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

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

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

MARCH 2020 DISPLAY UNTIL JUNE 1st.

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

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

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There’s nothing but dust in the rearview as I

nights camped there, visiting old friends I

navigate this sandy Jeep trail looking for the

haven’t seen in several years and the places

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

that made me want to spend the rest of my

told me was the fastest route, and maybe it

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

would have been on an ATV, but these sandy,

trying to fit in as many of the old haunts as

washed out, unmarked two-tracks and a bad

possible rather than having the time to really

map keep turning me around. My phone has

enjoy them.

no service and the gas needle creeps closer to empty.

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

A wet spring following an exceptionally snowy

with friends and casting for trout with a couple

winter has left massive puddles across many

of them into the afternoon. It felt strange and

of the roads, as well as high water levels

melancholic leaving there so soon.

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

But I’ve wanted to fish the Two Hearted ever

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

since I read Hemingway’s, “Big Two Hearted

Fearing that my 25-year-old Ford pickup

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

wouldn’t be able to make the cross-country

Hemingway story, too, oddly starts with the

journey, my mother in law generously insisted

burned out remains of this U.P landscape.

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

That lake I see through the trees holds a

than mine.

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

At times I can see Lake Superior shimmering

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

in the distance through the charred remnants

onto a road I’d passed twenty miles back that

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

would put me somewhere further upstream

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

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

I first showed up on the north coast of

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

Michigan a dozen years ago, hauling my

then I can decide where to camp.

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

Then I find it, the actual road leading to the

grad school at Northern Michigan University

mouth, and a main dirt road I realize would

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

have been my best bet for getting here from

find a job and an apartment ASAP.

Seney in the first place.

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

A campground at the river mouth is marked

place, and with this greatest of lakes. And I

prominently and bustles with people, which

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

makes me feel somewhat ashamed for having

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

gotten so turned around and on the verge of

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

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

my way back to northern Michigan. But that

It runs deep and mellow, clear enough to see

was before I met Amy, before I bought a cabin

the stones at the bottom but stained a deep

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

tobacco brown.

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

It parallels the lakeshore for a quarter mile

is stuck right here.”

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

Despite my love for the Upper Peninsula, I’ve

appears brilliant blue from here. I cross the

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

river on a footbridge and walk out to the

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

end of the peninsula where the Two Hearted

is 100 miles west of here along the Superior

finally seeps into Superior

coast in Marquette. I’ve spent the last two

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by Colin Clancy

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

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Knee-deep in the legendary San Juan River, we weren’t standing cheek-by-jowl with a horde of other fly fishers dunking tiny nymphs towards monster rainbows (a regular event in the blue-ribbon tailwater below the Navajo Reservoir in New Mexico). We were many miles upstream, fishing the fasttumbling Upper West Fork of the San Juan in southwestern Colorado. The trout are there, and eager to eat your flies, but getting there and fishing there are not for those faint of heart or lacking in stamina.

My fishing buddy Paul Bendheim and I found that out one beautiful August morning with the sun gleaming golden in an azure sky.

When we asked about fishing the West Fork, a fly shop owner assured us that once we drove through the campground to the end of the unpaved road, we’d simply have to park and walk past a mile or so of private land to get to the river. Never having been there, we took him at his word.

Getting to the campground was a snap: it’s well-marked as “West Fork Campground,” off Route 160 headed north from Pagosa Springs toward Wolf Creek Pass. Pagosa Springs, a gentrified old town on the San Juan with an outdoor vibe reminiscent of Durango—albeit on a much smaller scale—is a great jumpingoff point for a lot of wonderful stream fishing in the area.

Ditching our chest waders for field pants and wading shoes, we set about walking a gravel road that climbs immediately from the lot, curves hard, then flattens out as you enter a private area with a few homes. Signs direct you to the Rainbow Trail headed for the river.

So far, so good.

We trekked steadily through an expansive, heavily wooded ranch property—posted on both sides—and admired the lavishly chiseled log fencing set at intervals along the way. And we walked and walked and the trail narrowed, now studded with rocks and tree roots. It swooped up and down like a songbird in flight, and we forded small seeps and larger freshets; the “posted” signs were now only a memory.

At times, the trail was no more than a muddy path between head-high marsh plants.

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Above the San Juan

by Jeffrey Marshall

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My dad thought the topwater torpedo produced a wake big enough for waterskiing and might be scaring the fish. I told him it was working exactly as designed. It was meant to scare away small fish and clear a path for only a bass of Bubba's caliber.

However, a strong wind gust changed direction during one torpedo cast, and the torpedo stopped forward progress and reversed course. We both had to duck and cover for fear of the torpedo sinking the boat. Although it was only a 5-foot cast, my spinning reel dispensed a half mile of Suddenly, a big bass jumped beneath a

line, which sprang back to form a birds' nest

leaning willow. Moments later, the willow

tangle fit for an eagle. Thankfully, I had come

intercepted my excellent cast. This was part

prepared for acts of nature, like wind gusts

of my fishing strategy. Bubba would see my

and birds’ nests, and merely switched reels.

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

While I was rigging up, my dad rowed over

so certain this strategy would be effective

to Bubba’s lair, a stretch of shoreline shaded

that I landed the lizard in a few other

by tall pines. More Bubba sightings and

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

encounters had occurred in this spot than

completion because the wind began pushing

any other part of the pond. This was also the

the boat out to deep water near the dam, at

location of my Uncle Terry’s sunken johnboat.

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

The incident was infamous: Uncle Terry had

more room to cast.”

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

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Having learned from the best TV fishermen,

speed, that Bubba was on the other end. He

I knew these conditions called for topwater

had opened his bail and let Bubba take more

lures and long casts with the wind. Ignorant

line. A cunning beast, Bubba had spit out the

of these facts, my dad proceeded to

worm at the same moment Uncle Terry had

disregard casting. He just switched to his

finally decided to set the hook. Terry had

lightweight rod and reel and jigged a Beetle

leaned forward and then reared back with

Spin up and down beneath the boat in deep

such force that he had flipped out of the

water. Although embarrassed by what I

boat backwards. In such a panic to get back

was witnessing, I concentrated on tying on

in the boat and get away from Bubba, he had

a topwater torpedo. Focusing was difficult

swamped the vessel, which had sunk to the

because my dad had just landed a big crappie

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

that was flopping about the hull. On my

popular story. Others speculated that he had

advice, he threw back the junk fish.

merely forgotten to put the plug in the boat.

Over the lair, my dad dropped anchor. I tied

As dusk approached, the wind calmed, and

on a Baby Rattle crankbait. It mimicked the

my dad convinced me to try his fly rod. At

sound of a rattlesnake. Everybody (except

first, he told me to just ease the popping

my dad) knew that bass were the biggest

bug across the surface, like a little puppet on

predators of rattlesnakes. Although I failed

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

to catch anything with the Baby Rattle, my

Several small bream came to investigate the

dad saw the obvious potential for a Bubba

popping bug, as I teased it around the boat.

strike and asked to trade rods and reels. He

Suddenly, one swallowed the bug in a little

fished for a while with the Baby Rattle but

gulp. With one hand, my dad steadied the pole

then merely rowed me around the pond.

while I fought the bream. Operating the funny

This was one of his biggest faults. The TV

reel proved difficult; eventually I just stripped

personality said not fishing hard was one of

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

the seven deadly sins. I thought my dad, being

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

a preacher, would have known this. I guess

right into the boat. Nearly dark, my dad

seminary didn’t cover everything. Sometimes

thought that was a good stopping point, and

he seemed more interested in listening to

we grounded the boat to disembark.

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

As the sun descended over the horizon, I had

swallows. If I hadn’t been so busy catching

forgotten all about Bubba and TV fishing

bream on his Beetle Spin, I would have

celebrities—and my dad's obvious need for

corrected him. Strangely, every time I hooked

more fishing lessons.

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

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“Every day a new campsite and a new section

and stood outside next to our young cook’s

of water,” explained Wild Salmon Center

helper Vladimir, joining him for a cigarette. I

not want me to, I am dead.”

President Guido Rahr to our group of celebrity

tried to explain to him what was going on in

clients. This trip we had the owner of a

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

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

for a long while. When I inquired about his

little droplets of vodka. The owner of CNN was

past president of the World Bank among

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

up, and I asked him if he needed anything.

The next morning I awoke early, perspiring

our guests. Guido went on to explain how

depression in his belly, under the right ribcage.

With a large hand he waved me off, holding a

this operation was not only a fly fisherman’s

It seemed to go all the way back to his spine

satellite phone to his ear with the other mitt.

dream, but also a conservation program

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

His assistant informed me later that he made

funded by the anglers who purchased these

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

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

trips. He explained how the guides were

spent years in a wheelchair, he told me.

almost every morning. I headed over to the

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

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

making coffee. Then I hiked down to the river in

Kalashnikov with barrel right here.” He used

my waders with my Spey rod for a morning fish.

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

his index finger as a barrel and held it close

figure out how to produce a healthy, natural

to his body.

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

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

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

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

gurgling of the water felt like being in some

presenting slides on a screen, and showing

mood came over him. A bit of anger flashed

kind of sensory deprivation chamber. Giant

all the Wild Salmon Center’s operations

in his eye, and then the expression on his face

flat boulders poked out beneath the fog,

throughout Russia. I exited the cook house

changed. A look of relief swept over his face.

giving the whole scene a very ancient feel.

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by Alexei JD Boyanowsky

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

Or, how long before I stop spinning?

It was one of those days. The kind that starts a string of days down a deep, dark rabbit hole. I needed to feel something, yet felt like I was feeling everything all at the same time yet couldn’t pinpoint anything.

Or maybe I know and don’t want to think about it because it hurts too much.

You feel blank as you get into the car and search for a bit. There’s a song that’s in your head and on the tongue of your consciousness, and you can’t quite place it. It’s maddening, but then it comes to you and you start to get excited. You put the windows down even though the heat is sweltering because it’s the hottest week of the year. You’re fidgeting with the stereo a bit, to get that right sound.

There’s a moment when the sweat begins to roll down your brow and the heat is maddening, but your force yourself to embrace it because at least it’s something.

That sounds about right, you think to yourself before you gradually max out the volume.

And just like the song you slowly accelerate, winding the gears a bit before the crescendo of fifth gear. You can feel the vibration in your chest as the bass beats hard, along with your heart, as you test the suspension. You let off the gas a moment, downshifting into fourth before hitting the gas again and accelerating

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around a turn fast enough to wonder what will happen. You don’t have a death wish— you’re just confidently unflappable in just this instance.

There’s a straightaway where the trooper likes to hide out and ticket folks commuting to and from work, and it’s all great because at 36 years old, white, with a clean record and an open road, you just don’t give a fuck and watch as the tachometer slowly travels into uncharted territory. There are still a few minutes of music left so you go past the turn for your house, watching the lines on the road blur. For a moment you feel alive. It feels fucking great. But like everything good as of recent, the feeling is fleeting.

You can’t slow down. You have everything in your car that you’d need to fish any hatch on your home water and be successful. And so, you keep going.

And though it’s typically a 90-minute drive, you manage to make it in a hair over an hour. Th ere is limited water open on the system, as the water is too warm on most sections and you’ll probably kill every trout you catch, but there’s a cold section of river that you’ll have to yourself.

Your mind is going in so many directions that it seems to get lost in a time warp while attempting to put on your waders,

boots, and sling pack before snagging your favorite 5-weight from your rod loft.

You go to and from the trunk, completely inefficiently, in preparation and suddenly you have no idea what happened. It’s like momentary amnesia. You’re standing barefoot in the grass with your boots neatly placed and ready for your stocking foots to go into, but you’re just blanking out with your waders slumped over your forearm.

How long had I been standing there?

Gradually the nearby tributary just beyond the Japanese knotweed comes into sound, and slowly the world exists again. And so you do what you have done one million times and then march along the bank.

“Always a safe bet with an Orvis-endorsed guide.” I hear the voice across the water.

“Huh?” The stranger in the orange-accented ClackaCraft repeats it, and I utter: “Ohh, huh huh, right.”

I remember I have my guide hat on and that my voice sounds like it’s cracking and I’m on the verge of tears. Normally I would have made small talk, but I keep my head down on the path. I’m on a mission to get somewhere, yet I have nowhere particular in mind, just going with the

by John Fabre

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

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

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

by Ryan Sparks

———————————————

It’s not an overstatement to say that Hank Shaw has changed the way many of

us eat, prepare, and think about wild food. Inspiring people to take ownership of what they feed themselves and their family has been a passion for this writer and chef from the outset. On his website Hunter, Angler, Gardner, Cook and in his past four books—Hunt, Gather, Cook; Duck, Duck, Goose; Buck, Buck, Moose; and Pheasant, Quail, Cottontail—he has inspired a new generation of hunters, anield. He’s also shown them how to make deglers, and foragers to take to the f licious meals with what they bring home, earning him a James Beard award in the process. His writing was in-part what inspired me to cook and eat wild food, so I was excited at the chance to interview him.

Shaw grew up in New Jersey, the youngest of four siblings in a household

irst encounters with wild food were at French and that valued good food. His f Italian restaurants that his parents took him to. While most kids his age were eating hot dogs and hamburgers, Shaw was exposed to duck, pheasant, quail, and squab. He attributes his early appreciation of wild game to those meals.

“Because of those experiences, I’ve always associated game meat with spe lected. “Eating game and viewing [it] as something special cial meals,” Shaw ref and good has always been a part of my experience.”

While studying journalism in graduate school, Shaw worked at an Ethiopi irst as a dishwasher and eventually transitioning to sous chef. an restaurant, f After graduate school, Shaw left the kitchen to work as a newspaper reporter, covering politics across the country. His reporting required frequent moves with stints in New York, Virginia, Wisconsin, Minnesota, and California. Although ishing and foraging since he was a kid, he never hunted until Shaw had been f moving to Minnesota.

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THE GROUNDS SURROUNDING THE LODGE

Bears made their presence known in a variety

were calm then: no generator running, no

of ways. On one visit they might break into

rowdy guides telling lies over mugs of whiskey

the fish smokers, which I could never fault

mixed with iced-down camp juice. Evenings

them for. Muddy claw marks might indicate

were quiet, perhaps even eerie if you found

they tested the outside walls of the kitchen

yourself alone down by the boats and away

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

from the safety blanket provided by the lodge.

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

A handful of steelhead-sized lodge rainbows

also varied. One labor-intensive response

patrolled the waters near those boats,

was to dig a new drainage trench under the

refusing to accept that no one was throwing

lodge’s raised kitchen structure. The new

salmon carcasses their way anymore. One

trench led the kitchen’s used water away

night I shamefully drifted an egg pattern

from the source and was meant to mask its

through the pod of giants and held on. After

presence. If any food or other bear-attracting

landing a rainbow downstream from the initial

scents were detectable in that water, grizzlies

hookup and snapping a quick photo, I briskly

would follow them to the source. Salmon

migrated back upstream to the boats—feeling

carcasses were also no longer disposed of in

the entire time as though something were

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

watching each stage of my dishonorable act.

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

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

by Jeff Mickiewicz

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

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

BY JESSE MALES

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