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
8
STRUNG MAGAZINE
SPRING 2020
STRUNG MAGAZINE
SPRING 2020
9
Zac Mayhew walks through a field of penstimen on a Canterbury river. South Island, New Zealand. Photo: Nick Price
10
STRUNG MAGAZINE
SPRING 2020
STRUNG MAGAZINE
SPRING 2020
11
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
12
STRUNG MAGAZINE
SPRING 2020
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.
STRUNG MAGAZINE
SPRING 2020
13
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.
18
STRUNG MAGAZINE
SPRING 2020
Above the San Juan by Jeffrey Marshall
STRUNG MAGAZINE
SPRING 2020
19
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
24
STRUNG MAGAZINE
SPRING 2020
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.
STRUNG MAGAZINE
SPRING 2020
25
28
STRUNG MAGAZINE
SPRING 2020
STRUNG MAGAZINE
SPRING 2020
29
“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
34
“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.
STRUNG MAGAZINE
SPRING 2020
by Alexei JD Boyanowsky
STRUNG MAGAZINE
SPRING 2020
35
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
42
STRUNG MAGAZINE
SPRING 2020
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
STRUNG MAGAZINE
SPRING 2020
43
and check out You can follow Hank Shaw on Instagram @huntgathercook formation. his website honest-food.net for more recipes and in
66
STRUNG MAGAZINE
SPRING 2020
——————————————— 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.
STRUNG MAGAZINE
SPRING 2020
67
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.
98
STRUNG MAGAZINE
SPRING 2020
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
STRUNG MAGAZINE
SPRING 2020
99
108
STRUNG MAGAZINE
SPRING 2020
STRUNG MAGAZINE
SPRING 2020
109
1 22
STRUNG MAGAZINE
SPRING 2020
A
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
STRUNG MAGAZINE
SPRING 2020
1 23