I picked it up for the photo, it didn’t feel slimy like a carp, and we noticed a wound along its side, perhaps made by a predatory bird. ese are tough, hardy sh and excellent quarry for y shermen.
We ran into more barbel throughout the day, but the low, clear water made them quite spooky and unwilling to take a dry or a nymph. ese are challenging sh, whose lateral lines detect even the slightest vibrations, so extreme stealth is required. e brown trout were more accommodating, although also not easy. As we worked our way upstream, I took two or three smallish browns on nymphs, yet the anticipated insect hatch never materialized. But near the end of the day, we found a pool where trout were rising to something very tiny. After several failed attempts to elicit a strike on a dry y, Pierre suggested the trout were on emergers, so we switched to an unweighted nymph, and I immediately caught a slightly larger brown.
We then spotted what looked to be a sizeable sh in an eddy against a rock face, and on the rst cast, my Continued on page 98
Riding Shotgun
A cross-country upland hunt with five complete strangers
By David Schlake
Winded, blistered and empty-handed, I watched as my English setter, Sage, mashed the brakes and drifted, churning the ribboning grass like a jet ski on glassy water. Finally, a awless point in undisturbed country revealed a vision I’d driven 1,600 miles to see.
It was just the two us, separated by a knoll from the rest of the group, ve like-minded wingshooters I’d formally met only days earlier. Beyond Sage’s nose was the rousing unknown, waiting behind cover like an unwrapped gift. Northeastern Montana is home to three prominent upland species—ringnecked pheasant, sharp-tailed grouse and Hungarian partridge—and we hoped to nd them all over the course of a week in early October.
A covey rise echoed across the prairie like a squeaky door hinge, punctuated with a sure shot and a mouthful of feathers—evidence of a sequence gone exactly according to plan.
With weight in my game bag, I approached the trucks with a proud grin, wide enough that I could feel it in my ears. Waiting for me were my new companions, all torn between jealousy and optimism, a dilemma any zealous hunter can understand.
“Ain’t no ex like taking a wild bird on public land,” said Branden, the youngest of our party and the only other hunter who’d already taken a bird. “ ose Texas boys can pay to push hen pheasants all day long, but it won’t ever be the same thing.”
Left: A rooster folds after a successful follow-up shot.
Right: e sun rises in eastern Montana on the rst day of a four-day upland hunt.
True wingshooters revel in the art of bird hunting, rather than its rewards—that’s what pulled me into this lifestyle, anyway. I’d spent the better part of a year searching for upland hunters who share a particular patience to chase wild birds through unfamiliar cover. After years of driving cross country to join bird-hunting friends, I was determined to nd some in my area who weren’t looking for just another shooter to jump on a lease. It couldn’t just be me down here.
My message to a Texas quail hunting Facebook group read: “I’m 29 years old and run an English setter all over Texas in pursuit of quail, but also travel out of state for a bucket list upland hunt at least once a year. I’ve been living in Austin for six-and-a half years and have struggled to cross paths with fellow upland hunters, so here’s a shot in the dark if anyone in the group is also in search of some hunting buddies who love birds and bird dogs.”
Out of some 50 responses, the one from Greg, a 35-year-old school resource o cer, stuck out the most. In a direct message, he told me about a group of hunters with a primary focus on dog work and a penchant for traveling to nd wild birds. e group, which formed via frequent encounters on public land, comprised anywhere from four to eight gunners, and it’s everything you think it is—mostly dudes joking around about nonsense before they inevitably bring up dogs or birds. Well, that was easy.
In a matter of days, I was planning a trip to Montana with the same group that had just knocked out Hells Canyon in Idaho and immediately penciled this trip into their calendars. Decent timing, eh? Almost a year later, I found myself riding shotgun in Greg’s pickup on a 24-hour drive from Austin to Fort Peck, Mont., where we’d eventually meet up with four other hunters. e only thing that could make that amount of time on the road remotely bearable was a common interest. We had that.
After a night in Fort Collins, Colo., we hit the road early enough to arrive at the cabin with ample time for a quick sunset jaunt. We pushed around some nearby cover, seeing a few birds ush wild in the distance. But the juices were owing.
As I sat down for dinner in the modest cabin we’d call home for the next week, the sounds of a busy kitchen sparked recollections of my Uncle Steve’s voice razzing me about my subpar cooking abilities and role as the designated dishwasher. Somehow at 30 years old, I was yet again the newest member of a
Above: Greg holds a pheasant after reaching his legal limit. Below: e author’s English setter retrieves her third pheasant of the day.
e hunting party, along with a limit of birds, an English setter, and two GSPs.
hunting group. But such a dynamic once led to years of ru ed grouse hunting in Wisconsin with my uncle and his buddies, so I welcomed this experience with hopes it might turn out equally well.
Topographic maps served as placemats, lending our dinner table the aura of a war room. Introductions were brief, as rst-day jitters had each of us laser focused on the task at hand. We agreed that sharpies were the top priority, with Huns second, and pheasants a perk given the season opened the day before we arrived.
Our rst full day of hunting staged a di erent approach than I’d ever seen before. A product of grouse hunters who lived and died by the words of George Bird Evans and hunted over Old Hemlock setters, I was accustomed to an artful stealth, which doesn’t always amount to more birds, but certainly lends itself to dog work. Instead, this was shaping up to be an ambush.
Jesse, Branden’s father and the architect of my newfound tribe, grew up hunting rabbits in Louisiana for years before ever running a bird dog. e 59-year-old Air Force veteran works his stable of German shorthaired pointers like a pack of beagles, a tactic that took me some getting used to. Branden, a 34-year-old professional mixed martial arts ghter, adopted his dad’s style, which is particularly evident when you watch the two alongside each other. Also sporting a pair of GSPs is Carl, a 61-year-old carpen-
ter who has chased birds for more than a decade. And then there is Boyd, a 57-year-old software engineer who brought four GSPs of his own, bringing our total to 11 dogs, all of which were GSPs except Sage. e process was quite a spectacle. Beeping collars, frequent whistles and not-so-subtle hollering across open country created symphonic chaos. Our rst morning took us deep into rolling prairies that reached for our waists with auspicious blonde grass. In a matter of minutes, dogs were pointing. A choppy series of hen pheasants teased us and, pushing on, we collectively worked a saddle before nding a knoll we knew passed the eye test. e dogs were already birdy, recognizing the same enticing cover we did.
A roaring covey rise prompted every one of us to anxiously shoulder our shotguns.
“Hen!” we yelled out to prevent an illegal shot on a female pheasant.
Fat, gray birds poured out of the grass and over our heads like an air raid, freezing us in hesitation.
“No, those are sharpies!” yelled Branden, who quickly red o a shot at a bird Greg winged a splitsecond earlier. Down went the rst sharpie of the trip, which was enough to light a re of both elation and regret, as we should’ve each doubled on a covey so big. at will surely haunt me for the rest of the week. e rst two afternoons were particularly warm, so I knew I’d have to pace Sage if I wanted her to hunt all week—the drawback of running one dog. I didn’t take a bird on the rst day, though I did man-
age to see all three species, whether it was a pheasant someone else took or a rogue covey of Huns that ushed wild a hundred yards ahead.
It wasn’t until the second day that I was able to relieve some pressure. After showing o my rstever Hun to the guys while re-creating a scene only I was able to see unfold, I was nally able to rede ne my priorities. is was about comradery, the objective of the collective, and, most of all, Sage. Birds in hand were simply a bonus.
Another hot day saw waning dogs, the stripping of layers and a satisfactory number of birds. However, halfway through our four-day hunt, we all started to question whether we had set up our base camp in the most optimal area. Greg was able to connect with a local wildlife o cial who told us we were about two hours west of prime upland hunting, pointing us to the northeastern corner of the state for more birds at the cost of more hunters. We were all game to pivot.
Our third day started painfully early, as we had far more ground to cover before rst light. e rst unit immediately o ered positive reinforcement, as three roosters ushed from the road before we could even put the trucks in park. Dogs howled in harmony as we rushed to dump shells into our vests before another bird could ush wild.
Jesse and Carl took a pair of dogs down into the nearest coulee, following some generous advice from our friend on the phone. e rest of us split up to cover as much ground as possible and let the dogs work.
Sage locked up and began to creep—her signature signal for birds on the move—homed in on country I could see Greg and Branden attempting to pinch. A covey of 10-15 sharpies ushed out ahead, drawing rushed shots and sighs of disappointment. However, without question, we had nally landed in the real Montana uplands.
Rolling hills of grass and thickets held a healthy mix of sharpies and pheasants but Sage and I couldn’t seem to escape the abundance of pheasant hens. e ringing of sporadic shots in the distance suggested others were having better luck, but surely I would hit paydirt eventually.
As I took a knee to give Sage some much-deserved water, I could hear Branden and Greg making their way up the banks of another coulee, giving me the same look I was giving them: “Anything?”
With shotgun over my shoulder, I watched as they closed the gap, but not before a covey of sharp-
ies ushed from the next thicket ahead, ying right over me, Sage and an empty shotgun.
“What are you doing?” Greg asked sarcastically. “You didn’t see those birds?”
After a quick breather and a few more jokes at my expense, we split once more, now making our way back toward the trucks. In a matter of minutes, Sage was locked up and creeping again, but this time on a rooster. Boyd made his way toward me with one of his GSPs to help pinch, but our bird juked us, neglecting a chance to shoot.
Twenty minutes later, we gave up on what we deemed a winged bird on the run and started back toward the others. As soon as we could see the trucks on the horizon, a ood of shots rang out like reworks at the turn of a new year. Upon closer examination, Boyd and I could see Branden and Greg each holding a pair of sharpies.
“Did y’all both double on the same covey?” I asked incredulously. ey spared no abuse in answering yes.
After a quick lunch, we decided to head to the other side of the rst unit, as our map indicated another broad coulee running from one end to the other. Upon arrival, we were certain we’d have to come up with another plan, as the public access road was blocked by private property.
“I’ll just go ask the guy,” said Boyd, who was growing impatient with our hesitation. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
He returned with a humble grin, as well as good news.
“We’re all good to go,” he said laughingly. “Man, you know this place probably never gets hunted either.” at had to be true.
We were able to drive to the edge of the property but had to cross a barbwire fence to access the unit. We could make out a coulee along the horizon and began blazing a trail. As soon as we breached timber and submerged into the grass, all hell broke loose.
“Rooster!” is an exclamation you’ll often hear in any any pheasant hunting YouTube video, but here it was merely mannerly. ere were more roosters than any of us could shoot in one day and, at this point, we all had at least one bird in our bag, so the hunt had truly become a team e ort. And, because we were exclusively hunting the coulee, we were able to work as a unit, with dogs on each side and a few more down below.
Continued on page 104
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KUDU COMES A
If not now, then when?
By Kevin Kennedy
Upon seeing two kudu bulls approach the watering hole, I nocked an arrow then slightly bent my knees so I could get a better angle through the skinny opening in the wall of our blind. We’d seen others, but this time was di erent. Our Bushman guide, Hans, and my wife Laurie both seemed to intuit that the time had come. ey promptly faded into the dirt walls of the sunken pit so that I might have more room to draw my bow.
ough the bull I wanted was in range, standing broadside, I was hesitant, having been warned that the shoulder blade was bigger than I would expect. Upon learning that I was a long-time deer and elk hunter, the guides had drilled into me the importance of holding out for a quartering away shot, which would open a path for my arrow to slip behind that protective slab of bone to nd the heart and lungs.
e bull turned slightly and took a step before my familiar yellow and white etching disappeared into hair near the bottom of the faint, vertical stripe along its ank. e shot was exactly as I’d pictured it during months of practice in my yard back home in Washington State. In a ash, a frantic run took both bulls out of sight behind a curtain of brush and dust. I had never been more certain of shot placement in my life.
Being in this place, climbing out of a partially underground blind to track a kudu across the sandy western edge of the Kalahari Desert, had not been on my radar a few months before, when an email exchange with Don, a Montana friend, took a serendipitous turn.
“You know,” I typed, “with changes to the regs and the competition for non-resident elk tags in Montana getting tougher, I think I’ll go to BC. Instead of elk, I’ll hunt grouse and catch trout this September.”
Don must have recognized the frustration. He responded a few hours later.
“Since you don’t yet have rm plans for the fall, why don’t you and Laurie join me and my wife in Africa?”
What? Africa? Why, that’s…that’s crazy talk.
Sure, I’d thought about Africa—every hunter has—but I hadn’t truly considered it. I’ve read Hemingway and Ruark. I’ve admired exotic looking African animals staring down from the walls of sporting goods stores. But travel that far to bow hunt? It didn’t sound like me.
Fortunately, the invitation came via email rather than over the phone. On a call, with no time to contemplate, I probably would have declined on the spot. But with an evening to mull it over and discuss with Laurie, the allure of a safari began to invade my thoughts and erode my resistance. Eventually, going to Africa didn’t seem so outlandish after all. ere was also that familiar, gray-haired guy in the mirror
Just minutes after the shot, Hans and and the author share a moment of gratitude for the beautiful bull and the quick recovery.
asking: “If not now…when?” By noon the next day we had booked our trips to Namibia.
In late August, after two long ights and a layover, Laurie and I stretched our legs and squinted into the bright African sunlight. It glistened o the tarmac at Windhoek International Airport where, along with our friends and a father/son duo we’d just met, we connected with hosts Allan and Jacqui Cilliers. A scenic drive to their Sandveld Game Ranch was followed by a get acquainted cocktail hour at the lodge. A dinner featuring eland as the main course soon followed and, later, conversation around the re pit set the perfect tone to consecrate our transition from world travelers to primitive archers.
Stories had slowed and the re ebbed to glowing coals when we reluctantly said our good nights. We strolled the narrow cobblestone path to our secluded cottage, but not before Laurie and I stopped to appreciate the stillness under a tiny sliver of moon. Its minimal glow seemed to enhance the unfamiliar night sky, the darkness revealing stars we never knew existed.
Despite tedious ights and a long drive from the airport, it was easy to wake up early to witness my rst morning in Africa. Serenaded by birds speaking unfamiliar languages, I left Laurie to nish preparing for the day and retraced my steps from the previous evening. As the pink bloom on the eastern horizon encroached on the fading stars, just steps from
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our cottage, I stopped cold. Seeing a gira e before my rst cup of co ee was something I had neither anticipated nor considered, yet there it stood. Moments later, it sauntered into the bush with a unique rocking gait, hustling into cover that didn’t seem tall or dense enough to hide its immense frame. But hide it did.
ere would be more and closer encounters with gira es over the next week, but that rst rendezvous was a de ning moment. It made real that I was as far from my home as possible, nearly halfway around the world. I was reminded of the scene in the initial Jurassic Park lm when they rst encountered living dinosaurs. e power of the word “awesome” has been sapped, drained by overuse, but true awe is what I felt in that moment.
Africa was new to me, as fresh and unfamiliar as hunting from a blind. I grew up stalking or, more often, trying to stalk blacktail deer or elk on the soggy side of Washington State. Here, it hadn’t rained in months and there were birds as tall as elk.
I’ve always liked to wander; the only thing I’d ever hunted from a blind is waterfowl. Consequently, I wasn’t sure of our method, and I was even less condent that Laurie would be willing to sit partway underground for hours at a time for the duration of our trip. It was wasted worry.
Even if the animals I’d come for never appeared, the number and variety of birds and mammals drawn to the water kept us enthralled. Despite not speaking each other’s language, Hans instantly picked up on our interest in birds, as well as game
animals, so he enthusiastically joined in the search for new specimens.
Years of hunting with a recurve bow has been a lesson in tempered expectations. As I settled into the blind that rst morning, I was hopeful and optimistic, but also guarded. I wasn’t counting on it, but with several species on my “would like” list, I thought it was at least a coin toss that a set of African horns— spiral, lyre shaped or straight—was going to land on my wall. Not knowing what animals might show up was a big part of what kept us alert.
Shortly into our rst morning, we were enjoying the antics of an especially beautiful crimson breasted shrike when Hans whispered the words we’d been hoping to hear. “Comes a kudu.”
Hans stared at a spot to the right of the blind, then indicated where with a slow, minimal movement of just one nger. I pride myself on having a good eye for game. Back home, there is even some risk that I might get cocky while pointing out deer and elk on the distant hills. But I could not see the kudu.
After several minutes of Hans maintaining his gaze, pointing ever so slowly, I began to wonder if he was hazing me. Finally, through the brush, I made out a st-sized patch of hair on the withers of a young kudu bull. It was close, hovering on the edge of recurve range. Even knowing where it stood when I looked away, reacquiring that tiny piece of kudu through the foliage and thorns took some time. e vegetation on the Sandveld is deceiving. It’s not hard to traverse but proves surprisingly di cult Continued on page 101
Laurie and Lori watch as hunters fade into the bush stalking a blue wildebeast.
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Photography by DuŠan Smetana
The gateway to Tanzania is Dar es Salaam, and it’s all wilderness from there. A small plane takes you beyond the country’s tiny villages and remote outposts to the Mnyera and Ruhudji Rivers—mysterious, rarely fished, and teeming with unfriendly reminders that a lot of things around here have very sharp teeth.
mon them is the ri an ti erfish— aggressive predators, known to hunt birds in i ht—that thrive in this untou hed ecosystem. You cast for them among herds of water buffalo, keeping a close eye for hippos and crocodiles. Evenings mean ooded un alo s and onfires along the riverbanks. Off the beaten ath ou ve finally ound it o don t forget to watch your step.
By Any Name
The fish are where they’re supposed to be, eating what they’re supposed to eat.
In much of Wyoming it’s the Wind, a river named after a mountain range that has somehow managed to escape the attention pressed upon so many other Western playgrounds, with their hordes of suburbanites, skiers and snowboarders, mountain bikers and hobby ranchers and the like, who have ocked to the foothills and valley oors, carrying with them their store of entitlement and the pleasure-seeking toys for its ful llment.
Above the so-called “Wedding of the Waters,” where the name of the river suddenly changes, the Wind plummets through a canyon as old as time itself. Near Boysen Dam, at the top of the canyon, you can see traces of Archean granite from a cool four billion years, give or take a few. Along the highway, geological periods are actually labelled: Cambrian, Ordovician, Devonian, Mississippian. Incongruously, to my way of thinking, the rock at river level grows younger as you proceed downstream, with Triassic formations, from a mere 200-250 million years ago, shadowing the mouth.
If notions of time mean anything to you, if you grasp them as more than abstract numbers, or the 10 thousand cherry blossoms of Chinese poets, you have a very di erent mind from mine. What matters to me, timewise, as I gaze down at the river, tumbling through the ancient rock, is the dozen years that have passed since I was last here—and whether what’s down there now is the same blend of gnarly trout that when hooked, in the past, could make your head spin.
Downstream, of course, it’s the Bighorn. And near Fort Smith, Mont., where so many of us visit, it’s again a tailwater shery, a long reach, below Yellowtail Dam, without any of the heavy rapids and
exposed, dramatic geology that color the distant upstream canyon section, yet with its own blend of remarkable trout, in this case in numbers that can light up an angler from dawn to dusk. Heavy, healthy sh are as commonplace as sparrows. Or at least that’s how I’ve remembered it, during those same dozen years while searching, elsewhere, for trout shing as good as I had already found on this big two-named if not two-hearted river.
ere’s a risk, no doubt, revisiting scenes of bygone blessings and heroics. Nobody needs to read another tale of paradise lost. While still sur ng compulsively, I never once considered returning to Je reys Bay, South Africa, not after startling photos appeared online of a condominium-choked point, empty of all evidence of human existence back when I spent a winter pouring my heart out to those magni cent waves. Years back, on the other hand, hauling a boat up the Baja peninsula on my way home from Magdalena Bay, I decided to turn o the main highway and check up on Punta Santa Rosalallita, scene of so much of the good shing Peter Syka and I enjoyed when we were rst guring out how to catch sh with ies in the Paci c surf. Sadly, the point break and sweep of beach along which we used to wade had been obliterated by a jetty and jury-rigged marina, with no boats in it, while the pangas of local shermen were lined up on the sand closer to town.
I’m more worried than usual about this kind of thing happening because I’ve asked that same old friend, Peter Syka, to join me on this return visit to these well-known waters. Having lived his entire life in California, Peter can go years between trout trips; he’s also had few forays into the interior West, and a good number of those have been with me. My goal is to get him into some serious trout, the kind these
waters are known for—although heaven knows whether the shing is a shadow of what I remember.
Yet spirits run high by the time we reach the canyon of the Wind. Traveling east from Oregon, we stopped o at a small remote creek with oversized cutthroat, a place O’Keefe told me about with the unstated understanding I wouldn’t share the name in print. e trout were as big as I remembered from the previous summer, but nickier by far, no doubt due to the increased angler tra c despite any and all attempts to keep the name of the spot an insiders’ secret.
Fat chance. Still, we managed our share of good sh, a few on dry ies, more on a little specialized dropper, another local secret O’Keefe had generously divulged. Not until the second day, however, did we nd a genuine pig, a toad, call a big sh what you will. We hiked a mile or so downstream, nally locating a classic bend with a deep pool alongside an undercut bank. Just as I approached to cast, an old fellow came out of the willows on the far side of the stream and, seeing us, started to speak.
I held up a hand and told him to shush.
Sure enough, when I put a little V-winged Klinkhammer may y kind of thing up near the top of the pool, a big sh came up and ate it.
“Guess you don’t have to be quiet now,” said Peter, his voice raised, while the trout lathered up the stream.
I fought the sh up and down the pool. e old guy pointed out that “you certainly can’t rush these guys.”
“Just so you’re clear,” I said, nally reaching for my net, “that doesn’t happen every time.”
When I raised the sh, all but folded in the bag, Peter, he reported later, was “shocked.”
On the oor of the canyon of the Wind, Peter is shocked again.
I come downriver, hopping rock to rock after nding a few good sh while swinging an olive Peanut Envy far out in the current. Some of the sh I landed. Peter, above a cabin-size granite boulder all but free of the bank, with a big puddle of soft water along its upstream face, stands perched atop a rock of his own, a troubling bend in his rod.
“It took o downstream,” he says, staring down toward where his line disappears into shadows under the current side of the boulder. “I couldn’t stop it.
Might even lose my line.”
“I’ve got a of couple extras,” I say because, by the looks of things, there’s a good chance he might. I hop past him and continue downstream. Maybe the sh has gone around the boulder, ducked in out of the current below it, and I can wade out and spook it to where Peter can bring it back upstream.
Yeah, right.
e canyon trout, just as I remember, are beasts, aided of course by the heavy currents tumbling between the ancient rock walls. Plus, the days grow dangerously warm, high 90s up at the truck, who knows how hot down on the boulders along river’s edge. Despite the heat, we climb down to the spookiest pocket water, where I know with a little luck you can pluck big browns from the narrow current seams swirling through the near-bank boulders.
I settle, nally, on a pair of big Twenty-Incher stone y nymphs, cast upstream, no indicator, no lead on the long leader. Plop, plop, plop. Nothing pretty about it, but when the trout eat, and the rod bends double, I tend to forget about the absence of style points—and most everything else that ails me.
Still, a part of me really would like to win ’em all. at rst day on the Wind, when I started out swinging the big articulated streamer, I had a heavy brown almost into the net when, for no apparent reason, the hook pulled free. A guy coming up the far bank, spinning rod in hand, shouted my way.
“ at counts! at counts!”
I wish I could agree.
Our last afternoon on the Wind, I’m after that sh we all know well, the classic One More Good One. I’ve upped my tippet strength, tied on my last two oversized stone nymphs. Plop, plop. I work my way up toward a low but abrupt falls, trying to picture the best lie along the shelf of rocks where the current begins to pick up speed at the bottom edge of the plunge pool. It’s all pretty obvious. Yet when the cast lands, and the nymphs break the surface of the water, I’m caught at-footed, distracted a moment by—what?
e sh strikes, erupts from the water, goes three di erent directions mid-air all at once—while I stand there feeling the heavy tippet stretch and, in short order, snap.
Oops, I think, reeling in the pieces.
I gaze a moment at the big trout’s lie, then start
back downstream, wondering what Peter might have to report.
Showing up at Fort Smith without a boat or raft in tow feels a little bit, I imagine, like arriving at a destination surf town—Puerto Escondido, in the state of Oaxaca, say, or Biarritz, France—without a surfboard. ere’s really no invitation but trout shing to lure you into this neck of the woods. Maybe if you’re a bird hunter, a student of volatile weather, a connoisseur of dawn and dusk caroling by sandhill cranes.
Yet if there’s one thing Peter and I have both learned in our long and loopy trout careers, it’s that you can often get by just ne, thank you, without a watercraft. If one aim of y shing is to free yourself from persistent complications threatening to entangle you in everyday life, you may actually look forward to time on the river without worrying about anything but the shing.
If nothing else, you might even begin leaving the strike-indicating bobbers behind.
It’s a 45-minute hike to a stretch of water I recall from my last Bighorn visit. Nothing much seems to have changed. A few more homes or lodges perched above the far bank, the endless parade of boats and rafts drifting merrily downstream. An impressive if startling number of anglers hooked up and ghting good sh.
Really, has there ever been a river, a tailwater, quite like the Bighorn for growing big healthy trout? ey’re where they’re supposed to be, eating what they’re supposed to eat. Little nymphs, as small as I dare, prove the ticket while no bugs are showing, no heads rising. Even then, boots on terra rma, it’s tough sometimes to hold a thick, angry rainbow on a number 20 Peek-A-Boo nymph, a very di erent proposition from standing above them, tugging upward, drifting downstream with them as they attempt to run.
When it all works out, I try not to let it go to my head. Another nice Bighorn trout: No need, is there, to crow? Downstream, I watch Peter get into a
challenging sh, ght it for a long time, then nally scoop it into his net. I holler down to him, ask him to hold it up so I can see, a lovely brown, it turns out, his rst this trip.
“ at’s nothing!” I shout because, well, what are good friends for?
Peter raises the appropriate middle digit. e last afternoon we begin to spot small black caddis ies on the water. I’ve seen this hatch here before, seen it with big trout boiling throughout the run, all you had to do was pick a sh and put the y in its mouth and then it felt as though you were hooked to a brick dropped over a gunwale.
But now?
Not a nose in sight.
Still, I’ve got some of those same little black caddis dry ies that worked so well the last time I saw these bugs. I wade downstream to the edge of a long deep trough where, for two days now, I’ve seen guides, one after another, get clients into sh. e current, where I can get to safely, is heavy; I’m in up over my knees. If I come loose, I’m swimming. e cast is pretty much your classic steelhead swing. Mend once, twice, lift the belly of the line out of the current, let that little y wake across the seam. e trout, it turns out, are there and waiting. e grabs are almost too good for words. An eruption of froth, the sh, already on the reel, comes out of the water. Even when the trout don’t eat, I see them boil under the y, sometimes a n or shoulders showing in the angled light. e only problem is that the heavy current, between me and the sh, makes it a wee bit di cult to compel them upstream.
It turns into kind of a joke. Try as I might, I manage to net only one sh out of a half-dozen I hook, one and then another and another, losing the others following spirited wrestling that eventually ends with line and leader dangling, yet again, downstream. Truth is, I could’ve used a boat. S
Gray’s angling editor Scott Sadil has a new book on its way, A Matter of Style: Fly shing Into the Winds of Change.
Thirty-some years ago, Steve Smith wrote a clever series of articles in Game & Gun. ere were four, and each began “My Favorite Gauge is…” ere then followed more or less identical pieces extolling, in turn, the 12, 16, 20 and 28, treating each as if it was e One.
Had you read any of them, not knowing of the existence of the others, you would have been absolutely convinced the (12, 16, 20, or 28—pick one) was Steve’s absolute favorite, to the exclusion of all others. It was a tour de force in terms of skillful journalism, but it also pointed up a great truth about the major shotgun gauges: At any given time, in any given circumstance, any one of them can be the best.
Steve Smith was the founder of both Game & Gun (later wrapped into Shooting Sportsman) and Countrysport Press, and a close friend, colleague and hunting pal of Michael McIntosh. Countrysport was Michael’s early publisher (and mine) and devoted to the tweed-cap-and-double-guns corner of the world of wingshooting. In other words, Steve knows his way around a shotgun, and so was perfectly suited to make such a judgement as to the relative worth of the various gauges.
At the time, I asked if every word of every piece was true, and he assured me they were.
All of which brings me to the 28, the current darling of the shotgun world. Fine 28s demand big bucks at auctions, far outstripping a similar gun in a 12 or even a 20. is has been so for the past halfdozen years and shows no sign of slipping.
Is it justi ed? Well, in the ne tradition of Steve Smith, yes and no.
Conventional wisdom has it that the 28 gauge owes its continued existence to its inclusion in the four-gauge Skeet lineup decreed almost a century ago, otherwise it might have gone the way of the 24 and 32. e reverse argument applies to the 16 gauge, which was left o the list and has been in steady decline ever since. ere is some truth in both positions. Having conceded this as the reason for the 28 being around at all, however, and having acknowledged his a ection for it, Jack O’Connor ruefully concluded “Actually, there isn’t much excuse for it.”
A tri e harsh, perhaps, but undoubtedly realistic. Ballistically, O’Connor was absolutely right. But if
one were to make these decisions based on ballistics alone, we would probably have only one gauge—the 12—which can pretty much be made to do anything any other gauge can do. It would certainly simplify life for the ammunition companies. Gunmakers, on the other hand, would su er because they would undoubtedly sell fewer guns.
To the best of my recollection, no one has ever looked at the role each gauge might play in the course of one’s lifetime. e best gauge for you at 10-years-old might not be when you reach 30, but by the time you hit 70 you could well be looking fondly on that lighter, handier, milder-kicking gun you remember from your early years. Or, the onset of some physical disability might cause you to look around for something kinder to your shoulder.
Not that you would necessarily be giving up much by leaving your 12 on the rack and taking your 28. It depends on the gun and the load and the choke, of course, but one frequently reads that the 28 gauge possesses killing power out of all proportion to its cold, hard numbers. (One reads exactly the same thing about the .375 H&H, albeit in vastly di erent circumstances.)
Does the 28 possess some magical power? Not that I can see, nor can I see any reason it might. Since I can neither support nor refute the claim, however, I mention it for the record.
But let’s leave the cartridge aside and look, instead, at what a 28-gauge gun can be. erein lies the key.
Any 28 you encounter today is most likely to be one of three things: A gun made years ago, just for Skeet; a short-barreled, short-stocked implement made for a kid; or a cobbled-together product, built on a 20-gauge frame, to try to cash in on the 28-gauge craze.
But let’s assume we’re starting with a clean slate and want to build a gun of adult proportions for serious adult use.
e “Rule of 96” states that a gun should weigh 96 times the weight of its standard shot charge to prevent excessive pounding to either the gun or your shoulder. A 16, for example, with a one-ounce load, should weigh 96 ounces, or exactly six pounds.
A 28’s standard is ⅝ ounce, which would indicate
A Darling Beast
The 28 on the Catwalk
e “A-10 American” sidelock over/under, in 28 gauge, from Connecticut Shotgun Manufacturing Company. e gun has 30-inch barrels and weighs six pounds, ve ounces. It’s scroll engraving is a homage to the Boss & Co. over/under, now 115 years old, but still the standard of elegance by which over/unders are measured.
a weight of 3.75 pounds, but a quick review of major ammunition makers’ o erings shows a range from ⅝ to 1⅛. e latter is in a three-inch hull, which I am not going to consider in any way, any more than I’d try to factor in a three-inch 12.
Having determined a minimum weight of three pounds, 12 ounces, we quickly conclude that is vastly too light to get a gun with a smooth swing. What it does, however, is give us a wide range of acceptable weights to achieve the goal of a sweet gun with which we can actually hit something, and not get pounded into oblivion. Remember: e Rule of 96 determines a minimum.
Many people wax lyrical about 28s weighing ve pounds or less. ese may be a delight to carry, but try to hit something with one. For me, I would consider 5½ pounds the absolute minimum weight, and actually lean toward six. is allows us to take the next step, which is to add barrel length.
Barrel length is highly subject to fashion. Right now, the preference is for long barrels in all gauges, and I hope it stays that way. I consulted Tony Galazan (Connecticut Shotgun Mfg. Co.) on the question, and we agreed the ideal barrel length for a 28 gauge is 30 inches. A tall man, with an extra-long stock, could even go to 32 inches. is adds weight out in front, to give a smooth swing that doesn’t want to stutter and stop. It also gives the gun an elegant appearance—of not being undersized, and providing a visual counterweight for an adult-sized stock.
If you begin with a proper 28-gauge frame—and this applies to over/unders, side-by-sides, or repeaters—then you can achieve exquisite balance while staying comfortably under our arbitrary weight of six pounds. is leeway allows the gunmaker to leave weight where he wants it to be rather than where it has to be. Even if you are forced to make do with a 20-gauge frame, there is enough wiggle room to make it work.
Getting back to the subject of cartridge length. Many older 28s from England have 2½- inch chambers (⅝ ounce load) while newer ones, and most American guns, have 2¾-inch (¾ ounce). In Ameri-
ca, a “heavy game” load will run an ounce. Assuming our pipe-dream custom 28 outlined above comes in at six pounds or a shade under, it will comfortably handle the game loads without pounding you.
And now to the nal point: choke.
If we are having a modern custom gun made, of course we can install interchangeable chokes and that solves the problem. But suppose those are not an option?
Much is made among the modern 28-gauge crowd of it being “more sporting” than the mean old 12. It can be that, but only—only— if you have tighter chokes that give you a smaller killing pattern and require you to place your shot more exactly.
Otherwise, all you have is a shot pattern with fewer pellets and bigger gaps, which means you are more likely to wound a bird than drop it cleanly. Is that more sporting? Absolutely not.
Where a 12 might perform perfectly with an Improved Cylinder choke, a 28 should have Modied. Some really good shots like to go even tighter.
In a long-ago chapter on the 28 gauge, Michael McIntosh quoted W.W. Greener, writing in 1885, of a young lad shooting box pigeons with a 28, from the 27-yard line rather than 29, and dropping 38 out of 50 “best Blue Rocks.” He was, of course, using a Greener gun. Similar stories crop up from other gunmakers— of how they built a 28 for a teenager, his father tried it, and liked it so much he had one made for himself.
Apocryphal? Maybe. But such stories abound regarding the 28 gauge, and have for more than a century. Some of them have to be true, do they not?
As for aesthetics, no more beautiful shotgun has ever been made than a long-barreled 28 gauge over/ under by such makers as Boss, Woodward or (in this country) Tony Galazan.
Maybe that’s why the 28 is Steve Smith’s all-time favorite gauge. And we have that in writing. S
Grays shooting editor Terry Wieland admits to being intrigued by the 28 gauge, even as he remains a diehard 12-gauge man. As he gets older and more damaged, well, who knows? He’s shopping around.
Gear & Lifestyle
GERBER
knives
IN 1939, advertising agency owner Joseph Gerber began manufacturing culinary knives as gifts for his clients, marking the beginning of what would become GEAR. To celebrate its 85th year of making knives in Portland, a limited-edition Chef Knife ($300) is available in three colors to celebrate Joseph, along with his sons Ham and Pete, who later joined him to make Gerber one of the most respected names in the industry. Each knife features a Magnacut steel blade, tall grind plain edge, an overall length of 12.4” and is packaged in an elegant walnut keepsake box, complete with a branded print insert. A worthy tribute to the family who brought the brand to life. www.gerbergear.com
THE Baytown Sherpa Jacket ($99) from Charlestonbased MARSH WEAR is a timeless, retro-styled zip-up that packs easily without sacri cing warmth or comfort. is is the perfect carry-on addition to your travel attire, made of 100% recycled polyester with a zippered chest pocket, leather chest label and dual zippered pockets. Equally at home on the run or settling in for an evening at the lodge. Available in khaki and charcoal. www. marshwearclothing.com
POPTICALS are a breakthrough in sunglass technology, o ering unique portability without sacri cing clarity thanks to nylon-based lenses from Carl Zeiss Vision. e PopZulu ($139) is designed to surpass the most stringent, high-impact standards, making it an ideal choice for the traveling hunter or competitive shooter. A magnetic rail system built into the frames, which allows the lenses to extend outward when in use and then inward for compact storage in a durable, hard-shell case, makes them easy to pack and a breeze to store in your shooting vest. Always there when you need them, but never in the way when you’re cramped for space. www.popticals.com
The 50th Anniversary Issue of Gray’s Sporting Journal
This double edition of Gray’s will span the ages with work from the best in the business, some of whom—Waterman, McIntyre— are no longer with us but leave a wonderful legacy of incredible outdoor writing. Others, like Gierach, Babb, Petzal, Wieland, Hewitt, Bodio and even Ed Gray himself have contributed pieces speci cally for this remarkable issue.
In addition to reaching current GSJ readers, this issue of Gray’s will be used as a rst-time subscriber incentive, ensuring that younger generations of Gray’s readers have a keepsake to commemorate the stories their fathers and grandfathers read while anticipating what’s to come in the years ahead.
e 50th Edition will also be available as a single copy online, and in select bookstores in May 2025. We expect the shelf life on this celebratory issue to be years, rather than months, and a permanent part of many literary collections.
We hope you’ll choose to be a part of this once-in-a-lifetime edition of Gray’s Sporting Journal. Celebrate 50 Years of Gray’s with us and reserve your ad
Scott Buchmayr New England / Mid-Atlantic buchmayrscott@gmail.com (978) 462-6335
Ad materials due: March 27
• Full Page, 4-color ad rate: $3,750 net • Two-Page spread, 4-color Ad rate: $6,375 net
Amos Crowley Midwest / South amos@crowleymedia.us.com (216) 378-9811
Mike Floyd mike. oyd@morris.com (706) 231-0826
John Lunn john.lunn@morris.com (512) 470-7447
Gear & Lifestyle
WHETHER you’re chasing bucks across the country or waiting for them in the back lot, NOSLER knows every shot counts. Its new Whitetail Country ($34.95 per box) line of premium ammunition features two standout bullets: the Solid Base and the Straight-Wall. The former incorporates a fifth-generation tapered jacket and heavy base to deliver deep penetration and efficient kills, while the latter is tailored for slower impact velocities with a lead nose for reliable expansion, even at long distances. Together, the line is a nod to tradition and a leap forward in precision and power. Available in eight calibers, including 6.5 Creedmoor, .270 Winchester and 30-06 Springfield. www.nosler.com
THE Sherpa Fleece Scout Boot ($150) from CHENE is the perfect multi-purpose slip-on for scouting, stepping out back for more rewood, relaxing at camp or gliding through airport security. Premium neoprene and rubber construction provide an optimal combination of comfort and waterproo ng, but it’s the 300g sherpa- eeced lining that makes these boots t like a pair of bedroom slippers. A durable, reinforced heel means easy kicking on and o . ere’s a non-marking outersole, and at 6.5” high there’s height enough to keep you dry without being cumbersome. www.chenegear.com
THE Double Haul Convertible Du el ($170$220) from NEMO is a feat of engineering, serving equally well as a tote, du el or backpack, depending upon the con guration you choose to suit your needs. As a tote, tuck-away straps make for easy handling while the zippered top can remain open to store more gear. As a du el, short grab-and-go handles o er a solid carry while release buckles compress cargo. And as a backpack, padded shoulder straps provide a comfortable carry over longer distances. Packs into is own carrying case, which can also be used as an internal organizer. Available in three colors and 30L, 50L, 70L and 100L sizes. www.nemoequipment.com
Gear & Lifestyle
THE USRA family of hunting boots from LACROSSE hit the scene in 2023 after ve years of research and development, and now the latest addition to the line shares many of the same qualities but is tailored for fall and winter. e USRA LS (Late Season) is built to tackle tough terrain, with premium components like GORE-TEX liners, PrimaLoft Gold insulation, a 360-degree mudguard, double stitching, Vibram outsoles, and a four-way stretch ankle collar for added comfort and debris resistance. Available in brown and gunmetal. American made. www.lacrossefootwear.com.
WISCONSIN-based STRIKER BRANDS was founded two decades ago to provide technical apparel for snowmachiners and ice shermen. Now it has added the Shield Float Vest ($130) to its cold weather apparel line, providing wind-blocking protection and thermal insulation while maintaining a lightweight, low-pro le design. Ideal as both an outer shell or insulating mid-layer, it provides piece of mind around water and ice thanks to proprietary Sure ote otation assist technology. For added boating safety, a kill switch D-ring is xed to the inside hem, while blustery winds are kept at bay by an interior storm ap, zipper garage at the chin, eece-lined pockets and collar, and 40 grams of ermadex insulation. Available in gunmetal, duckwood or dark olive, with sizes ranging from S to 4XL. www.strikerbrands.com
FEW American cities speak to the essence of the American West with more authority than Jackson Hole, so when Cub Schaefer set out to create apparel designed to stand the test of time and perform the task at hand, that’s where he set up shop all the way back in 1982. Built for comfort and durability, the Rangetek Western Guide Snap Shirt ($90) from SCHAEFER OUTFITTER o ers UPF 50+ protection, quick dry breathability and temperature control without sacri cing style thanks to a snap-down collar, pearl buttons and a pair of attractive chest pockets. Antimicrobial treatment reduces odor, a nylon/spandex blend provides plenty of stretch, and there’s even a slot for your pen and glasses. www.schaeferout tter.com
MARLBOROUGH, MA: JANUARY 17-19
EDISON, NJ: JANUARY 24-26
ATLANTA, GA: JANUARY 31FEBRUARY 2
BELLEVUE, WA: FEBRUARY 15-16
DENVER, CO: FEBRUARY 21-23
PLEASANTON, CA: FEBRUARY 28MARCH 2 LANCASTER, PA: MARCH 15-16
Gear & Lifestyle
GRAY’S Sporting Journal is not alone in celebrating its 50th anniversary in the coming year, as SCOTT FLY RODS has picked ve of its favorite rods from the past 50 years, built the blanks to spec, and nished them with today’s best-in-class components and construction techniques as a tribute to the anglers who sh them.
ere’s the F 703/4 berglass masterpiece ($995) from Scott founder Harry Wilson; the G 904/4 ($1,095), which remains one of the nest light-line y rods ever created; the ARC 1287/3 ($1,395), an innovative salmon and steelhead rod; the STS 909/3, the crown jewel of Scott’s saltwater collection; and the R 905/4 Radian, which many consider to be Scott’s nest rod of all time. Each rod comes with a special 50th Anniversary inscription, custom engraved reel seat and a commemorative rod tube. www.scott yrod.com
IF water quality is an issue when you travel the world to hunt and sh, the Tap Filter ($46) from SAWYER is the perfect addition to your prep kit. Lightweight and easy to use, it lters 500 gallons per day, removing harmful bacteria and microplastics by attaching to a standard tap or hose bib spigot. A backwash adapter, threaded spigot adapter, dual threaded adapter, tap gauge and two-foot-long extension hose are all included. No chemicals, electricity or batteries required. Also useful at campgrounds, festivals and during natural disasters. SAWYER recently donated 20,000 units to victims and rst responders in the aftermath of Hurricane Helene. www.sawyer.com
5.11 TACTICAL has earned a stellar reputation for making sure the military, police o cers and rst responders have the tools they need to get the job done, but sometimes their products translate equally well to the world of hunting and shing. Such is the case with the new Response XR1T Flashlight ($75), which boasts up to 1,000 lumens on high mode and projects a beam 150 meters. is compact powerhouse has a rugged aluminum body and is submersible in six feet of water for up to 30 minutes. A user-friendly tail cap switch lends itself to intuitive operation, while a USB-C 18350 lithium-ion rechargeable battery is e cient and compatible with most modern charging systems. And at just 4.5 inches long and an inch in diameter, it stores easily and has a pocket clip for quick access. www.511tactical.com
OTT JONES SCULPTURE
& Sporting Bronzes ~
Cat Tracks
Continued from page 36 have been with us on the day introduced at the beginning of this story to see how di cult things can be.
Tracking conditions continued to deteriorate as snow melted on the exposed sidehill. When we reached the base of a cli we lost the track completely in a jumble of bare talus. Dan and John spread out below the rocks to see if the cat had doubled back while I climbed around the cli to search the top.
I took me an hour to nd the cat track again, headed uphill toward the crest of the ridgeline above the cli . ere were no dog tracks overlapping those of the cat. When I shouted news of this discovery back downhill, I received no reply. We don’t carry radios or cell phones either and, by then, locating the dogs had become my primary concern.
When I crested the ridge I received an unwelcome surprise, which shouldn’t have been surprising at all. at hillside faced north, was heavily timbered, and the knee-deep corn snow lying in the shade wouldn’t support my weight. As is often the case, the cat could easily run across snow that I couldn’t even trudge upon. I decided to ounder on and stop thinking about the snowshoes back in the truck.
e situation quickly devolved from bad to worse. Dog tracks crossed the cat’s trail in confused patterns, indicating that they were having trouble following the evaporating scent. One by one, they
started falling away from the cat track in di erent directions. I reasoned that the best way to retrieve the dogs was to stay with the cat track and hope they relocated it. During periodic rest stops I shouted and listened for baying hounds or human voices but heard nothing except wind soughing through the conifers overhead. Soaked in sweat and dehydrated, I tried not to think about the water bottle in my pack back at the truck. Fatigue began yielding to exhaustion. When the cat track started to angle back uphill, I decided to climb straight to the ridgeline and hope for the best.
Onefocus of skepticism about the propriety of lion hunting concerns the use of dogs, especially from other bowhunters. Since bowhunting relies on stealth and stalking skills I understand the apparent contradiction but would o er polite refutation on several grounds.
First, a hound is merely a nose attached to four legs and a heart. ey are poor problem solvers, and when chases become di cult and confusing—as they often do—it is up to the hunter to solve the puzzles and bring order to the chaos. at process can demand just as much skill as an open country stalk on hoofed game.
Second, to invoke a phrase I have frequently used in respect to wingshooting, the hunt is all about the dogs. I wouldn’t walk across the road to hunt ducks without my Labs, pheasants without my GWPs, or cougars without my hounds.
Lion schnitzel with beurre blanc sauce tastes every bit as good as it looks.
e joy comes from the interaction with my four-legged hunting partners, especially those I’ve raised and trained myself—which is almost all of them. Other bowhunters sometimes ask if I couldn’t simply follow a track alone, stalk the animal, and kill it without using dogs. I could and I have, but I missed the dogs’ company too much to do so again.
ird, while hounds are frequently capable of stupid behavior, they also enjoy a remarkable skill set. One day, after hours spent searching for a track, I spotted a suspicious impression in the snow beside the road in a wind-blown mountain meadow. We could barely make out the track in the blowing snow much less con rm it as that of a lion, but we decided to let Drive evaluate. As soon as I released him from the leash, he tore bawling through the blizzard 30 yards downwind of the track, where the scent had carried. I’ve raised a lot of pointers and retrievers, but none had a nose like that. In fact, all the resources of our military probably couldn’t have done what one bone-headed bluetick hound did that morning.
Five miles later Drive treed the cat, at which point we decided to declare the morning a catch and release hunt. Bottom line? It really is all about the dogs. To paraphrase Keats, that is all ye know and all ye need to know.
Leaving
the heavy snow for the nearly barren ground on the ridgetop left me feeling as if I were wading a bone sh at. I had forgotten all about the cat by then, but still faced two concerns: locating the dogs and getting o the mountain before dark. en I heard a welcome reprieve, a hound’s “I’m lost” bark that sounded like Sadie’s. When a faint human shout followed moments later, I felt optimistic for the rst time in hours. Because of the wind direction and di cult contour of the terrain, I doubted anyone could hear me but shouted anyway as I set o toward the barking dog. Since Sadie sounded far away, the glimpse of a dog running through a copse of Christmas trees only a hundred yards ahead surprised me. en a sudden realization hit me, and I found myself
face to face with the lion.
As we stopped and stared at each other, I can’t imagine which of us felt more surprised. en inspiration struck. Charging ahead while doing my best to sound like a baying hound, I felt grateful no one was standing by with a video camera.
I imagined three possible outcomes from this tactic, one good, one acceptable, and one very bad. Fortunately, the lion chose option A and ran up the nearest ponderosa pine. irty minutes later, the rest of the chase—human and canine—was standing beside me in failing light. Although Dan was a good shot and an experienced bowhunter, the staccato rattle of his arrow against the bow’s riser announced a bad case of Cougar Fever. His rst arrow ew three feet over the cat’s back. By the third he was only o by a foot, but he then had just one shaft left, leaving him on the verge of de-quivering (an unfortunate term I’d had to invent decades earlier). After a ve-minute combination of pep talk and psychotherapy, John and I got him settled down and he delivered a lethal arrow that sent the dead cat tumbling down out of the tree.
John and I can get the hide o a lion quickly, and we did, but we weren’t done yet.
Yearsprior, the well-known and justi ably admired Bozeman-based science writer David Quammen wrote a magazine article on cougars for a nonhunting conservation organization to which we both belonged. His biology was spot on as usual, but he made some disparaging comments about lion hunting that convinced me he knew nothing about it. I protested to the magazine editor, who contacted David. To his credit, he acknowledged my point and asked if I would take him lion hunting. I extended the invitation.
He arrived in terrible weather, with sub-zero temperatures and road conditions so bad we had to look for tracks on cross-country skis. We didn’t nd any, for which we probably should have been thankful. But that night Lori and I served him a multi-course mountain lion dinner—scaloppine and sweet and sour cougar, as I recall. He proclaimed it
delicious, as I’m con dent it was. e experience totally changed his opinion, not just of hunting cougars but of hunting in general. We have remained good friends ever since.
Surveys consistently show around 15 percent of Americans abhor hunting and a roughly equal portion enjoy it. Members of the remaining neutral majority, who will ultimately determine hunting’s political fate, are much more inclined to view it favorably when we eat what we shoot. Anti-hunting activists have enjoyed their greatest successes campaigning against hunting large predators by appealing to the impression that the only goal is a “trophy” (whatever that means), but I don’t eat mountain lions and bears to make a political statement. It’s simply the way my hunting family raised me, and it helps that all this venison—I use the term in its traditional sense to describe any wild game—is delicious when properly prepared. Light, mild and nely grained, cougar meat can be prepared in any way appropriate for lean pork or veal.
e upshot of this digression is that we had to get a heavy load down o the top of a mountain in the dark. Like any large mature tom, our cat’s live weight was probably between 160 and 170 pounds. I wasn’t certain of our exact location, but I did know that if we descended along the fall line, we would eventually reach a road. What I didn’t know was where we’d hit it—or whether we’d encounter impassable cli s on the way.
With the hide in John’s daypack, as much boned meat as Dan’s would hold in his, the hindquarters balanced awkwardly on my shoulders, and a leashed dog in hand for each of us, we were a ragged and exhausted crew upon setting out downhill. ere wasn’t anything interesting to share about the next two hours, so I won’t try. By serendipity, we hit the road near a cabin that I recognized as belonging to a tough old ranch widow who was a patient in my medical practice. e lights were on inside.
ere are places where the unexpected appearance of three bloody, bedraggled men on a doorstep at night would lead to a 911 call at best and various less welcome responses at worst, but this
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wasn’t one of them. Lorraine recognized me as soon as she turned on the porch light and opened the door. “Why Doctor omas!” she exclaimed happily. “You boys look like you could use a drink!”
How right she was. S
Don omas and his camera-wise wife Lori live in rural Montana with their Labrador retrievers and German wirehair pointers, who have now completely replaced their hounds. ey contribute text and photographs about the outdoors to numerous publications, among which Gray’s remains a personal favorite. eir latest book, On the Wing, is a re ection upon Don’s six decades of wing-shooting experience. It is available from www.donthomasbooks.com
If You Go
Fresh snow in manageable amounts is a crucial element of lion hunting. Weather conditions near Don’s central Montana home are so unpredictable that it is dicult to plan hunts in advance, so few cougar hunting out tters operate in the area. e best lion numbers—and the most successful guides—are found in Region One of northwestern Montana. Mountain lion harvest is governed by quotas that vary by hunting district. Some non-resident tags, but not all, require drawing by lottery, with application deadlines usually in mid-July. Seasons begin in early December and run until the quota for that district is lled. If unlled, the season ends early April. Details of these complex regulations, along with variations by region, can be found at fwp. mt.gov/hunt/regulations.
Patagonia
Continued from page 16
It’s rare that you don’t have to stop along the way for a ock of sheep, a couple of cows, or a random riderless horse. It’s not open range and there are plenty of fences, but because these are small, familyowned ranches, when an animal gets out everybody knows who owns it.
On the way to the lodge you pass six relatively small lakes, tucked into narrow valleys and all interconnected by tiny streams. In the American West these would be dammed reservoirs, but here they’re all natural, held back in the jagged valleys by small moraines that remind you that glaciers are not far in the distance. Each one is full of large brown trout. During a stay at Magic Waters, you can sh three or four of them in a single day, nice because if one is too windy or another is not shing well you just drive to the next one. Magic Waters has rafts parked at each lake, so your down time is minimal when playing musical lagunas.
I’m not fond of stillwater shing but lake shing at Magic Waters is a whole new world for most North Americans. No bobbers, two-foot leaders or tiny chironomid patterns. ese lakes are shed with large dry ies, often while sight-casting to trout. On sunny days trout often leap completely out of the water to grab dragon ies from the air. ese lakes do not have much food other than dragon ies, damsel ies and the few young trout that survive the ravages of the big ones. Your best chance of taking a large brown trout is with a big (size 4 or 6) foam dry y. Chubbies, Water Walkers and more speci c damsel and dragon patterns work, but make sure you tie them big. And no delicate presentations. You need to slam these big concoctions on the water to catch the attention of roving trout, bringing them up through deep water.
I’ve thrown streamers in these lakes, sometimes on sinking lines, and they do work. But I have had my best days for numbers, and my largest trout, on dries. A bonus, if you still have enough energy to sh after a world-class dinner and some ne Chilean wines, is mousing for these large browns. Night shing in Chile is more like dusk shing, as you
begin when the sun goes down and only sh until you can’t see anymore, unlike mousing in most places where you might not even get started until midnight. You can go mousing and be back at the lodge in time for a nightcap. If you’ve never had much interest in stillwater trout shing, Magic Waters will change your mind and you’ll be asking to do more lake shing before your week is out.
Once you get close to the lodge, you’ll rst see it in the valley below, surrounded by rugged peaks and steep hillsides grazed by sure-footed sheep, horses and cows. It’s bookended by two small lagunas and much larger Lago Barroso, which is known for its massive brown trout. It’s truly a magical, welcoming place, and every time I round the last steep curve, I feel like I am home, but still on the cusp of exploring more water I’ve never seen before.
One of the larger rivers is the Simpson, a rich shery with classic ri e and pool structure that is well known and popular, but because of Magic Waters’s arrangements with landowners I have never seen another angler on this river. Another is one of my very favorites, the Huemules, which is a slower, deeper, richer river than the Simpson with great hatches. e Paloma, closer to the rain forest, is another large river that reminds me of the South Fork of the Snake in Idaho with its clear, aqua-tinted water and expansive gravel bars punctuated by jumbles of large drowned lenga and coihhue logs. All these rivers have wild brown and rainbow trout, with a healthy sampling of smaller sh up to 20 inches. You’ll catch a mix of both, but the appeal to me is how many you will hook on a good day. e fact that they are all wadable (although they are sometimes shed from a raft, especially the Paloma) makes them especially appealing. e area around Magic Waters is blessed with numerous spring creeks, forced out of the ground along the valley oor by glacial runo that passes through underground aquifers high in the Andes before popping up in the ats below. ese are not at all like spring creeks in North America. e water is clear but often tannic, and you can leave your tiny emergers and 6X tippets at
home. Many are choked with weeds and the trout are large, so 2X and 3X tippets are the rule.
Why such a large tippet? Patagonia is typically windy, and every other year they have a hatch of very large (up to three inches long) beetles called cantaria (a size 2 beetle is not out of line). Even though the trout don’t see these huge creatures every year, there are plenty of other large beetles, dragon ies, moths and grasshoppers that get blown into the water and the sh are always looking for a bigger morsel. And, yes, I have also seen trout in these spring creeks eating size 18 olive may ies occasionally, but on most days, you can still throw them a big bug and get them to eat.
If you like smaller freestone streams, Magic Waters also has them in abundance. Easily wadable, these streams produce mostly smaller sh but in great numbers. is year I shed the upper reaches of a small stream just down the road from the lodge in a spot I had never seen before—Eduardo and the guides are always scouting to nd new access points. ere was a small ri e that seemed too shallow right next to where Ives, our guide, parked his vehicle. While my shing partner, Mark Melnyk, was getting organized I threw a dry dropper into the ri e and landed about 10 browns and rainbows, including a surprise sh that was about 15 inches long, on a tiny 7 ½-foot 3-weight rod. e rod was a new one and I wanted to see how it would cast with a dry dropper, but I didn’t really intend to hog all the sh while others were not quite ready. No matter—as we worked upstream the same thing happened to Mark every time we found a pocket of deeper water.
Flying over the Andes and the pampas, either in a helicopter or on the approach to Balmaceda airport, one of my biggest impressions is the profusion of free-running rivers and the seemingly endless chains of lakes—all without the modern-day constipation of dams and diversions. If you were in the American West most of those rivers would have already been plugged somewhere along their course to the ocean. But here, for now, the rivers run free in their descent from vast glaciers and the people of Patagonia have fought and won to block
hydro projects on their national treasures. I hope it stays that way as long as possible. S
Tom Rosenbauer has been with the Orvis Company since 1976, and while there has been a shing school instructor, copywriter, public relations director, merchandise manager and was editor of e Orvis News for 10 years. He is currently their chief marketing enthusiast, which is what they call people when they don’t know what else to do with them. He has about 20 y- shing books in print, including e OrvisFlyFishing Guide, Reading Trout Streams, Prospecting for Trout, Casting Illusions and Fly-Fishing inAmerica. Tom lives with his wife and son in southern Vermont on the banks of his favorite trout stream.
If You Go
Patagonian Chile requires a long day of travel, for most North Americans about 24 hours. Delta is the best connection because they have a relationship with Latam, which ies to Balmaceda from Santiago and does not require rechecking luggage. A 9-foot 6-weight is
the standard rod, and most people also take a 7-weight because the wind blows almost every day, the ies are large and the sh are not sophisticated.
Big foam dries, mouse patterns, streamers of all types and some smaller Parachute Adams in sizes 14-20 are handy for may y hatches. Caddis patterns in sizes 10-18 are also handy—Patagonia has some large caddis hatches. Nymphs will work, although most of the larger sh are caught on dries—they often seem to be even better than streamers for large browns. And you can leave your Euro rod at home—because of the near constant wind tight-line nymphing is not very practical. I also take a 7 ½-foot 3-weight because you can sh small, protected mountain streams if you wish.
As in the Rockies, weather can change quickly so take clothing to sh in anything from 40 degrees to 75 degrees at any time during their season. Magic Waters can be booked through Orvis Travel at 800-5474322, or by email at orvistravel@orvis. com. Magic Waters Patagonia Fly-Fishing Trip in Chile | Orvis
The Trout Also Rises
Continued from page 54 dry y plunged, and I was fast to the nicest trout of the day, about 14 inches. When the sh nally came to hand, we noticed the faint vertical stripes found on the Mediterranean variant of Salmo trutta, among the most ancient phenotypes of the species. ese native browns seem to favor higher, faster streams than the nonstriped browns that are descendants of long-ago stockings. It was a great way to end a day that featured a new addition to my y- shing life list, as well as a true Spanish trout.
Thenext day, Salvelinus’s head guide, Aleix, had something special planned. Our half-day of shing was to be followed by tours of two wineries in another region. In the morning, we drove to a stretch of water that resembled a spring creek, where Aleix walked us through some presentations that required accurate casting and precise
mending. e trick was to dead-drift a nymph through the gaps between the many weed patches, which was both frustrating and compelling. After about an hour without a take, we moved upstream to a corner pool that was large and deep, and it wasn’t long before I was battling what turned out to be the sh of the trip.
As soon as I set the hook, I could feel that I was connected to a big trout. Its rst instinct was to dive to the bottom of the pool, trying to get to the safety of a tangle of sunken limbs. Aleix yelled, “Keep it out of there,” so I lowered my rod tip and applied stern side pressure to get the sh to change course. Its next tactic was to escape the pool altogether, and as it shot between Aleix and me, heading downstream at full speed, we got our rst good look at the hefty rainbow. e guide’s eyes lit up, and we chased the sh downstream to keep it from getting the line tangled. After a few rounds of giveand-take, the rainbow began to tire, and Aleix made a heroic e ort to end the battle. As he lifted the net from the wa-
ter, our guide held a st high in the air in celebration, verifying what we already knew; this was a special trout.
Holding the sh for a few photos, I couldn’t help but admire its beauty and size. e biggest rainbow I’d caught in many years, it sported a deep body, as well as the perfect ns and silhouette of a wild trout. You may expect to catch rainbows like that in Alaska or New Zealand, I thought, but Spain?
After another hour or so on the water, we do ed our waders, drove for an hour, and rendezvoused with Maria José, Salvelinus’s brilliant travel coordinator, for a tour of two local wineries in the town of Barbastro, at the eastern edge of the Somontano wine region. e name means “under the mountains,” and rightly so. Here, the climate and altitude complement each other to create exceptionally balanced wines. e rst bodega was a stunningly restored Italian villa that now serves as a winery, and our tour guide, Diego, led us through various stages of the process, pointing out features of the remarkable building, including an aging room full of oak barrels. One entire side of the room is a natural wall of rock into which, centuries ago, caves had been carved. Medieval monks later inhabited these ancient dwellings. After the tour, Salvelinus arranged a mindaltering tasting menu, paired with some of the best wines of the region, hosted by a Michelin-starred chef.
Next, we headed down the road to an organic winery run by three sisters. One of the most endearing features was a room full of vintage wines, an oenophile’s history of the family business dating back to 1936. We nished with a tasting that showcased some of the sisters’ signature wines and then, a bit lightheaded, we returned to Arén.
Daythree provided yet another di erent kind of water as our guide, Alberto, led us to a place they call “Little River,” a beautiful stream that ows beneath a canopy of trees that makes it feel hidden and remote. e water was low and clear, which meant the sh were quite spooky and not inhabiting their usual spots, as Alberto quickly realized.
until we came to a deep cutbank with lots of overhanging bushes and a blowdown at the tailing end.
Employing the “near to far” strategy, I began casting a dry-dropper rig to the inside seam and worked progressively across the current, closer to the edge, guring I’d eventually tempt a sh lying in wait in the darkness below the opposite bank. Sure enough, on a cast so tight to the edge that I feared I’d snag the roots hanging down in the water, the dry y disappeared, and I set the hook on a burly brown trout. It quickly tried to return to its lair. What ensued was a close-quarters, hand-to- n battle, the sh never more than 20 feet away, pulling hard toward the tangle and then the woody mess downstream. A tad over 20 inches, the silvery, wild brown sported big red spots along its sides and a bulletshaped head.
After that success, we drove to another part of the river, where I hooked an even bigger brown on my rst cast, but after two spectacular jumps, the hook pulled loose, much to everyone’s dismay.
We spent the rest of the day working upstream, catching wild browns from 10 to 12 inches on nymphs. We did see a few risers but could catch only little guys on dry ies. As we drove back at the end of the day, I was simultaneously excited by the big brown I had landed and frustrated by the one that got away.
Forour nal day, Salvelinus again planned half shing and half cultural exploration. We headed into the mountains with guide José Manuel, whose mastery of the narrow, winding mountain roads was an experience in itself. We climbed countless switchbacks and drove through several ski towns until we were just a few kilometers from the French border.
As soon as I saw the water, I felt right at home, as it was a mountain freestone stream just like the ones I sh in Vermont. e big di erence was the surroundings: towering, steep peaks of the high Pyrenees. As soon as we started to gear up, the skies opened, and it rained
on us all morning. We still had a blast, working our way upstream, casting a drydropper rig in pocket water for wild, little browns. Although the rain made it tough to spot sh, we did move a few larger trout, but we weren’t able to tempt any of them into eating our ies. We ended at a deep pool below a dramatic waterfall, where José Manuel literally yanked me o the water so we wouldn’t miss our lunch appointment.
e ride down the mountains was even more thrilling than the ride up, and we ended at a parking lot below the stunning mountain village of Roda de Isábena, where we again met Maria José for a private tour of the Romanesque jewel of the region. We hiked up the ancient stone steps until we reached the beautiful Cathedral San Vicente, an 11th-century church that’s also home to Hospederia de la Catedral, a restaurant in the old refectory that features remains of Gothic frescoes and furniture from the 18th century. In this rich atmosphere, we ate Aragónese sausages while Maria José regaled us with the history of the
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José regaled us with the history of the region and of Saint Ramón de Roda, a contentious gure in the Spanish Catholic hierarchy of the early 12th century. After lunch, we toured the cathedral, which is set up like a museum, featuring sculptured fonts and altars, tapestries and remarkable artifacts of a time when the Church was the center of everything.
featuring fresh ingredients and regional recipes. Salvelinus now also o ers a new lodge in Sopiera, close to Aren, as well as a 4-star “camp” in the highlands.
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We ended our trip with a sunset visit to a medieval village that seems frozen in time. Set atop a hill between two converging rivers, the town is made almost entirely of stone, with an austere church at the summit. To walk the streets and enter the tiny homes is to get a real feeling for how hard life was a millennium ago. For us Americans, whose history doesn’t even begin until the 1500s, our afternoon adventures with Maria José o ered fascinating stories and evidence of the series of conquests and multiple religions that formed the local culture over the past 2,000 years.
As we drove back to Barcelona to y home, Sandy and I marveled at how–while we had both found the o -thewater experiences fascinating and enriching–what made us want to come back again was the excellent y shing, featuring remarkable waters and top-notch guides. Ivan explained that we had barely scratched the surface of what the region has to o er, especially in the high country, which means we will surely be back. S
Phil Monahan was the editor of the Orvis Fly Fishing blog for a dozen years and writes articles for various sporting publications. A former guide in Alaska and Montana, he served as the editor of American Angler magazine for a decade. He lives in rural Vermont.
If You Go
Fly into Barcelona, a stunning city that’s worth exploring. Salvelinus provides a limousine for the three-hour drive to the lodge. ere, you will stay in the Salvelinus Lodge, which is right in town, and take meals at a restaurant that has been operated by the same family since 1768. Dinner is in a private dining room that was once a horse stable. e host, Juan Antonio, is a master of the local cuisine,
For travel companions and those who want to do more than sh, Salvelinus offers a multi-activity program, including private visits and gastro-experiences at several wineries in the region. Salvelinus also operates from three other locations in the area.
A 4-weight for dry ies and a 5- or 6-weight for nymphs and streamers should be all you need for rods. We did go as small as 6X tippets, but more commonly 5X got the job done. e sh don’t seem to be leader shy when it comes to streamers, so 2X is ne. A standard selection of trout ies is all you need, including some terrestrials and attractor patterns. Depending on the timing of your trip, Ivan can o er speci c suggestions. Guides carry ies, and there is a y shop at the lodge, but guests are encouraged to bring their favorite trout patterns.
Plan for weather extremes. In a single day, you can go from shing in your shirtsleeves to layering against cold and wind. Even when it’s 80 degrees at the lodge, the high-mountain areas might be closer to freezing. Felt soles are prohibited, and studded rubber soles are recommended.
Salvelinus operates from March 1 through November 30. e best time for dry- y shing is from March to late June, and prime time for high-mountain waters is June and July. Fall o ers great opportunities, mostly on nymphs, especially from mid-October to lateNovember.
Ivan Tarin is a man torn by contrary desires: On one hand, he wants the world to know about the wonderful shery that he and his guides have discovered through more than a quarter century of research and trial-and-error. On the other hand, he doesn’t want to generate negative impacts on the resource due to the over shing and overcrowding. Salvelinus donates 10 percent of pro ts to protect nature in the region. Salvelinus Fishing Adventures: salvelinus.com. All guides and sta speak English, which is a big help for making travel plans and dealing with day-to-day questions.
Comes A Kudu
Continued from page 68 to see through. Despite the annual months-long dry spell, the straw-colored grass, with no hint of green, remained more than knee high. Trees and bushes were close and cross hatched, some bare while others carried a load of bushy leaves. e mix created a pattern of shadows mixed with sunlight that confounded me. In the open, zebras, gemsbok, kudu, wildebeest, impala and eland are striking. e stripes, horns and coloring of each is unique. Considering the obvious dif
my spotting abilities and his own. Despite my hovering near one of the narrow slots in the blinds, his whispered cue that an animal was nearby, or the slight back and forth movement of his index nger, a raised eyebrow or a tilt of his head indicating direction almost always came before I suspected something was approaching.
e next morning began with Hans removing a poisonous snake from our blind. e pit viper, fresh leopard tracks circling nearby, and an impressive mound of fresh rhino dung lent intensity to the day. After getting a feel
ungulates are not ignored for long. A quick follow up is intended to prevent meat loss, or an unpleasant dispute over ownership. Hans waved me forward and we took up the trail almost immediately. ough the track wasn’t long or far, I still got a taste of the legendary ability of the bushmen. I don’t know what Hans saw or intuited but, like the spotting of game, I was the weak link in the process. I started slowly, looking for blood soaking into the sand. I was not seeing much. When I looked up, Hans had his hands clasped behind his back, strolling across the trackedup sand at a normal walking pace.
horns to maintain focus on the vital spot for my arrow. I’m glad I did. e shot was as true as it had seemed, and there was no ground shrinkage.
e bull had not gone far, and while it was not an exceptional specimen, the thick, dark spirals extended farther up and out than in the image burned into my memory upon releasing the shot. Despite my con dence in its success, I was relieved and grateful for the short track. After checking with Hans to verify I had the appropriate vegetation, I gave the bull its last bite. e three of us admired the kudu, then took the obligatory photos.
I was struck by how the elegant curves of its horns evoked a slightly distorted echo of the shape of my recurve. When Allan, summoned by radio, arrived at the scene, everything happened quickly and more e ciently than I’d ever experienced. He was able to drive within the length of his available cable to where the kudu fell. In a surprisingly short time, he and Hans winched my elk-sized bull onto the bed of a Land Rover for the return to camp.
I remember moose, bear, deer and even pronghorns that required a lot of hunched over knife work, grueling backpacking and, sometimes, if I was lucky, horses or llamas for the grunt work. More than once, as I strained under a pack, I fervently wished for an easy way out of the tough job of getting heavy loads of meat to the nearest road. But seeing the bull dragged into a truck was bittersweet. Packing big game is hard work, so I appreciated the ease of the process, but it felt like I’d left something undone. My hands were unbloodied, the familiar scents missing.
Re ecting upon that moment in the months since our return home, thinking about the eld care of the meat and horns, I came to accept that it was exactly the right thing to do. Taking the bull to the eld dressing station at the lodge was an e cient and incredibly clean process. I couldn’t bring back any meat, but I got to see that every bit was used and appreciated. Nothing goes to waste in the bush.
Inthe weeks leading up to this trip, I wavered about many things, but especially hunting from a blind. I have always
aspired to see what was over the next hill; the thrill of the stalk is what I cherish most about the hunt. I wasn’t sure about waiting and watching. On that count, I have no ambivalence. e abundance, variety and proximity of wildlife made hours and days in the blind great fun. Our time here was too short.
Like spring bear hunting, we started each day early but didn’t need to be hunkered in our hides at rst light. We’d spend the morning hours in a blind, retreat to the lodge for lunch and a stretch, then return to our morning set up or try a new spot with better wind conditions to watch until sunset. Each morning, we witnessed the awakening of the Kalahari from atop the high seat in the back of a Land Rover. Every evening, we rode back to the lodge in the same perch to enjoy the unvaryingly red dusk. Both ways we watched for birds and game while dodging occasional obstacles.
One evening, we heard the goose-like sound of zebras in the distance, coming our way. With a hand-held radio, Hans alerted Allan to postpone our normal sunset pick up. I’m not sure what was di erent about that night; maybe it was because we’d become so comfortable here and could feel our time running out. Or it might have been the combination of sights and sounds so new yet so…right. e zebras came in single le. ey barked and splashed in the shallow water just yards from our elevated blind. As the colts kicked and bucked, and the adults shouldered their way to the best spots, I got a little misty. When I looked at Laurie, there were tears on her cheeks. e zebras were unaware of us, but kudus, downwind, began to cough unheeded warnings. We stayed until full dark that night.
Despite a lifetime of wandering with my bow, and my anxiety about being bored in a blind, the experience was wonderful. Laurie and I included novels, along with an invaluable bird identi cation book, in our daypacks. But we had little time to read, and I was surprised by the short duration of those times, thanks to the constant in ux of wildlife.
Bowhunters, particularly longbow and recurve archers, deal with much different range and shot placement constraints than ri e hunters. With blinds
near water and oriented to take advantage of prevailing winds, our standard day provided multiple close encounters with game animals. Sometimes absurdly close. One morning, when an eland took a last look around before committing to bend down for a drink, Laurie, using the sound of his drinking as cover, whispered to me: “Look at those beautiful eyelashes.”
With many di erent waterholes and only a handful of guests at any time, each morning and afternoon discussion led to analysis about how the breeze would a ect speci c blinds and which animals were more likely to approach each waterhole. Like all hunting, even with Allan’s decades of experience, it’s always a guess as to what, if anything, will show up where or when.
Don has hunted Africa many times. On this trip, other than photos, his single archery objective was a blue wildebeest, something that has long eluded him. His chance never came. I had decided upfront that I wasn’t going to take a wildebeest so, of course, two mature bulls came to our blind on di erent evenings.
I returned home with wonderful memories, plus the skull and horns of a ne kudu. I also blew a great opportunity at a gemsbok and enjoyed close encounters with new and fascinating African birds, along with game big and small. I decided ahead of time that warthogs, zebras, duikers, eland and those wildebeests would be allowed to pass unmolested. In retrospect, I regret some of my choices. But now I have a reason and desire to plan my return to the Kalahari. S
Kevin is used to driving his old hunting and shing rig to local destinations and was surprised to learn that long ights aren’t nearly as bad as he expected. is realization has opened a whole world of new places to go. He and his wife, Laurie, share a home in Western Washington with Colton, their Fousek, and an extremely friendly black cat who regularly awakens them with gifts they didn’t know they needed
If You Go
No matter where you start in North America, Namibia is a long haul. Our route took us through Frankfurt, where we had a 10-hour layover. Prior to this trip I
was ignorant of the fact that some airports, Frankfurt being one, have small rooms for rent. ere, we were able to shower and sleep a few hours, a highly recommended break between two long ights. You can reserve the rooms in advance by visiting www.mycloud.de/en/rooms.html.
Our hosts were Allan and Jacqui Cilliers, along with their son and daughterin-law Wayne and Bianca. From the rst day, the whole crew made us feel welcome, including the trackers, kitchen sta and their families. Guinea fowl, wildebeest, duiker and gira es frequented the lodge waterhole, as well as the kudu who barked and birds whose mutterings accompanied us as we walked to the lodge from our chalet.
Food always tastes best when doing something fun, but the meals we enjoyed would be outstanding anywhere. You can learn more about the lodge and your hosts at www.cillierssafaris.com. Our hunt ended on September 5th. During our stay in the Sandveld, we never saw a cloud or an airplane
Generally, the Kalahari is dry from
April through October. As with any weather forecast, that is subject to change, but rain is rarely an issue. Most travelers to the region prefer to visit before October, when the real heat arrives. During our stay the temperatures were comfortable. Highs in the 70s with cool evenings merit including a light jacket when you pack.
I mentioned our “hunt” ending on September 5th. Afterwards, we visited another part of Namibia for several days where we had elephant, hippo and buffalo encounters in Bwabwata National Park (https://national-parks.org/namibia/bwabwata) along the Okavango River. ose several days were not nearly enough. When we go back, we’ll spend more time exploring Namibia after stowing my bow.
Allan has created a unique bowhunting niche. Hunting is never a sure thing, but there was not a day when I didn’t have multiple mature game species in range. While my focus, and much of Allan’s, is bowhunting, Cilliers Safaris offers ri e hunts as well.
People, Places, & Equipment
No Easy Task (Page 44)
Photographer Kendrick Chittock hunted mountain goats DIY in November along the north coast of British Columbia, near the areas of Stewart and Terrace. The region is known for high numbers and prime habitat, but you’ll need to come prepared for cold, wet weather. He also suggests an ice axe and a pair of Wiggy’s Waders. For recommendations on outfitters in B.C., feel free to contact Marvin Kwiatkowski, the Board Chair for the non-profit Rocky Mountain Goat Alliance. He can be reached at marvin@goatalliance.org.
Predator (Page 70)
Photographer Dusan Smetana fished for African tigerfish in Tanzania with Cabela’s Club Signature Events (www.clubsignatureevents. com). Prime time is considered October-April. Most fish were in the 10-to-25-pound range and caught on a 9- or 10-wt rod with sinking/ shooting line. Fishing was done from 18-foot aluminum jon boats or sandy beaches along the Mnyera and Ruhudji Rivers. In addition to hippos, crocodiles, and water bu alo, you’ll see a remarkable array of bird life. Don’t forget the bug dope (www.sawyer.com).
Riding Shotgun
Continued from page 62 e peak of my trip began to unfold as soon as I was able to take the bottom, where the landscape created stadium seating for Sage’s performance. As she neared a patch of grass sure to hold birds, I took an inventory of where everyone was, knowing my new friends were likely about to see Sage at her best—she’s always shined brighter with single birds than coveys, and this was the best pheasant country I’d ever seen. Sage locked downwind of a breeze, her long hair and blonde ripples owing as one. She crept ever so slightly, her tail agging at a 90-degree angle.
A mature rooster ushed straight up, Sage held, and I squeezed.
Seconds later, three of the other dogs were on birds and roosters were ushing faster than any of us could load shells. Carl was hollering and waving his arms like a maniac atop the tree line to alert us of pheasants getting up around the bend; Greg was doing a victory dance after his GSP, Annie, retrieved a rooster of her
own; Boyd and Branden were laughing hysterically as Jesse fumbled over his safety for the umpteenth time. If George Bird Evans were to write this book, it would be called A Dog, A Gun and Unbridled Joy.
e hunting continued all the way back to the trucks, eating up four or ve hours of our day without a complaint from the group. Dogs were still pointing in the distance as some of us took photos with our birds. We probably could have trekked back through all the country we just worked and still move half as many birds. It was that good.
With less than two hours until sunset, we decided to target sharpies—a novelty in these parts—as we’d drummed up enough pheasants to go home happy. We worked a few smaller but promising ag elds that ultimately produced a covey or two, but the birds were purely wild, likely because of all the early-season pressure sharp-tails tend to experience. en as the horizon began to fade, a small covey scurried across an old farm road ahead of Greg’s truck.
“Go ahead, Dave,”Greg said with haste,
having already taken his double earlier that morning. “Just grab the dog and go.”
Sage and I jumped out of the truck like an airborne unit that doesn’t have the time or luxury of overthinking the task ahead.
en, employing a run-and-gun approach I surely learned from the gang’s fast-paced style of hunting, I ran past Sage’s point and ushed a single sharpie from the grass.
As I walked back to the road, Carl was leaning against Greg’s truck with his arms crossed, grinning like my old man after my rst home run back in the Little League days.
“You havin’ fun yet, Dave?” he asked rhetorically.
It was the single best day of hunting I’d ever had.
Thefourth and nal day of our trip was much like the third, as coulees were the name of the game and vests never felt light. Recurring jokes and clown insurance (that one’s just for those guys when they read this) kept tired legs marching on. Single pheasant ushes were never
hard to come by, although sharpies would continue evading us.
As I walked back to the truck one last time, I was trying to count all the birds we’d found but determined it was impossible. I knew several of us limited out on pheasants over the last two days, but at a certain point, the actual number becomes extraneous. For four days in a row, we squeezed every ray of sunlight Big Sky Country had to o er.
As we crested the nal hill of our hunt and looked onward into the dying day, we paused without a spoken word to xate on what stood before us. Gathered in the nal draw below were no less than 100 pheasants, ushing in unison toward the next coulee over, demanding our return. S
Based in Austin, Texas, David is an avid upland hunter who travels the country with his Old Hemlock English Setter, Sage, in pursuit of wild birds. roughout October and January, you’re likely to nd him chasing ru ed grouse in the Northwoods, pheasant in the plains or quail in the desert with his father’s old 20-gauge Browning Citori.
If You Go
Montana boasts more than 30 million acres of public land and holds a myriad of upland birds. Blue grouse, spruce (Franklin) grouse, ru ed grouse, sage grouse, prairie chickens, ptarmigan and chukar all call Montana home. Most nonresident hunters head east for more favorable walking conditions, as well as dense populations of sharp-tailed grouse, Hungarian partridge and ring-necked pheasant. Travelers willing to sacri ce Rocky Mountain views for better hunting opportunities will reap the rewards of healthy habitat and expansive grasslands in the northeastern region, as all three species ourish year after year.
A strong homebase for this trip is Culbertson or Fort Peck, two small towns situated at opposite ends of the Fort Peck Indian Reservation (which you cannot hunt on). e east side of the reservation o ers more rolling plains suited for sharp-tailed grouse and pheasants, whereas the west features a more arid, rocky terrain with better Hun
numbers. It’s also worth noting, however, that sharp-tailed grouse are a popular early-season bird, meaning prime sharptail cover will experience high pressure in September, making birds skittish come October when pheasant season opens.
We searched the area for nearly six months prior to our trip and still bene ted from contacting a local wild game o cial. You can never ask too many questions, as any given year could greatly di er from the last. A thorough understanding of the land is paramount. While a printed map remains a timeless resource, the onX Hunt application proved invaluable for us, as we were able to identify promising hunting locales from the road throughout the day. And with many public hunting units butting up against private parcels, it’s good to always know you’re on legal ground before pulling the trigger.
Familiarize yourself with season dates and be sure to purchase a conservation license, a base hunting license and an upland bird permit. To learn more, visit Montana Fish, Wildlife and Parks at https://fwp.mt.gov
KAMCHATKA
Redemption
Continued from page 42 relieving me of the gnawing, smallminded notion that lodges like this one, genuine E-ticket rides, are often places where dilettantes gather—that the Real Guys are tucked away in rental cabins or nearby campgrounds, subsisting on pasta and burritos, their rafts or drift boats on trailers, ready to go according to daylight hours and secret interpretations of phases of the moon, their nances stretched thin as their plans for the future, making the most of what they have today in order to stay on the water weeks or even months at a time.
e biases of class. Kuppy, I discover, wol ng down my short rib Pappardelle as though I don’t know where I’ll get my next meal, appears as admirably sick as any y sherman anywhere to claim his share of good sh. e Big Hole, he’s concluded, o ers everything, in the course of a season, that any trout lover can ask for: streamers in spring, the big bugs of summer, now these faint, sporadic hatches asking for small, delicate ies. In my fabulist’s eye I see myself suddenly transformed, spending an entire summer in the Big Hole valley, Memorial Day through the end of September—forgetting, once again, my true age and ickering capacity for this sort of reckless adventure.
is will do just ne, I think, enjoying my panna cotta with a touch more wine.
MaxLewis, the born-again surfer, takes me in tow the next two days, helping stoke the ames of a kindling infatuation with a river that, the more I see, the more I want to explore and unravel its mysteries, eating crow, all the while, for denouncing Montana as something other than the last best place as far as trout shermen are concerned.
Live and learn. We oat the canyon stretch below the lodge after putting in at Beaver Slide, aka Earl Guitar, named so, explains Max, because somebody once pulled someone else out of the river, preventing a drowning, the story tied somehow to a guitar on the scene, maybe even somebody strumming away, sing-
ing a song. “Momma don’t let your babies grow up to be anglers.” I’m a sucker for this kind of tale, the stu of local lore, the way shing holes and surf spots get named—if only among a circle of gonzo friends.
We nd a few small sh, both browns and rainbows, on the dry and dropper.
en Max suggests a streamer, a Copper Zonker, for the faster, deeper, bouldery runs, bony now in late-summer ows. He knots the streamer to a length of 5x tippet, a little light as far as I’m concerned.
But he won’t budge.
“ e only way you’re gonna get bit this time of year,” Max says.
It’s not long before I place a cast just so in a little pocket of still water, a toss with an upstream mend in it so the y hangs an instant longer before the current can yank it downstream. e trout comes out of nowhere, eats and, nally, it seems, I’ve got just the sort of brown trout on my line worth leaving home for.
When it bolts into the current, I hear the oars banging against rocks.
“I can’t get over there,” says Max.
“You and your 5x tippet,” I say, leaning on the sh as hard as I dare.
e trout burrows for the far side of a mid-current rock. We slip downstream. I cinch tight, a do-or-die move I’d prefer to avoid.
Only later, when Max lifts the sh from the net for a photo, do I realize it’s a pretty average trout, in no way that “big brown” I’ve been looking for.
I recognize, as well, I’ve no reason on earth to complain—none whatsoever.
We go on foot the last day, my favorite way astream. e access points are tricky, not quite private, perhaps, but you probably wouldn’t try any of them on your own: gates, pasture, a two-track with a strip of bumper-high grass down the middle, a parking spot tucked in tight beneath the old, towering cottonwoods, a shady picnic area that hasn’t seen much use the entire season.
e kind of places, anyway, that still set me to tingling, a Pavlovian reaction to a set up that says, “ is is ours right now, thank you.”
e feeling that I could poke around
on the Big Hole for a month or two at a time won’t leave me. What more do you want from a river? Dry and dropper in the morning, a urry of sh rising along an eddy seam just before lunch. Early afternoon Max and I creep up the bank near the mouth of a small spring creek, a complex of channels and rocky ats hidden by a row of willows from anyone oating the river. A tiny nymph, cast straight upstream, fools a perfect cutthroat specimen, broad enough in hand to ignore the question, again, of why there are westslope cuttys in a drainage this side of the divide.
en nally it happens, a trout big enough to inhale the pu ball contours of the indicating hopper, a thick, legitimate, Big Hole brown—a sh I can recount to Kuppy, I decide, once it’s in Max’s net, so that he doesn’t feel he’s done all the heavy lifting during our stay.
But at dinner I hold my tongue. It seems a little pretentious to mention shing at all after our chef, Sean Kim, announces the smoked Wagyu tenderloin. And when he also lets on that the sourdough bread this evening was fashioned by our very own manager, Matt Cornette, who runs the lodge operations so smoothly with Sarah, his wife, I’m led completely o topic, trying to dig up information on how to replicate his airy, delectable loaves, another plus worth considering should you nd yourself thinking you’ll sidestep Montana, or the Big Hole River, anytime soon. S
Gray’s angling editor Scott Sadil lives in Oregon. He can hardly wait for his next visit to Montana.
If You Go
A full-service lodge of impeccable credentials, the Complete Fly Fisher (www. complete y sher.com) makes it about as easy to go shing as anyone could hope for or imagine. If you can’t take the time to drive to Wise River, a road trip I highly recommend wherever your starting point, you can y into Bozeman and someone from the lodge will meet you and bring you back to the Big Hole valley, an easy ride that gives you time to slow down and settle into the relaxed pace that CFF cultivates for the health
and well-being of clients and sta alike. e lodge caters to both experienced y anglers and guests with little or no history searching for trout with a y rod. It’s an ideal place to bring a family, whether you’re including grandparents or grandchildren. Seasoned anglers will no doubt want to show up with their usual assortment of gear; newcomers, if gearless, can expect to be out tted with everything needed, including waders and boots, rods, reels and ies, from the wellstocked y shop on the premises.
I hesitate to make speci c gear recommendations, knowing how so much of such matters involve individual or regional or even generational preferences. at said, I consider the Big Hole a classic trout shery, meaning I’d feel perfectly equipped showing up with nothing more than my usual nine-foot 5-weight and conventional double-tapered or weight-forward oating line. Of course, most everybody wants to supplement his or her day-to-day out t: the 6-weight for throwing big streamers on maybe a short-headed line with a slow-sinking tip; or the 4-weight for tossing little trico spinners or late-season blue-winged olive patterns over trout quietly sipping in all but still-water eddies. ere are opportunities for both wade and oat shing. If you want to try out that new two-handed trout Spey rod, this is the place to do it. Whatever shing you come prepared for, remember that the Big Hole is a big river under big skies, and that means the weather can go any direction, the wind will eventually blow, and anglers ready to face these dramatic changes are the ones who will nd themselves getting the most out of the shing. Layered clothing is essential. I think everybody knows this by now—until I see someone at a lodge or on the water who forgets or hasn’t learned that winter in Montana can last until the Fourth of July and start up again on the fth.
And the wild west sun can scar you any day of the year.
But whatever the weather, the Complete Fly Fisher o ers, once o the water, every comfort imaginable. I was about to write “every comfort of home.” But let’s be real about: I don’t live so well, not by any stretch of the imagination.
Bristol Bay Partners
Mark W. Rethlake
Senior Vice President–Wealth Management
952-249-4791
mark.w.rethlake@ubs.com
Bristol Bay Partners UBS Financial Services Inc. 681 East Lake Street Suite 354 Wayzata, MN 55391
This stunning property features a craftsman-built 3 bedroom, 3 bath home with 2 car garage on a 15.6-acre private parcel with trail system & dock on Cobbossee Lake! Custom features include lighted display cases & alcoves, secure climate controlled storage room, dedicated dog room with wash station & fenced yard access, rec room with garage door, utility sink & built-in storage & much more! Short distance to many lakes, ponds & ocean for a variety of hunting options! Offered at: $1,945,000
Some Angling How-to for the Road
Great Smoky Mountains National Park protects the topographic apex of the Southern Appalachians, that rugged upthrust of stubborn geology found along the border of North Carolina and Tennessee, a 6,000-foot-high summit spine that gives birth to a magni cent array of trout-bearing, cold water streams, every one of which is worth exploring with a y rod. I have written extensively about the Southern Appalachians and spent a good deal of time in its backcountry. Park waters are managed as a wild trout shery, which makes the shing there as memorable as mountain y shing can be. Despite high visitation levels to the Park—mostly concentrated along roads and easily accessible, popular areas—its backcountry remains an enclave unto itself. With Fly Fishing Guide to Great Smoky Mountains National Park (Stackpole Books, softbound, 242 pages, $34.95), Ian and Charity Rutter have written the best current guide to that backcountry y shing. I worry that guidebooks to small streams may og the reader with too much information and kill the experience of discovery that many of us seek. ey may also, of course, og the streams with too many anglers. But the Rutters are deeply rooted in the region and o er the prospective angler a rich context for Smoky Mountain shing that is sur-
rounded by much history and a density of biodiversity—from remnant old growth to berry-fat black bears to a profusion of birds and wild owers—that matters as much as the native and naturalized trout that grace its chattering streams. Native brook trout as well as naturalized browns and rainbows wait in the Park’s rocky pocket water, beguiling runs and boiling plunge pools. is ne guidebook o ers the requisite practical advice on equipment, techniques and ies and such— shing these streams is an athletic challenge one needs to be prepared for and hiking to these streams requires planning. ere is an excellent overview map of the park’s watersheds as well as detailed shing advice for 75 streams. A good selection of regional y patterns and color photographs of the Smoky Mountain backcountry should get you packing your bags. e Rutters are available as guides. Local y shops and other services in the region are excellent and, after the devastation of Hurricane Helene in October 2024 on the northeast side of the Park, deserve our support once emergency conditions have subsided.
Some of us only experience ice shing while watching YouTube videos of pickup trucks falling through thawing north country lakes at the end of
“The forests of the Smokies are a wonder to behold.”
—Ian and Charity Rutter, Fly Fishing Guide to Great Smoky Mountains National Park
A new expression of the Southeastern Wildlife Exposition’s passion for the great outdoors, Gallery by Southeastern Wildlife Exposition (Gallery by SEWE) is an art gallery and studio space showcasing some of the country’s finest wildlife art and artists. Nestled in The Shops at The Charleston Place in downtown Charleston, Gallery by SEWE celebrates the artwork and sculpture of an evolving collection of wildlife artists.
the season, indulging in a little armchair schadenfreude. But at those latitudes where lakes freeze and beckon as an enticing seasonal landscape in winter, ice shing is as important as deer hunting, a ne communal activity at the heart of winter. With Ice Fishing: Guide to Great Techniques for Catching Walleye, Pike, Perch, Trout and Pan sh (Stackpole Books, softbound, 180 pages, $21.95), Steven A. Gri n has given us an excellent primer to this unique niche of the shing passion. As the author notes: “Many anglers pursue at least part of their shing in winter—two million in the United States in one recent year, according to the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. ey averaged 19 days on the ice apiece.” Gri n covers what you need to know and think about—safety is paramount, of course, and you won’t have fun if you don’t have tricks for staying warm. Gear and techniques for nding sh through a hole in the ice are fascinating and always evolving. e author gets into all of that succinctly and with a good sense of humor. A Michigander, he loves the culture, camaraderie and sometimes the solitude of ice shing. He o ers speci cs on northern pike, walleye, trout (including lakers), white sh, burbot, perch and other pan sh. On the ice, sh fries are always in the o ng. You’ll get plenty of information, but this ne book is held together by Gri n’s love of being out on the ice: “For some of us, summer shing is what we do in the ‘o ’ season, when we can’t ice- sh.”
Iwrestle with whether “Euro nymphing” is really a thing (just as I wonder whether Tenkara, spoken about in hushed tones in certain circles, isn’t just old-fashioned mountain “ y dapping” with pretensions of Zen mindfulness). But with Euro Nymphing: Tips, Tactics, and Techniques (Stackpole Books, hardbound, 166 pages, $34.95), Josh Miller has given
us a very useful book. e rst chapter takes on the question, “What is Euro Nymphing?” For me, the answer describes forms of nymph shing that are useful but not new or revolutionary. Fishing nymphs with long, slack leaders; using visual aids to detect strikes; concentrating on presentation rather than imitation have long been part of y shing. I think of George Harvey’s old leader formulas and his nymph shing techniques, for example, as well as many other writers on subsurface shing going back to the 1940s. at may only reveal my age and lack of relevance. I have enjoyed shing in Italy and elsewhere in Europe, and it is undeniable that there is a di erent feel to angling there, a di erent attitude, a di erent culture of angling as well as di erent gear and techniques.
In any case, Miller has written a valuable book insofar as Euro-nymphing is at least a very attentive redescription and perhaps a rediscovery of searching techniques, leader set-ups, and tactics for striking when shing tricky currents or challenging stillwaters. In those ways, this European in uence is helpful, especially to American anglers perhaps too attached to the dry y and the surface strike. Miller will get you into all of that in detail. His chapter “Bring It All Together” is a tour de force on the subtlety and complexity of nymph shing, whatever you call it. Both for his technical advice and his attitude toward nymphing, those 40 pages are worth the price of admission. ere are also very useful chapters on leaders, ies, approach and casting.
Most y shermen are raised on river shing and learn to read the surface and depths of moving water very well indeed. Our casting, y selection and presentation techniques are ne-tuned to currents and eddies. We know where the sh are or at least where they are likely to be and how to insinuate
I have enjoyed shing in Italy and elsewhere in Europe, and it is undeniable that there is a di erent feel to angling there, a di erent attitude, a di erent culture of angling as well as di erent gear and techniques.
ourselves into rivers. We nesse still pools as part of rivers with enough ow in them to create a sense of structure and can usually a ord to ignore slack water entirely. But confronting ponds and lakes and other stillwaters from bank or boat with a y rod can bring our angling success and even the pleasure of shing to a mysterious, uneventful halt. Devin Olsen’s Stillwater Fly Fishing: Competition-Inspired Strategies for Everyday Anglers (Stackpole, hardbound, 234 pages, $49.95) can x that. is beautifully produced and well-illustrated book is an excellent advanced course on seeing the angling possibilities in natural stillwaters and in reservoirs and impoundments of various kinds. Olsen has crunched the science we need to know: the so-called trophic states of stillwaters that determine biological productivity, the typical zones hidden in the water column, as well as the e ect of depth and lake shape, as well as wind, weather and the seasons on angling possibilities. He o ers a valuable chapter on “Stillwater Food Webs,” which details what and where prey
species for trout are likely to be found in the trophic levels of the pelagic zones and in near-shore waters. at may sound abstract, but in the absence of the “structure” that currents create in rivers, this is critical to graduating beyond chuck it and chance stillwater shing.
Olsen’s attention to a little science pays o in “Lake and Reservoir Ecology and Angling Decisions,” an extremely valuable chapter full of practical advice about how to approach unfamiliar water, a real help when travelling. ere is a good deal more of practical angling advice—rods, reels, lines, leaders, ies. Olsen is as particular about subsurface riggings and techniques as was Josh Miller, and both anglers have been in uenced by their experience competition y shing. ere are chapters on loch style driftboat shing and bank shing alpine lakes. S
Chris has cleared his shelves of books to review and, for the rst time in 30 years, looks forward to reading and enjoying sporting literature as a civilian.
STATEMENT OF OWNERSHIP, MANAGEMENT AND CIRCULATION (required by Act of August 12, 1970: Section 3685, Title 39, United States Code). 1. Gray's Sporting Journal 2. (ISSN: 0273-6691) 3. Filing date: 9/13/2024. 4. Issue frequency: Mar/Apr, May/June, July, August, Sept/Oct, Nov/Dec, Jan/Expeditions. 5. Number of issues published annually: 7. 6. e annual subscription price is $39.95. 7. Complete mailing address of known o ce of publication: MCC Magazines, LLC, PO Box 936, Augusta, GA 30903-0936. 8. Complete mailing address of headquarters or general business o ce of publisher: MCC Magazines, LLC, PO Box 936, Augusta, GA 30903-0936. 9. Full names and complete mailing addresses of publisher, editor, and managing editor. Publisher, John Lunn, PO Box 936, Augusta, GA 30903-0936, Editor, Michael Floyd, PO Box 936, Augusta, GA 30903-0936, Managing Editor, none. 10. Owner: MCC Magazines, LLC; Wholly-owned subsidiary of Questo, Inc., W.S. Morris III, W.S. Morris IV, J Tyler Morris, Susie Morris Baker, THE MORRIS FAMILY LIMITED PARTNERSHIP, PO BOX 936, Augusta, GA 30903-0936. 11. Known bondholders, mortgages, and other security holders owning or holding 1 percent of more of total amount of bonds, mortgages or other securities: None. 12. Tax status: Has Not Changed During Preceding 12 Months. 13. Publisher title: Gray's Sporting Journal. 14. Issue date for circulation data below: October 2024. 15. e extent and nature of circulation: A. Total number of copies printed (Net press run). Average number of copies each issue during preceding 12 months: 23,567. Actual number of copies of single issue published nearest to ling date: 23,045. B. Paid circulation. 1. Mailed outside-county paid subscriptions. Average number of copies each issue during the preceding 12 months: 18,385. Actual number of copies of single issue published nearest to ling date: 18,244. 2. Mailed in-county paid subscriptions. Average number of copies each issue during the preceding 12 months: 0. Actual number of copies of single issue published nearest to ling date:0. 3. Sales through dealers and carriers, street vendors and counter sales. Average number of copies each issue during the preceding 12 months: 969. Actual number of copies of single issue published nearest to ling date: 983. 4. Paid distribution through other classes mailed through the USPS. Average number of copies each issue during the preceding 12 months: 0. Actual number of copies of single issue published nearest to ling date: 0. C. Total paid distribution. Average number of copies each issue during preceding 12 months: 19,354. Actual number of copies of single issue published nearest to ling date: 19,227. D. Free or nominal rate distribution (by mail and outside mail). 1. Free or nominal Outside-County. Average number of copies each issue during the preceding 12 months: 677. Number of copies of single issue published nearest to ling date: 352. 2. Free or nominal rate in-county copies. Average number of copies each issue during the preceding 12 months: 0. Number of copies of single issue published nearest to ling date: 0. 3. Free or nominal rate copies mailed at other Classes through the USPS. Average number of copies each issue during preceding 12 months: 0. Number of copies of single issue published nearest to ling date: 0. 4. Free or nominal rate distribution outside the mail. Average number of copies each issue during preceding 12 months: 0. Number of copies of single issue published nearest to ling date: 0. E. Total free or nominal rate distribution. Average number of copies each issue during preceding 12 months: 677. Actual number of copies of single issue published nearest to ling date: 352. F. Total free distribution (sum of 15c and 15e). Average number of copies each issue during preceding 12 months: 20,031. Actual number of copies of single issue published nearest to ling date: 19,579. G. Copies not Distributed. Average number of copies each issue during preceding 12 months: 3,537. Actual number of copies of single issue published nearest to ling date: 3,466. H. Total (sum of 15f and 15g). Average number of copies each issue during preceding 12 months: 23,568. Actual number of copies of single issue published nearest to ling: 23,045. I. Percent paid. Average percent of copies paid for the preceding 12 months: 96.62%. Actual percent of copies paid for the preceding 12 months: 98.20%. 16.
Electronic Copy Circulation: A. Paid Electronic Copies. Average number of copies each issue during preceding 12 months: 774. Actual number of copies of single issue published nearest to ling date: 776. B. Total Paid Print Copies (Line 15c) + Paid Electronic Copies (Line 16a). Average number of copies each issue during preceding 12 months: 20,128. Actual number of copies of single issue published nearest to ling date: 20,003. C. Total Print Distribution (Line 15f) + Paid Electronic Copies (Line 16a). Average number of copies each issue during preceding 12 months: 20,805. Actual number of copies of single issue published nearest to ling date: 20,355. D. Percent Paid (Both Print & Electronic Copies) (16b divided by 16c x 100). Average number of copies each issue during preceding 12 months: 96.75%. Actual number of copies of single issue published nearest to ling date: 98.27%. I certify that 50% of all distributed copies (electronic and print) are paid above nominal price: Yes. 17. Publication of statement of ownership will be printed in the January/Expeditions 2025 issue of the publication. 18. Signature and title of editor, publisher, business manager, or owner: Michelle Rowe, Circulation Business Manager. I certify that all information furnished on this form is true and complete. I understand that anyone who furnishes false or misleading information on this form or who omits material or information requested on the form may be subject to criminal sanction and civil actions
On Our Own
at Opening Day was like Christmas. It had an Eve. e night before I checked the new rod and reel purchased with paper route money, popped open the tackle box to give its contents a last look: hooks and swivels, split shot weights, rusty long-nosed pliers, plastic worms, plugs and ies, three red and white bobbers.
I half- lled a Maxwell House co ee tin with damp dirt, took a ashlight, searched under agstones at the base of four downspouts. Dad warned sh were wily—“You can never have enough worms.” So I dug in last year’s garden, dirtying the knees of my dungarees.
Mark and I woke early, walked to the clunking of tackle, the tapping of bobbers against poles. Beside a bridge, we slid down a bank of scree and hiked a winding pondside path. e hard sound of rocks and roots beneath our boots. e give of spongy spots around mounds of skunk cabbage, their fresh foliage the color of blood and bone. at morning we cast, reeled, recast, competing over distance of the splash. Mark’s hook snagged a branch above. e bobber hung like a bright taunt—a tree ornament trailing the line’s tinsel. He swore as he swiped his pole like a pirate’s sword, cutting ne slices of morning air. e struggle ended with the rigging of a new line and casting with greater care.
A huge sh stole my rst worm. A bigger one stole the second. e third ew o my hook, and I heard Dad’s voice, deep and rm: “You can never have enough worms.” But what were setbacks to boys? We were outdoors on our own. We dreamed only of sh, how big and how many. We barely noticed the steady work of the sun approaching noon. How the warmth made us a bit more patient, a little more tired.
Fishing was focus and drift: the waiting, the birdsong behind us, the smell of mucus and earth on our ngers, the way the bobbers tugged, dispersing circles of possibility, how the wind picked up with the heat, scalloping the pond’s surface, making the bobbers dance like bass were nibbling our worms segment by segment. I caught three pumpkinseeds that day. Mark a perch. We threw them back but were happy because we were shermen in the wild a half mile from the highway.
e co ee tin and writhing worms are gone. Mark, as well. But the weight of Opening Day remains, both in memory and the moment. e focus of rocks and shadows, steep banks, where lake sips the line. e drift of water lapping hull, smoke from distant camp res, a song sparrow in the pines.
Maine poet Ken Craft, winner of a Pushcart Prize, is the author of three collections of poetry. His most recent travels have taken him to Joshua Tree National Park, Santa Fe National Forest and Grand Canyon National Park.
LETHALLY GENTLE
UPLAND GAME CLASSIC
The search for short-chambered, low-recoil, and low-pressure shotshells is over! Introducing B&P’s newest addition to the Upland Game line, Classic. This shell is designed specifically for being gentle on your older shotguns. Utilizing B&P’s Gordon Basewad Technology, this may be the softest shooting shotshell available on the market. Whether it’s an afternoon of shooting clays or a morning of busting coveys, your ‘old reliable’ will perform with every shot.
