Strung Magazine | The Fly Fishing Issue 2022

TIED TO NATURE

The F ly fishing Issue DREAM-ON CREEK INTO THE CANYON ONCE MORE THE FOUR DEATHS OF MACHO MABABI THE NECESSITY OF SUCCESS RIVER OF NO RETURN WHISTLING WINGS THE GREAT KATZBY RIVER GHOST

SPRING 2022 DISPLAY UNTIL MAY 30, 2022

INDEPENDENT, PASSIONATE, UNCOMPROMISING STRUNG MAGAZINE

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Rob “Stache” Smith hunts for a big lady largemouth on a Georgia lake where bass numbers are low, but encountering a ten-pound bucketmouth is a real possibility.

“Every stick or rock you bump sends a surge of adrenaline through you, knowing that if it’s a take, it’s going to be a true trophy,” says photographer David Cannon.

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Spey anglers, Patrick Marlborough and Mark Lance, take a convenient lunch break on Wyoming’s North Platte River as the springtime high water mark continues to rise.

Photo: Mark Lance

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Adam White connects with a brook trout in a run guarded by a sentinel hemlock, impossibly thriving atop a massive rock formation. Photo: Sammy Chang

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Contents

SPRING 2022 RIVER OF NO RETURN – Mark Lance

“Designated by Congress in 1980, the Frank Church-River of No Return Wilderness is the largest contiguous wilderness in the Lower 48. The Middle Fork of the Salmon River flows 104 miles through the heart of the wilderness. Though once-prolific runs of chinook and steelhead have dwindled to a trickle, westslope cutthroat trout thrive here on the edge of their native range.

Our primary interest was to be carried downstream, to cast a dry fly to cutthroat, and to live comfortably with minimal modern trappings along the way.”

THE NECESSITY OF SUCCESS – Words by Peter W. Fong, Artwork by Frederick Stivers

“When it comes to fishing, I sometimes tell myself that the only outcomes worth thinking about are in the future. It’s not that past triumph is undesirable, but its position there—behind us— gives it a fated quality, as if disappointment were not the antonym for satisfaction but its petty subordinate, as if there were no other option but success. Which, I must admit, just might possibly be true.”

WHISTLING WINGS – Ryan Sparks

“Ava is just one of the hundreds of dogs Jeremy Criscoe, a Eukanuba Pro trainer, has worked with in his 19 years as a professional trainer. By the time this article sees print, that number will likely be over 1,000. Along the way he has worked at some of the most prestigious kennels in the United States, competed with dogs at an elite level, and won national field trials in both the United States and the United Kingdom. While those are all incredible achievements, Jeremy is most proud of his family’s long history of dog training—a heritage that now runs four generations deep.”

INTO THE CANYON ONCE MORE – Dave Zoby

“‘Well, I guess I’m done for the day,’ said Bill sorrowfully. I suddenly recalled that Bill had said this rod wasn’t under warranty for some reason, some technicality. He found the broken sections and thrust them into this pack. He said that he didn’t think Sage even made this model anymore.

Things felt grim, and that wasn’t the point of the 3-weight lifestyle I was proposing. But Bill has been around fly fishing for decades. He wasn’t about to leave the canyon. I said we’d share my rod and go pool to pool, taking turns. A lot of guys might have wanted to go home, but Bill said he was game for staying and riding it out.”

RIVER GHOST – Michael Garrigan

“Let me tell you about a ghost. A dark shadow turned violent. A deep channel of still water waiting to pounce. A lurker lying along a ledge where the veiny shallows meet the thick river artery. It’s a mystery how it got into this section of the river, with its stutter-step rock channels that zigzag their way down and across, cutting the water into a stitched patchwork of seams and channels.

But it’s here and it’s holding on, probably waiting for another high-water event to move back into deeper water.”

THE GREAT KATZBY – Rich Chiappone

“My father always said, “Vic, remember that most people in this world haven’t enjoyed the fishing opportunities you’ve had.” I need to remind myself of that all the time here at Anchor Point, my Alaskan home each summer for the past three years. So when JJ Katz, my neighbor from down the road, roars into the drive on his four-wheeler to ask if he can borrow my waders, I say, “Sure. I’ll grab them for you.”’

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THE FOUR DEATHS OF MACHO MABABI – Andrew McKean

“The first time you hunt Coues deer, you’ll call them the ‘gray ghost’ with a certain affection. On subsequent hunts, the nickname isn’t as charitable. More like demons, says Shelton. Or smoke.”

24/7, IT’S A DOG’S LIFE – Tom Keer

“I have lived a life without cats, but I can’t imagine a life without bird dogs. Neither can Angela. That shared connection is part of what binds us together. We’re in each other’s company 24/7, so much so that our dogless friends think we’re nuts. But we get nods of agreement from couples who are equally connected through their dogs. Some are breeders, others are trainers, and still others are field trialers.

It doesn’t matter if you’re running bird dogs or retrievers. Being connected through gun dogs is the tie that binds. If you can work through a setter stealing a point, then you can probably work through anything. And along the way you’ll live one of the sweetest lives in the world.”

FLY FISHING GEAR GUIDE

This year’s Fly Fishing Gear Guide highlights gear from companies that work to protect the places where we hunt and fish. Whether by making products that keep trash out of our rivers and oceans or by directly supporting conservation organizations doing critical habitat work, these companies are ones that lead by example to ensure our favorite hunting grounds and fishing holes are enjoyed by future generations.

WILD FOOD – Lukas Leaf

“For this recipe, I decided to dive into the freezer and bring spring-foraged ingredients into the mix.

Fisherman’s pie traditionally has both poached and smoked fish in the filling, so naturally I turned to the fruits of Minnesota’s land and water. I love the combination of walleye, smoked whitefish, morel mushrooms, and wild leeks in this recipe.”

ACCIDENTAL GEESE VERSUS THE BIG SHOW – Words by E. Donnall Thomas Jr., Photos by Don and Lori Thomas “A Big Show goose hunt such as we enjoyed that morning in Alberta will supply our table with a lot of goose dinners, and Lori and I really enjoy eating wild geese. Having too many is never a problem, but most of those I shoot each season fall more or less by accident. Serious goose hunters (several of my friends fall into that category) may sneer at my amateurism, but I’m perfectly happy with a goose that makes a mistake while I’m hunting teal or even pheasants. A honker looks and feels bigger when it’s hanging on a game strap with something other than more geese.”

DREAM-ON CREEK – Words by Joe Doggett, Photos by Arian Stevens

“Splinter spread a chart and stabbed a finger at a spidery vein that ran from the foothills into a small bay. “This is it. I remember seeing it, flying down the coast from Douglas to Big River. There are rock ledges just north and south but a beach near the mouth. It’s really narrow, really sketchy—not much to play with. […] You’d have to really want to put in there and land a wheel plane on that little low-tide beach.” The two friends looked at each other. Their eyes glittered.”

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magazine Publisher: JOSEPH J. BALLARINI

Editor-in-Chief: RYAN SPARKS

Creative Director: SCOTT MORRISON Photo Editor: SAMMY CHANG

Big Game Editor: ANDREW MCKEAN

Conservation Editor: REED KNAPPE Fly Fishing Editor: DAVE ZOBY Upland Editor: TOM KEER

Waterfowl Editor: E. DONNALL THOMAS JR. Editors At Large: JOE DOGGETT

MARK HATTER Copy Editor: LEILA BEASLEY

Website: MICHAEL DUCKWORTH

ALEXA SPARKS

CREATIVE CONTRIBUTORS Nancy Anisfield

Mark Lance

Austin Boyd

Lukas Leaf

David Cannon

Scott Morrison

Rich Chiappone

Arian Stevens

Peter Fong

Frederick Stivers

Michael Garrigan

Lori Thomas COVER

“The longer I fish the stronger I feel that one way to get the dope on a man fast is to watch him fish; it swiftly separates the men from the boys. I mean not only watching his technique or lack of it and actual manner of casting and the like, but looking for less obvious but possibly more subtle clues to the inner man, such as how he handles a fish, once caught, including how he removes and returns it as well as observing such loftier portents as his approach and general attitude toward his fishing and indeed toward the whole outdoors.” — Robert Traver, Trout Madness Micah Walker releases a hefty brown after a hard-fought battle.

Photo: David Cannon Strung Magazine is a quarterly outdoor lifestyle publication focused on fly fishing, upland hunting, big game, waterfowl, wild foods, and conservation.

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letter from the EDITOR During my first summer living in Montana, a friend and I set out to traverse the Beartooth Plateau, an enormous labyrinth of rock and water stretching from northwest Wyoming into Yellowstone National Park and beyond. Navigating across the wilderness was an adventure in itself, but our real reason for going was to fish the alpine lakes that pockmarked the landscape. Our plan was to spend as much time as possible fishing these trout-filled waters on a 12-day, 100-plus-mile adventure.

keeping a few trout for dinner was likely doing more good than harm for the lakes we caught them from.

These days my opinion on keeping trout— or any other fish, for that matter—is completely different from those early days in Montana. Fly fishing, any form of fishing, is a blood sport whether we choose to acknowledge it or not. Fishing for the table was the sole reason humans

While our fly boxes were well stocked for the trip, we naively skimped on how much food we brought with us. Several days into our trip we were already running low on food, and the numerous cutthroat and brook trout we were catching quickly became our main source of calories. At first, I had serious reservations about eating trout.

Growing up in a troutless area of Nebraska and only recently having moved to Montana where trout are held at a nearly sacred status, I had been taught that trout were for sport only. Catch and release was (and is) the ethos of the day.

However, after a few days of eating trout my opinion began to change. I started appreciating the small mountain trout for more than their beautiful coloration and the thrill of catching them. I looked forward to the crackle of the fire and the sweet earthy smell of the fish roasting.

I anticipated the moment when I could eagerly separate flesh from bones and taste the delicate meat and crispy skin.

Those meals of trout made me feel good and gave me energy for the next day.

Living on trout for over a week, they became just as important for food as for sport. And that’s the way it should be. Besides, most of the trout we were eating arrived by airplane or on the backs of fisheries biologists. They were never natural members of the ecosystem, and

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began fishing in the first place. Only recently has the “keep ‘em wet,” catchand-release philosophy gripped fly anglers so fiercely. These days fly anglers use barbless hooks and rubberized nets and only lift trout from the water for a quick photo to reduce the stress put on fish. I’ve even seen portable fish tanks the most zealous followers of this philosophy carry so they can photograph a fish without ever taking it out of the water. What is it about trout and fly fishing that creates such fanatical devotion? Eating a fish and completing the circle of life and death that makes us human is arguably a more sacred and meaningful act than putting a hook-stung fish back into the river.

At the right place and time, I am now a

shameless fish bonker. That being said, I’m not suggesting you slit the gills of a wild steelhead or keep a limit of rainbows and browns from Montana’s highly pressured Madison River. But stocked fish, fish in overpopulated lakes, or a trout bleeding from the gills? Bonk them and get some oil hot.

Knowing which fish are acceptable to keep for the table and which ones to handle with care leads to a deeper understanding of our fisheries and environment. Killing a wild steelhead in the Pacific Northwest is borderline evil, but keeping hatchery-made Great Lakes steelhead to bring home to your family is a beautiful thing. The same goes for catching a limit of bass or bluegill from a farm pond.

Memories of family fish fries are as special to me as any fish I’ve ever released. In this issue we’ve got steelhead, permit, catfish, bonefish, tarpon, snook, cutthroat, grayling, and more. Some of them are prime candidates for dinner; others are better let off the hook. It’s those differences that makes fly fishing infinitely fascinating and enjoyable.

If you’ve never kept and eaten a fish, I encourage you to try it for the first time this season. Keep some brookies from a mountain lake, filet a smallmouth, string up some catfish. Make a campfire and prepare your fish simply. Pull the meat from the bones and lick the sticky gelatinous goodness from your fingers. Eating what you catch is an essential part of fishing. It’s the other half that so many people overlook.

Keep Casting,

KEEP AN EVEN KEEL, EVEN WHEN THE BOAT DOESN’T.

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DAVID CANNON

David Cannon is a Georgia-based commercial and editorial photographer. His work takes him all over the world, including shoots in the Amazon, Argentina, Alaska and the American West.

Most recently he was in the sailfish capital of the world, Guatemala, where he was able to sneak in 20 minutes of fishing to land his first sailfish on the fly rod while shooting for Cabela’s and Bass Pro Shops.

He also shoots for clients like TakeMeFishing.org, Scientific Anglers, Winston Fly Rods, and Duck Head, as well as for publications like Gray’s Sporting Journal, The Flyfish Journal, and Southern Living.

He gets to live with three beautiful females; his wife, Stephanie, and daughters Shiloh and Afton. The second edition of his book Fly Fishing Georgia: A No Nonsense Guide to Top Waters, is due for release if he can ever find time to finish writing it. To see more of his work, visit davidcannonphotography.com.

RICH CHIAPPONE

Rich Chiappone is the author of three collections of stories and essays. His work has appeared in national magazines including Alaska Magazine, American Angler, Gray's Sporting Journal, Playboy, the Sun, and others; and in literaries including Catamaran, The Missouri Review, South Dakota Review, ZYZZYVA and others.

His stories have been made into an award-winning short film and have been featured on BBC radio. Chiappone teaches in the MFA program at University of Alaska Anchorage. He is a former associate editor at Alaska Quarterly Review, and a long-time organizer of the Kachemak Bay Writer's Conference. He lives with his wife and cat in Homer, Alaska.

JOE DOGGETT

Joe Doggett received his first writing paycheck at age 18 for a fictional account of a young hurricane surfer that appeared in a 1965 issue of International Surfing magazine. While enrolled in the Creative Writing program at the University of Houston he received several awards for his writing including a “Best of the Best” award from the Outdoor Writers Association of America for a deer hunting story he penned for Field & Stream. Doggett went on to be an outdoor columnist for the Houston Chronicle for 35 years, writing several articled per week while also working as a contributing editor for Field & Stream. His outdoor passions have included fishing, hunting, herpetology, falconry, and surfing. At 75, he still writes, fishes, hunts, and struggles to ride longboards.

Doggett has fished around the world, making approximately 50 trips to Alaska. “Dream-On Creek,” based on these experiences, is his first fictional effort for Strung.

PETER W. FONG

Peter W. Fong is the author of the award-winning novel, Principles of Navigation. In 2018, he led an international team of scientists on a thousand-mile expedition from the headwaters of Mongolia’s Delgermörön River to Russia’s Lake Baikal. His stories and photographs have appeared in American Fiction, Gray’s Sporting Journal, the New York Times, and many other publications.

The Coconut Crab, a chapter book for children and adults, is forthcoming from Green Writers Press.

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CONTRIBUTORS

MICHAEL GARRIGAN

Michael Garrigan writes and teaches along Pennsylvania’s Susquehanna River. He believes that every watershed should have a Poet Laureate. He loves exploring the river’s tributaries with a fly rod and finding wild trout in postindustrial wildernesses. He is the author of two poetry collections, Robbing the Pillars and the chapbook What I Know [How to Do], and was an Artist in Residence for The Bob Marshall Wilderness Area in 2021. His writing has appeared in Orion Magazine, The Flyfish Journal, and Gray’s Sporting Journal. You can read more at www.mgarrigan.com.

MARK LANCE

Mark Lance is a photographer and outdoor writer based in Colorado with his wife Sharon and bird dog, Zeke. A frequent contributor to Strung, Mark is the founder and photographer at River Light Images. His photography is deeply entangled in the pursuit of trout and steelhead, wingshooting with versatile dogs, the great outdoors, and distant travels.

Mark is constantly in search of compelling imagery and a good story. His photography has been the visual foundation for many outdoor brands, lodges, and outfitters. His work has appeared in a variety of fly fishing, wingshooting, and conservation focused publications. See more of Mark’s work at riverlightimages.com.

LUKAS LEAF

Lukas Leaf is a passionate outdoorsman and chef born and raised in Minnesota. He has spent the majority of his cooking career specializing in wild game and foraged ingredients. Lukas is the lead chef for Modern Carnivore, executive director at Sportsmen for the Boundary Waters, and a wild foods contributor for MeatEater. He is also a dedicated husband and father to twin girls. He spends his free time fishing, foraging, hunting, camping, and cooking his way through the great outdoors. From weekends on the ice in his family’s fish shack on Lake Mille Lacs to spring fishing trips in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area, connecting with nature and wild places has long been a way of life for Lukas.

ARIAN STEVENS

Arian Stevens was raised in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada between Yosemite and Tahoe where he developed a love for the outdoors. During his freshman year in college, he discovered a passion for photography to share the beauty of his surroundings with others. He currently lives in beautiful Bend, Oregon and is overwhelmed with photo opportunities in every direction.

FREDERICK STIVERS

Frederick Stivers is an architectural consultant, artist, and family man (an old dad according to his 5-year-old son). Raised in the prairieland-turnedcornfields of central Illinois, he later spent a trout-fueled decade in the American West working as an architect and purveyor of “High Mountainist” style. After a spell in post-Katrina New Orleans, he returned to the Midwest to settle near St. Louis, Missouri. His work has been featured in The Flyfish Journal, Modern Huntsman, Covey Rise, Bourbon+, Dwell, NAVDHA Versatile Hunting Dog, The American Quarterhorse Journal, Valcour Records’ I Wanna Sing Right: Rediscovering Lomax in the Evangeline Country, and Addie Martin's Southeast Louisiana Food: A Seasoned Tradition.

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River of

no return

by Mark Lance Our little group of recently acquainted anglers gathered on the tarmac in Salmon, Idaho, with collective hope that we would get clearance to fly. Given the smoky conditions across the West, flying conditions were hit or miss. “Is there a doctor in the group?” our pilot asked. “A good vet would do,” he added, breaking the ice while he surveyed us. “It’s good to know what assets you have on board.” There is a pastor in the group if it comes to that, I thought to myself. “We’ll be flying that direction,’’ he gestured casually with an outstretched thumb over his shoulder, “into the Frank Church-River of No Return Wilderness. We’ll be flying at 8700 feet unless we need to get higher.” The pilot wrapped up his safety talk, including something about not fiddling with the doors or windows once we were in the air. I welcomed his levity, elevating the cautious mood of the moment while massive chunks of the Mountain West were burning and a global pandemic hung over all humanity.

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The throaty engines of the Britten-Norman

front of us. The thoughts of each passenger

noticeably, and the mountainside below us

Islander fired up on the first attempt and

snapped to wild westslope cutthroat trout

quickly became the mountainside beside us.

the plane shuddered down the runway and

and the much-anticipated, much-needed six

A final steep turn, mimicking the 180-degree

into the sky under the weight of seven

days of wilderness travel down the Middle

bend in the river below, put us in alignment

anxious anglers, fly fishing gear, and a few

Fork of the Salmon.

with a dirt airstrip adjacent to the river. Old

beers stashed neatly into the confines of the capable aircraft.

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growth ponderosa pines lined one side of the Acrid orange and brown smoke from

airstrip and at the end of the short runway

devastating summer wildfires in California

the mountainside rose straight up. Little

We made a big climbing loop over the

and Oregon, carried eastward by seasonal

room for error, I thought to myself as the

Salmon River Valley; a mostly agricultural

winds, filled the canyons and cast a veil

plane pitched in for a perfect landing.

landscape, sprinkled with cattle, sprawled

over the view below. Flying through this

below. The large irrigation pivot-circles of

smoky mountain topography felt as though

Our guides and host, from outfitter Idaho

a few remaining green crops stuck out like

we were traveling headlong into a somber

River Journeys, met us on the airstrip

neon amongst the otherwise arid valley

Russell Chatham lithograph, peeling back

and quickly shuttled our gear to the rafts

floor. Once at altitude the plane made a

the layers one at a time as alternating

waiting at the river’s edge. One by one the

decisive banked turn toward the “Frank,”

ridge and canyon, ridge and canyon,

rafts shoved off, each carrying two anglers

and a sea of rugged mountains jutted up in

passed beneath us. Soon the plane slowed

and a guide. We were finally in the physical

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grasp of the river, and our internal clocks were reset to “river time.”

Designated by Congress in 1980, the Frank Church-River of No Return Wilderness is the largest contiguous wilderness in the Lower 48. The Middle Fork of the Salmon River flows 104 miles through the heart of the wilderness. Though once-prolific runs of chinook and steelhead have dwindled to a trickle, westslope cutthroat trout thrive here on the edge of their native range.

Our primary interest was to be carried downstream, to cast a dry fly to cutthroat, and to live comfortably with minimal modern trappings along the way. The Middle Fork of the Salmon and the Frank Church Wilderness is arguably a near-perfect destination for six days of peace, quiet, solace, and wonder for modern wanderers.

A Float Through History The Middle Fork of the Salmon flows between towering Precambrian granite and gneiss walls. It runs past evidence of volcanic episodes juxtaposed against Pleistocene glacial debris, and along hot springs bubbling from the stones. It flows beneath mountain mahogany and massive ponderosa pines reaching to the sky, alongside remnants of homesteads and fruit orchards, and past weathered cabins long abandoned by miners and trappers.

Along the way, and with great respect, our river guides showed us pictographs left on cliff and cave walls by the Sheepeater Indians.

Stories of the hunt and accounts of salmon fishing along the river corridor are recorded on the rock in crimson figures. One pictograph in particular held my attention: a hunting scene illustrating ungulate prey, hunters with bows and arrows, and what appears to be a dog contributing to the hunt. Long before the Mountain Shoshone and the Nez Perce, paleoindian humans hunted these mountains.

Discovery of late Pleistocene Epoch projectile points and lithic flake stone tools, talus pits and clusters of pit depressions, suggest prehistoric occupation in the area more than 6,000 years ago. Aside from the fly fishing, this is a float through history.

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A handsome native Westslope cutthroat comes to the net. The Idaho state fish has a propensity to feed on the surface and that’s a good thing for the dry fly angler.

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There were periods of each day when the dry fly action seemed unstoppable. day since runoff, had a pretty good idea of

than once I witnessed a trout deliberately

where the trout would be, the rhythm of

drift in the current beneath my offering

On a typical autumn day on the Middle Fork

feeding habits, and the fly patterns that

for several feet before nudging it with its

of the Salmon the cutthroat trout, often

would entice one to eat. It did not take

nose as if to taunt the floating morsel

and affectionately referred to as “cutties,”

long to confirm the reputations of the

before grabbing it. It was not unusual for

will be “looking up” which is good news

fishery and the guides, if not the gullibility

both anglers in a raft to be hooked up

for anyone who enjoys fishing dry flies. In

of cutthroat trout. To begin most days,

simultaneously, creating a special kind of

this environment, the behavior seems so

I started with tried-and-true traditional

rodeo for the guide, with a net in one hand

natural, so predictable, and so necessary.

patterns like a Royal Wulff or a Humpy

and an oar in the other.

Why do these trout look up even when the

trailing a soft hackle. Others wisely went

major hatches of the season are long gone?

with their guide’s choice, which usually

After many, many cutties (too many to

Well, imagine swimming in a river as clear

turned out to be a fly built of foam for its

count, really) were netted and released, our

as vodka while an osprey, bent on feeding

high-floating, long-lasting characteristics.

guides politely weaned us off our traditional

its brood a wiggly meal, gazes down from

The “guide’s choice” often sported a tall,

patterns and on to more eclectic ones with

above. And then there is the matter of

white, synthetic wing greased to float like a

names as creative as the flies themselves.

the river otter: a handsome critter easily

cork. The white wing not only attracts trout

By day three we had long since stopped

capable of eating several pounds of trout

but also allows the fly to be visible in every

counting fish. The game had shifted. What

per day. A trout—prey—must be “looking

condition. Arguably, the visual take is the

was the craziest pattern that could dupe

up” given its position on the food chain. One

special sauce that drives a die-hard dry fly

a trout? Our guide Drew Harrison also

could imagine that looking up is as much

fisherman to abandon all other techniques.

reminded us that cutthroat were not the

Fish On

only fish swimming in the Middle Fork. The

about spotting predators as it is feeding.

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And if an unlucky ant happens to be floating

There were periods of each day when the

river system also supports rainbow trout, of

overhead opportunistic trout are hardwired

dry fly action seemed unstoppable. The river

which we hooked and released our fair share;

to be, well, opportunistic.

is so clear that you can watch the clever

cuttbows, hybrid populations of cutthroat

calculus as a trout moves several yards to

and rainbow; bull trout; mountain whitefish;

Whatever the reason, a cutty looks up—and

intercept your fly drifting on the surface.

northern pikeminnow; anadromous chinook

our merry band of dry fly anglers came

Occasionally a cutthroat would take a whack

and steelhead; and the occasional white

here to take advantage of this behavior.

at a fly, miss, and then swing back around to

sturgeon.

Our guides, having floated the river every

grab it on the second or third attempt. More

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Dutch Oven Alchemy At the end of a day traveling by raft, we looked forward to setting foot back on terra firma. Around the last bend, late in the afternoon, camp was a welcomed sight.

There were fold-up chairs perched on the riverbank, a blazing driftwood campfire to warm weary bones, irresistible hors d’oeuvres, and two-man tents already pitched for a good night’s sleep. There is something settling about gazing at the river from a chair planted in the sand—especially after a day of weaving through Class 3 and 4 whitewater in a bobbing raft.

As the sun arced below steep canyon walls, our Idaho River Journeys team made a seamless transformation from skilled oarsmen and fish finders to five-star chefs.

Arguably, Dutch oven cookery is where river life reaches a crescendo, and these guys have it nailed. Most camp meals are prepared in Dutch ovens stacked upon one another with a finely tuned number of coals below, in between, and on top of the stack.

A typical river dinner is a towering balancing act, with a delicious main dish in the largest oven on the bottom of the stack, a side dish

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in the middle oven, and an unbelievable

dry fly with a graceful cast, to witness a

cobbler or torte in the top oven. I won’t

confident “slurp” on the surface, and to feel

divulge the nightly lineup of culinary

the ensuing tussle through the arc of a fly

delights, but just know that counting

rod. Yet we came away with so much more.

calories is futile.

We reveled in the midst of a spectacular canyon, we stood humbled by the power

At the End of the Day

of the river, we had a brief moment in the ten thousand years of human history along

Eventually, twilight descended into darkness.

the river corridor, and we took comfort in

One by one constellations of mythical beings

the camaraderie of fellow anglers and our

unfolded above us. Chilled air drifted down

skilled river guides. Spectacular canyon

the canyon, yet our feet were warm in the

views, unique flora and fauna, and geologic

sand around the campfire. Evening guitars

marvels around every bend competed for

and song, laughter, voices sharing events of

our attention until we eventually relented,

the day, and the murmur of the river flowing

letting the bushy dry fly at the end of our

past swept us closer to a good night’s sleep.

line drift unattended in the current while we gazed at the grandeur. In such wild and

The catalyst for our Middle Fork adventure

beautiful country, who could blame us for

was to catch trout. We came to present a

missing a strike?

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Jeo

Gouache and oil pastel on takeout bag.

Artist’s Note: My daughter started this painting with some gouache and oil pastel on a takeout bag. I layered in Jeo's profile. It seemed appropriate to include her as Peter’s story hits on the relationships of fathers and their expectations for their children.

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The Necessity of Success Words by Peter W. Fong, Artwork by Frederick Stivers On my third and final day at Ambergris

I’d never considered it a necessity before,

I reasoned, to practice that heart-pounding,

Caye, our guide Jeo motored straight to the

because it had always seemed like an

brain-juddering delivery, no matter how slim

mangrove-lined coast of mainland Belize and

impossibility, despite a protracted stay

the odds of success. And yet, over five years

announced, “Remember: We only need two

on the Caribbean island of Aruba, where I

of island residence, I never enticed a permit

tarpon.” Both Gideon and I laughed aloud.

stalked the beaches and mangroves several

to take the fly.

times a week. I met plenty of bonefish Neither of us had landed any tarpon earlier

there along with a fair number of tarpon,

But the daily fishing report at El Pescador

in the week. But we knew what Jeo meant

but I stumbled across very few permit—

Lodge revealed a different situation in

by the word “need.” He wasn’t talking

perhaps one every three or four months,

Belize. During our stay, at least three people

smack—he was talking slam, as in catching

and seldom with the right fly on the end

managed to slam, one of them a complete

a tarpon, a permit, and a bonefish on the

of the leader. Still, I would always attempt

novice to saltwater fly fishing. The latter

same day: the so-called Grand Slam of flats

a cast—even if I was fishing with a tarpon

only shrugged his shoulders when I asked

fishing.

bunny on 50-pound tippet. It was important,

about the feat, which included more than

Snook Noir

Gouache and charcoal on paper

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a dozen bonefish and two permit. “I’m a bass fisherman,” he admitted. “What do I know?”

So while Jeo might have been joking, his suggestion was not entirely unrealistic.

The waters around Ambergris Caye, already among the most productive in the world, now rank among the most protected as well. The government of Belize banned bottom trawling in 2010, offshore oil drilling in 2018, and gillnetting in 2020.

Thanks to the nation’s foresight, we evidently had the right place. Now all we needed was the right kind of luck.

But not, truth be told, specifically for an inshore slam. Not, at least, as far as my own satisfaction was concerned. Personally, I remain grateful for every glimpse of life on the flats: trunkfish, barracuda, spotted eagle ray, cobia. Each is beautiful in its own right, of course, but seeing them also signifies that—for an instant—I’ve managed the trick of looking beneath the surface, where the other fish also live.

Tarpon, bonefish, permit, snook, alone or in combination? Fact is, they’re all good.

Two days prior, we’d had several opportunities for permit. Not singles or packs, but shimmering gatherings of so many individuals that the accumulated tails and dorsals sometimes resembled a dark palisade beneath the waves.

Although none of these fish deigned to eat our crab patterns, it was impossible to remain pessimistic in the presence of such abundance. If this keeps up, I thought, my time is bound to come.

But it was Gideon’s turn on the casting platform when the best chance of the morning arrived. We’d been chasing a lone, black-backed snook that resolutely ignored every fly we tossed at it. Jeo was standing tall atop the poling platform, calling out instructions, while I shuffled through our assortment of rods, frantically choosing flies and retying leaders before handing off each newly rigged outfit to Gideon.

Buttoned

Watercolor on paper

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Big Boned

Oil pastel and gouache on an Amazon parcel

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Missed Shot

Charcoal and gouache on grocery bag Artist’s Note: The image is drawn from a photo by Ryan Phinney (a guide in Marathon, FL) of my friend Joe Dahut taken just after missing a promising shot at an XL permit.

Joe’s body language says it all.

Then Jeo’s tone of voice lowered to

“Yes,” I said. Then the line went slack. None

Before I could dwell on this failure, Jeo was

something like awe. “Permit,” he murmured.

of us pretended to know what had gone

shouting again. “Big tarpon: eleven-thirty.

“Ten o’clock. Small fish. Maybe five of them,

wrong. Instead, we watched the water.

Eighty feet!”

“They’re still there,” cried Jeo. “Give him

Gideon and I exchanged the 9-weight

that other shrimp!”

for a 10, rigged with straight 60-pound

swimming with that school of bones.”

I picked up the 8-weight—still sporting a rubber-legged mantis shrimp from the previous afternoon, when we had released

I handed up a 9-weight bearing a bucktail-

fly. As before, he led the fish well, then

several bonefish in shin-deep water—and

fringed, dumbbell-eyed pattern and took the

stripped the fly to provoke a strike. This

gave it to Gideon. After he dropped the fly

8-weight in return. The first thing I noticed

time, however, he could not get tight

in front of the group, one permit turned and

was the little pigtail at the end of the leader

quickly enough. When the line slipped from

followed. A few strips later, I saw the line

where a blood knot should’ve been.

tighten and veer to the right.

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fluorocarbon and a red-orange baitfish

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his fingers on the hookset, the tarpon

and deboned: a thousand pounds of snook

my kayak up the sand on the way home for

accelerated toward the boat, exhaled the fly,

filets. “All meat,” he repeated, “you feel

brunch, I met a man who had been coming

and was gone.

me?”

to the island since the mid-1970s. In those

“That was a nice one,” said Jeo, a little

Jeo’s own son, now 17, has little interest

offshore tournaments sponsored by the

mournful. “Maybe 70 pounds.”

in fishing; he wants to be a neurosurgeon.

local yacht clubs. “Every year without fail,”

Because Belize has no medical school,

he said, until 1995, when one of his best

I lifted my hat and scratched the top of my

however, that means he’ll have to leave

friends had a heart attack on the boat and

head, wondering if I would ever witness such

home to continue his education. Which

died before they could reach the hospital.

a scene again: snook, permit, bonefish, and

implies, Jeo admits, that he won’t be coming

tarpon—all swimming over the same small

back.

days, he told me, he used to compete in the

patch of sand, within the span of a pop song or two.

We agreed that there were worse ways to go; even so, he didn’t have to explain why he

I didn’t tell him that my own father, now

now fished exclusively from the beach.

deceased, was a dentist in New York who Later I would reproach myself for not

pushed hard for me to follow him into a

In the 20 years since his friend’s death, the

checking every knot on every rod before

medical field. Or that I held the line and

man had caught only two more fish. He

climbing aboard the panga, but there was

became a fishing guide. Or that, predictably,

would watch them swim by—mostly jacks,

no time for that now. Jeo had plans for us

I also left home and did not return.

bonefish, and snook—and he would cast for

that involved the next sandspit to the north

them, but whether he hooked them or not

and an uninhabited islet said to be owned

But I did briefly entertain this thought: If

by a movie star, followed by a mosaic of

you placed the four of us around a table—

shallow flats drained by a deep channel,

Jeo and his son, me and my father—we

As it turned out, he had landed the second

where the broad back of a manatee calmly

would make an odd arrangement of lives.

fish just the week before: a snook that

broached the surface.

Not a circle exactly—because that could

topped 30 pounds on the scale his wife had

suggest that life has some sort of order

brought to weigh their luggage. A pair of

At all of these places Gideon and I took

when it’s really an amalgam of fits and

newlyweds had pointed the fish out to him

turns looking out over the bow, trying to

starts—but perhaps a circular argument.

as it cruised along the beach. “Is that what

discern what Jeo was directing us to see,

was unimportant to the experience.

you’re trying to catch?” they’d asked.

and then attempting to deliver the right

When it comes to fishing, I sometimes

fly—at the proper moment—to the desired

tell myself that the only outcomes worth

The fight had taken him at least a hundred

destination. Of the times I managed to

thinking about are in the future. It’s not

paces north of his wife’s lounge chair, then

satisfy these three basic requirements, one

that past triumph is undesirable, but its

south again, scattering bathers and drawing

in particular is etched in memory: A tarpon

position there—behind us—gives it a fated

a small crowd. Somehow he and the snook

of about 50 pounds cruising toward me, out

quality, as if disappointment were not the

had managed to avoid all the arms, legs,

of the sun’s glare and into casting range.

antonym for satisfaction but its petty

buoys, and other obstacles that might

A fly tied with two splayed grizzly hackles

subordinate, as if there were no other

have intervened. When the leader finally

falling a bit short but the fish marking

option but success. Which, I must admit,

snapped—with the fish within a rod’s length

it anyway, approaching with an interest

just might possibly be true.

of the sand—the snook had been too tired

rapidly progressing to enthusiasm, the lower

to swim away.

jaw opening to reveal the white maw. After

At one point late in the afternoon, as the

the hookset: two tail-walking leaps in quick

panga skimmed between turquoise bay and

“It was,” the man said, shaking his head,

succession and then the fly free, falling

azure sky, Gideon and I opened the cooler

“my time.”

through the air like a rain-sodden leaf.

and extracted two bottles of Belikin, the national brew of Belize—and then two more.

While we waited for the next tarpon to

We agreed that the tropical climate likely

appear, Jeo told us a story. When he was

contributed to their hastened evaporation.

younger—still a boy, really—he worked as a commercial fisherman with his father. One

Given that happy convergence of beer and

night, he said, the two of them netted half

blue water, my thoughts returned to a

a ton of snook. Not live weight, but cleaned

long-ago Sunday on Aruba. While dragging

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Whistling Wings

by Ryan Sparks

An Alabama family with four generations of dog training heritage

It was dark, but our headlamps lit the murky water and skeletal shapes of the surrounding timber. Jeremy Criscoe, owner of Whistling Wings Kennel, planted dog stands in the slough while Chris Stoltman, a Mississippi farmer and friend of Jeremy’s, pitched decoys into the darkness. Amid the splashing of water, I could hear the whistle of ducks passing overhead. Chris turned and asked if I was ready as the last of the small decoy spread was in place. I motioned to Chris’s yellow Lab Ava, instinctively looking to the sky at the sound of wings despite the darkness.

“She sure is,” I answered Chris, laughing.

“I’ll promise you one thing,” he said with a grin, “she’ll fetch a duck.”

Photo: Austin Boyd

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As the morning unfolded, Ava did just that.

“Whoever trained that dog did an all right

Right at shooting light, a group of mallards

job,” he said with a smile.

swung into the decoys. I connected with my first attempt but shot well behind my

Ava is just one of the hundreds of dogs

second target as it disappeared into the

Jeremy Criscoe, a Eukanuba Pro trainer, has

warming sky. Chris dropped three birds out

worked with in his 19 years as a professional

of the group, connecting with the last by

trainer. By the time this article sees print,

sidestepping a cluster of buckbrush and

that number will likely be over 1,000. Along

making an off-balance shot that crumpled a

the way he has worked at some of the most

drake. If Chris’s shooting was any indication,

prestigious kennels in the United States,

Ava got plenty of opportunities to pick up

competed with dogs at an elite level, and

ducks. Ava waited steadily to pick up the

won national field trials in both the United

birds, but Chris held off releasing her as

States and the United Kingdom. While those

another group of mallards began circling

are all incredible achievements, Jeremy is

overhead.

most proud of his family’s long history of dog training—a heritage that now runs four

Chris and Jeremy called lightly at the group,

generations deep.

and they made one more pass before

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Long before the duck hunt with Chris and

angle. Chris, Jeremy, and I all shot a bird, and

Ava, I met Jeremy while visiting Florida’s Blue

with seven ducks now lying on the water, Ava

Cypress Kennels where he worked as the head

went to work. Leaping from the platform she

trainer. It was my first time seeing British

zigzagged through the decoys, picking up five

Labradors in action, and I was impressed

of the ducks one at a time and bringing them

with their athleticism and poise—but just

to Chris. The final two were blind retrieves,

as impressive was Jeremy’s approach to

with Chris motioning which direction for her

training. Instead of the constant yelling and

to go until she found her mark and swam

punishment far too common among other

back eagerly. As Chris cinched the final duck

trainers, Jeremy’s positive training methods

in his game strap, he turned to Jeremy.

focused on praising proper behavior and reinforcing the natural ability and instincts

Photo: Austin Boyd

34

descending into the timber at an 80-degree

FALL 2021 WINTER SPRING 2021 2022 2021

of the dog. It caught my attention, and after

“What we’ve got now all evolved from Dad,”

a barrage of questions, Jeremy extended

remembers Steve Criscoe, Jeremy’s father

the invitation to visit Whistling Wings in

and a member of the Whistling Wings team.

Alabama.

“Dad got more enjoyment from watching a dog do well than he did from shooting. ***

He liked to see a dog perform in a way that made him proud that it was his dog.”

Whistling Wings Kennel sits just west of Alabama’s Lake Guntersville amid 90 acres

During the heyday of Alabama quail hunting,

of manicured strip-cut fields, mature

Albert developed a reputation for having

hardwoods, and training ponds specifically

good bird dogs, and people began to come

created to replicate a variety of real-world

watch him work dogs and hunt. He soon

hunting scenarios. When I entered the

began a breeding program where he sold

kennel’s storefront, I immediately noticed the

puppies and selected the most promising

numerous ribbons and awards tacked to the

dogs to develop himself.

back wall. Pacing through the room admiring the decorations the Criscoes have earned

“Every Saturday we were either at somebody

over the years, I passed by taxidermy ranging

else’s place or our place hunting quail,” Steve

from a flock of green-winged teal to a large

recalls. “Those memories of hunting with

whitetail buck, stopping in the back corner

him—how the dogs would react when they

where a worn metal whistle and faded black-

would strike up a covey and the excitement

and-white photograph were pinned to a piece

that gave us—those are memories you can’t

of barnwood. In the photo a young man sits

erase. That was where this all started.”

by a stream, a shotgun leaning against his shoulder, his gaze focused on the dog sitting

Jeremy also remembers hunting quail with

beside him.

his father and grandfather, toting a BB gun and trying to keep up as they followed their

The Criscoes’ heritage of dog training dates

dogs along hedgerows and plum thickets.

back to Jeremy’s late grandfather, Albert

Unfortunately quail numbers began to

Criscoe. Albert is the young man in the

decline, and by the time Jeremy was in high

photo, taken nearly 90 years ago, around the

school, wild quail had nearly disappeared

time he began training German Shorthaired

from northern Alabama. The demand for and

Pointers and Llewellin Setters for quail

interest in pointing dogs declined with the

hunting around his Alabama home. Albert’s

quail, but Jeremy’s interest in dog training

photo hangs in the corner of the shop as a

remained strong. He began running coon dogs

reminder of where it all started.

and duck hunting with friends. It wasn’t long

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before Jeremy was training a Lab of his own.

E-5 rescue swimmer and was assigned to

to develop that. That training style was really

Norfolk Naval Station in Virginia.

appealing to me, and I got my first pedigreed

“I could tell Jeremy was very passionate

British Lab soon after that.”

about dogs from the moment he got his first

“I got settled into the duty station and

dog,” remembers Steve. “He had the same

knew there was pretty good duck hunting

As Jeremy’s passion for training continued

passion he has now.”

there,” he said. “As I got more and more

to grow, he started washing kennels, feeding

into waterfowling, I became a member of

dogs, and throwing birds at a local kennel

Ducks Unlimited and started getting their

in Virginia when he wasn’t at sea. That

magazine. That’s where I first read about

relationship eventually grew into a training

British Labradors and the British method of

position. Later, at the same time Jeremy

training in an article by Robert Milner.”

was getting out of the Navy, the owner of

After high school Jeremy became a US Navy

the kennel decided to retire, and Jeremy Milner, one of the most highly regarded

continued working with many of the same

dogmen of all time, was who originally

clients as he moved back to Alabama and

brought British Labrador Retrievers and

founded Kid Creek Kennels. The following

the British positive training method to the

years tested Jeremy’s resolve to make it as

United States. His influence reversed long-

a professional trainer: working an eight-hour

held beliefs about dog training and inspired

day in a machine shop, coming home and

many of today’s top trainers.

training dogs in the evening, and then going to school at night studying CNC milling for

“I was immediately drawn to that training

nearly three years.

style because it fit so well with how I had

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been raised around my grandfather’s

“The only reason I was training dogs during

pointing dogs and his style of training,” says

that time is because I enjoyed it,” says Jeremy.

Jeremy. “He was what I would call a natural

“I wanted to do it full time and I knew I had

style of trainer. He wouldn’t force dogs to do

the skills to make it, but I was hesitant to take

anything, but would identify dogs that had a

the next step because I was uncomfortable

natural intelligence and prey drive and work

with the business side of things.”

Then Jeremy had a stroke of luck, meeting

at the highest levels in both British field

Mike Stewart of Wildrose Kennels, an

trials and American hunt tests, was another

institution within the gun dog world known

proving ground where Jeremy could continue

for British genetics and the training model

working with first-class British Labs.

implemented by Robert Milner in the 1970s.

Stewart offered Jeremy a training position at

“By that time,” he says, “I had a strong

Wildrose, and Jeremy’s father Steve stepped

preference for British Labs, but we were

in to keep things going at Kid Creek.

starting to get into some American lines at Whistling Wings. It was a good opportunity

For the next five years Jeremy worked

for me to keep working with British Labs and

at Wildrose, building his knowledge and

to gain experience guiding hunts.”

experience. “That is where I really learned a lot about the business of running a

It was also a good time for Hannah to take

successful kennel,” he says.

on a larger role at Whistling Wings. “She was at the point where she could manage the

“It was like going to college for dog training,”

training along with the other people involved

adds Steve. “He was really exposed to a lot of

at the kennel,” says Jeremy. “It gave me the

different methods and got a lot of experience

time to get away and pursue the opportunity

there.”

at Blue Cypress.” *** After four years as head trainer at Blue

After five years at Wildrose, Jeremy returned

Cypress, Jeremy noticed Hannah’s passion

to Alabama to focus on his personal kennel,

for training continue to grow. “I had no idea

taking what he had learned at Wildrose and

or intentions when I started Whistling Wings

revamping the facilities and business model

that it would become a generational thing,”

into what is now Whistling Wings. At the

he reflects. “At first my dad got heavily

same time Steve Criscoe had rediscovered

involved, and then Hannah took an interest.

his love for training, and Jeremy’s oldest

I think they saw my passion and wanted to

daughter Hannah was beginning to show

be a part of it. As I saw Hannah continue to

an interest, progressing to become a skilled

grow into a professional trainer, I knew we

trainer over the coming years.

had something special at Whistling Wings.”

In 2017, another world-class opportunity

Now Hannah, also a Eukanuba Pro trainer, is

presented itself when Blue Cypress Kennels

the next generation of Criscoe following in

asked Jeremy to help grow their gun dog

her great-grandfather’s footsteps. Currently

program. Blue Cypress, known for competing

finishing her Veterinary Technician studies

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at Auburn University, Hannah will implement

***

a health care program at Whistling Wings along with her training expertise.

“My daddy would have been so proud to see this kennel and what Jeremy has done,” adds

Today, Whistling Wings offers well-pedigreed

Steve. “I always say he wouldn’t want to

British Labs as well as a six-week obedience

leave. He would be happy to just have a cot

“Hannah has the same gift as Jeremy,”

program, their Outdoor Adventure Dog

and sleep in the kennel,” he says, laughing.

says Steve Criscoe. “She is good at catering

Program, and waterfowl and upland training

her training to the individual dog and is

for a select group of qualified client dogs.

passionate about it. Her success has come from that passion just like Jeremy.”

Visiting Whistling Wings and seeing their daily routine of working dogs as a family

“Our Outdoor Adventure Dog Program has

was something truly special. After a day of

been really fun,” says Hannah. “It is rewarding

touring the kennel and speaking with each

As I continued my tour of Whistling Wings,

to see dogs develop from puppies into dogs

member of the family, I got the impression

I got to watch Hannah work her Boykin

that can go camping, ride in the boat, go for

that even with four generations of dog

Spaniel, Wheeler, as they prepared for the

a hunt, and then relax with the family at the

training history, the Criscoes are only getting

Boykin Spaniel National. As she tossed

end of the day.”

started.

bumpers and worked on blind retrieves, I couldn’t help but notice the same soft hand

“In the future I just want all of us to be

and positive approach that Jeremy brings to

running it together where everyone has a

To watch a short film about the Criscoe

dog work. Initially quiet and reserved, with

part,” says Jeremy. “Me continuing in my role,

family’s heritage of dog training,

Wheeler in tow Hannah opened up, and I

Hannah training and handling the health care

use the following QR code or go to

could see the enjoyment in her eyes. When

side of the kennel, my dad helping us out, and

theultimatesportingdog.com/about

I asked her how Wheeler was doing, her

for my two younger sons Ty and Joe to take a

answer was telling. “Wheeler is the dog that

part of it and add to the generational aspect

really got me started,” she says, “and after

of the business. That is a special thing and

working with him I can’t ever see myself not

something I don’t think a lot of other kennels

training dogs. This is just our life, and it’s a

have.”

good one.”

Photo: Austin Boyd

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39

Into The

by Dave Zoby

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Canyon Once More

Bill Mixer and I each found the Middle Fork

freestone streams in Wyoming. We were too

casting problems—nearly dares you to fish

of the Powder River on our own and at

early for the famed salmon fly hatch; we

it. Though there is a Game and Fish sign

different times in our lives. Bill beat me

just hoped the river would be clear. We had

encouraging fishing, I have never seen

to it by a decade or more. Now retired, he

one stop to make first.

anyone parked in the kidney-shaped parking

goes around the country teaching utility

area. No one camps there. Surrounded by

location. He fishes the exotic locations and

Blue Creek is a tiny stream that most

beautiful red buttes and tilted, red-rock

doesn’t complain too much when a monsoon

people drive past. You can step over it

escarpments iconic to the West, this trickle

turns the jungle rivers and backwaters to

in most places. Though it is considered

of water teems with brown trout—almost

mocha. Wherever he goes he totes a fly rod

boorish to write about small streams, to

too many to believe. But here’s the catch:

in his carry-on. This spring we found a time

use their actual names, there is no danger

These fish are almost impossible to fool

when we could both get out of town for a

in mentioning Blue Creek. In fact, it seems

with a fly. The banks are overgrown with

few days. We thought we’d hit one of the

as if this stream—an outlier with terrible

bullrushes and wiregrass. The wind, as is

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usually the case in Wyoming, causes your leader to drift and your line to noodle out and away from your intended target. Your shadow on the water makes the trout freak out—you see dozens of them bolting at your approach. And these fleeing fish set the next pod of trout into a panic, and it goes upstream like a row of falling dominoes. So, in some ways, the ridiculous number of fish makes them harder to catch.

You are thinking to yourself, bow-andarrow cast. We often indulge in versions of

“Is this your idea of dingus?” said Bill. It was not a compliment.

And when he offered me one of those hightest IPAs, I politely turned him down.

ourselves that are flattering and a bit offtarget. You are thinking you can get down on your knees and sneak. You have problems merely bending to pull your socks on in the morning, yet you imagine that you can get covert and creep up on these fish like a water bird. Good luck with that.

In shorts and flip-flops, we patrolled the banks of Blue Creek. Our casual attire tells you we already didn’t have high hopes. I

“Why do you hate America?” he said.

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saw fleeing fish darting upstream, changing direction, and bolting back down the creek.

Their tails left clouds of disturbed silt

suspended in the creek. My dog sprinted forward and ruined 200 yards of cutbanks and pools simply by allowing his shadow to brush parts of the stream. I was using a foam beetle in size 16, a great early season option. My first 10 casts got caught in wiregrass. My back cast fouled in clumps of bunch grass. I only needed a foot of fly line and a 7-foot leader to steer the fly into the deepest pools. A 7-inch brown snapped at the fly, but I missed. Bill was having similar difficulties. Not as impatient as I, he stood in one likely spot and drifted an Adams to a pair of somewhat relaxed trout. After a dozen casts, one of the trout leapt at Bill’s fly, but he whiffed, too.

I took photos: of Bill casting; of Henry soaking in the creek; of the red buttes.

Two sandhill cranes came out and began croaking at Bill. They strode toward him.

“I think they aim to breed with you,” I said.

“Let’s hope not—I’m happily married.”

We were only able to catch a few tiny

browns at Blue Creek, but at least we tried.

at the time was a female chocolate Lab

We knew the chances were as slim as the

named Sweets. Sweets tasted the water

water. Sometimes you just need to see for

on her nose and began to trot down the

yourself. The bigger fish were too wary, and

game trail. I lost sight of her. Minutes later

we needed to get our camp set up. So we

she came back up the trail soaking wet. We

moved on. We didn’t reel up and peg our flies

followed her path and eventually found the

in that this-place-is-dead-to-me vibe, but

river and a few gorgeous brown trout that

close enough.

rose to a stimulator. But Star had a softball game that night, and we had to leave before

I found the Middle Fork of the Powder River

I was ready. Some of my sweetest fishing

by no small miracle. With a girlfriend—who

memories are the summer days that ended

was not a fisherperson at all—I had driven

too soon.

to Kaycee one summer trying to locate the place. I had an outdated copy of the

Bill and I parked my truck at the first access.

Wyoming Gazetteer spread out in the dusty

There was a rock campfire ring already

cab of the truck. I was cautioned that the

present. We set up Bill’s tent and began

climb down into the canyon was difficult.

to organize our dinner. I sliced English

Rattlesnakes? Heat stroke? I was warned to

cucumber and offered Bill some organic

take water and extra food in my pack—two

hummus. (I was on a new diet and I hadn’t

days’ worth in case something happened.

had a beer in months.) He sneered. Just a

These canyons are home to the midget-

year ago we had devoured great hauls of

faded rattlesnake (Crotalus concolor, for you

meats and cheese, which we had referred

biology nerds), a diminutive reptile with off-

to generically as dingus. We had made

the-charts venom, and also the protection

handcrafted Manhattans on my tailgate.

afforded by the Endangered Species Act.

I had pledged my loyalty to Maker’s Mark.

Someone suggested snake-chaps.

Before the pandemic, I had kept my own chrome shaker in my truck for making craft

All I had were vague directions; all I ever

cocktails in a pinch. But the last year and

had were vague directions—such are the

the resulting fallout had slapped me silly,

vagaries of western canyon expeditions.

and I was trying to form new habits. The

I missed my turn after Kaycee. Ten miles

former version of myself seemed ridiculous. I

of driving in the wrong direction found us

spread the cucumber slices out on a cutting

out in the alfalfa empires near Barnam. My

board. Perhaps the current version of myself

girlfriend climbed a buckboard fence, and I

is ridiculous, too.

snapped her photo. Star wanted to show off her tan, athletic legs; who was I to stop her?

This was the era of film, not digital, mind you, so you had to develop the film and wait a few weeks. We doubled back and found the right route.

Climbing down into the canyon, Star worried out loud about rattlesnakes. She was Arapahoe, and she said this canyon reminded her of places on the Wind River Reservation where the snakes kept most people away. Or there were the upstarts who actually wanted to find dens of these snakes so they could catch them with their bare hands, just to tell people about it later.

She said the boys on the reservation who released the most snakes were also the better athletes—snake medicine. My dog

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Photo: Ryan Sparks

“Is this your idea of dingus?” said Bill. It was

from the flames. I explained to him that

Too, the pandemic created a nation of plus-

not a compliment. And when he offered me

charred meat is hazardous, and that the

sized supermen who excel in couch surfing

one of those high-test IPAs, I politely turned

peer-reviewed articles suggest a connection

and online dating. The average waistline of

him down.

between charred meat and certain cancers.

our interlocutors and competitors has grown

“Why do you hate America?” he said.

“Are you trying to live forever?” he said.

I explained to him that 2020 was so

No one came up the road. You could tell the

Powder River. Add in the crisp, chilly nights

confusing and debilitatiing that I had

salmon fly hatch wasn’t on yet, because if it

in a tent required to fish a stream like this

removed alcohol from my life—temporarily,

had been on there would be other campers—

seriously, and the possibility of discovering

of course. I wanted to see if I would

lots of them. There would be trucks grinding

a Crotalus in your waders, and you have

experience wild success if I quit drinking for

up the gravel road all evening. But it was

eliminated all but the most go-getting anglers

a time. Maybe I’d be promoted to the college

just Bill and me. Some of my disparagers

from a stream like the Powder. Eventually,

presidency? Maybe I’d become one of those

have laid into me for writing about small

the best fishers age out. (Not Bill, though. He

college deans you see driving European

streams, claiming that the mere mention

seems to be thinning, getting more athletic

sedans. I wanted to see if I could improve my

of a freestone creek puts it and all of its

and determined, while the rest of us are

spirit and my economic well-being before it

residents in jeopardy. To these detractors

falling apart. Lately, I’ve been accusing him

was too late.

I say this: I’ve been writing about small

of padding his obituary.) Honestly, it takes

to such proportions that I doubted many could manage the rigorous downward hike over unsteady cobble to reach a jewel like the

streams, including the Powder and the Little

a lot of faith to venture into these remote

“It’s not like I’ll never drink another beer. I’ll

Laramie for years, and guess what? Both

canyons. Better to watch some drone footage

be back.”

of those streams are still kicking and both

of it instead from the comfort of your patio

are full of trout. The chief reason being that

home on the golf course.

Bill used his hatchet to split some pine into

hardly anyone reads anymore—they watch

kindling. He listened to my philosophy about

videos instead, and they cruise the online

Henry, who slipped in and out of the fire’s

fishing the entire season with a 3-weight

fly shops mechanically, and all day. Sadly,

glow, let out a screech when I stepped on

rod. He squirted lighter fluid on the wood

most modern fly fishermen are as illiterate

his tail. Black dogs are dangerous in these

and lit it. The resulting explosion chased

as a Taliban fighter. I said as much to Bill.

situations as they blend into the darkness

Henry away. He took refuge under my truck.

He launched into his impression of what

and you stumble over them. Drinking

The dog slunk back when we began to roast

he thought a Taliban fighter sounded like.

whiskey and walking around a campfire

bratwursts over the fire. Bill burned his

It sounded Russian to me. It sounded like a

when black dogs are in the mix is a recipe

and insisted this was the only way to cook

70-year-old trying for Russian but failing.

for disaster, but I did exactly that for 20-

brats. I kept mine a safe distance away

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plus years. For some reason, despite the

obvious risks, I always choose black dogs.

It’s a preference of mine that I developed a long time ago, like refusing to carry a net. I carry forceps and try to release fish

Honestly, it takes a lot of faith to venture into these remote canyons. Better to watch some drone footage of it instead from the comfort of your patio home on the golf course.

without touching them. There is no trout so big that I will regret not getting it in the

At breakfast, Bill situated his canvas

net. Nets, too, hang up in the underbrush,

director’s camp chair so that the sunrise

We hiked down to the river as the sun rose

stretch the limits of their lanyards, and

struck his handsome face. I boiled water and

over the ranchlands to the east. We strung

then come hurling toward your face at light

used my French press to produce a decent

up our light rods and talked about what

speed. Nets look generally stupid lashed

coffee. I made us each a cup of oatmeal. I

flies to use. I knew the salmon flies were

to you while you grin and pose and prance

offered him a protein bar, which he turned

not about—if they had been you’d see their

over the slick stones like a Lipizzaner pony. I

down. He complimented the oatmeal.

spent carapaces on the rocks—but I thought a stimulator might rise something. After all,

have certain habits that I refuse to break at this juncture. I will only buy Toyota pickups.

“Oatmeal is always pretty good,” I said.

I caught my first trout here on a stimulator circa 1998. So, in theory, these flies work

I only use fixed-blade Boker knives. I can’t change in these things—it’s too late. Bill

“Not if you’re eating it from a feeding tube,”

here. For insurance, I tied a double-money on

doesn’t have these issues. He’s generally

he said. Recently he turned 70, and many of

as a dropper. This fly exists in the category

more chill about the whole enterprise.

his jokes are morbid.

of general mayfly nymphs. Already, there

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The day fell into a rhythm. Bill and I took turns catching browns and rainbows in the obvious holes. We used a Pat’s rubber legs to clean up on hard-fighting wild fish. We never achieved anything like the first fish I caught, but we racked up a dozen or so. And Henry learned to stay back and to leave the trout alone as we popped out the fly. Henry never wandered off; he never went freelancing in the poison ivy. He stuck with us.

Bill told me about the first time he found the canyon. He had never seen anything like it. He brought his wife and his daughter.

After a day of dry fly fishing, he and his family had a picnic on the rocks. He built a fire and roasted wieners. His daughter, just a baby at the time, swam naked in the river.

Memories like these connect you to rivers.

Photo: Ryan Sparks

to begin to think of them as your own.

were mayflies over the water, dipping to the

We continued upstream. Bill flipped some

As we hiked out, Bill said that he’d be back

surface, looping up and into the sun’s glare.

rocks and found some dandy stonefly

in a week or so to catch the salmon fly

nymphs. He dug through his fly box for

hatch. I’d be on the road with my dog and

Unlike the dogs of my past, Henry listens

the biggest, heaviest stonefly nymph he

my 3-weight. I wasn’t coming back. I had

and doesn’t ruin the first pool. He catches

could find. The fly he selected was the size

designs on the Frying Pan in Colorado,

a lot of grief for his shape—he’s big-boned,

of a baby bird. It had a huge bead head,

a little cutthroat stream near La Barge,

sort of beaver-shaped—and he knocks

and it was weighted heavily. I expressed

Wyoming, and then maybe some of the

around the house in awkward spurts of

my doubts. There were water ouzels and

streams in Eastern Idaho. When I thought

energy. But his heart is good and he looks

the slice of blue sky above. He tied it on,

about all of that distance, my heart ached.

to me for instruction—he checks in with

smiling like a tyro. After just a few casts, we

I felt like if I kept moving some of the loss

eye contact. He doesn’t swim in the best

heard the sickening sound of the heavy fly

of the past year would begin to feel less

runs—like my other dogs did. Bill is at least

colliding with Bill’s Sage. The rod collapsed

painful. I’d take my computer along and

somewhat tolerant of Henry because he

in a sad heap of parts. The item went from

write in coffee shops that offered half-price

knows November will come soon enough,

a fetishized nearly-sacred possession to an

on day-olds and free refills. Covered in dust

and in November we hunt pheasants and

inelegant burden in an instant.

from two-track roads, I’d have a summer

Huns. Bill will rely on Henry in ways that are

46

They are public places, but it’s only natural

like I did when I first came to Wyoming in

hard to imagine on a trout stream. In the

“Well, I guess I’m done for the day,” said Bill

search of trout and whatever else. I wanted

dank, cinderblock hotels that dot mediocre

sorrowfully. I suddenly recalled that Bill had

to rediscover that guy I used to be, the guy

Wyoming towns, Henry will leap into bed

said this rod wasn’t under warranty for some

who moved off the East Coast and headed

with Bill and the two will watch Sports

reason, some technicality. He found the

west on a hunch. I spent the great bulk of

Center.

broken sections and thrust them into this

my 30s in Wyoming’s wind and sun glare.

pack. He said that he didn’t think Sage even

I missed that feeling, and I wondered if I

My first few casts yielded the fish of the

made this model anymore. Things felt grim,

could get it back. I told Bill about it.

day, a 16-inch slab of a rainbow. It fell for

and that wasn’t the point of the 3-weight

the dropper, not the dry. With my forceps,

lifestyle I was proposing. But Bill has been

“Well, whatever you do, don’t write about

I plucked the fly from his jaws without

around fly fishing for decades. He wasn’t

this place,” he said.

touching him. See? You’d think that a fish

about to leave the canyon. I said we’d share

like this is a good portent, but you’d be

my rod and go pool to pool, taking turns. A

wrong. When you catch a large trout at the

lot of guys might have wanted to go home,

outset, you nearly always doom the rest of

but Bill said he was game for staying and

the day.

riding it out.

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“No problem.”

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River Ghost

by Michael Garrigan

Let me tell you about a ghost. A dark shadow

here and it’s holding on, probably waiting for

and the eelgrass is finally growing. Crayfish

turned violent. A deep channel of still water

another high-water event to move back into

and baitfish dart around my legs as I slide

waiting to pounce. A lurker lying along a ledge

deeper water.

across boulders of glass. This diabase rock

where the veiny shallows meet the thick river artery. It’s a mystery how it got into

I slip across the exposed jaw of the river

the river from deep in the ground millions of

this section of the river, with its stutter-step

looking for bass. They’ve been hard to come by

years ago—transforming from a ghost into

rock channels that zigzag their way down

for the last three years because of high water

something real, something we can see—back

and across, cutting the water into a stitched

during and after their spawn. This summer

when these Appalachian Mountains were

patchwork of seams and channels. But it’s

is different. The water is low, as it should be,

formed. When this molten rock met this river,

Photo: Ryan Sparks 48

wasn’t meant for water; it was pushed up into

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one of the oldest in the world, it turned into

Anything that’s yellow gets slammed: Clouser

before shallowing out in fast riffles. I make

slick glass that is nearly impossible to walk on

minnows, poppers, sliders. It’s all about that

a cast across the run to the opposite ledge,

without slipping. Felt, studs, doesn’t matter—

brightness, that mysterious flash across dark

letting the fly swing down into the deep

nothing sticks. I accept my fate of falling in

rock. One after the other, I hook into young

current, letting water give it movement before

completely at least once every time I wade

of the year bass—a good sign that there was

twitching it and stripping it back at the end

this section. No matter: The water is warm

a decent spawn, a good sign for the health of

of the swing. On the second cast, as the fly

this year, and it feels good to get wet during

the river. I make it across the ledge and start

drops from the clear shallow water into the

these stiflingly humid June days.

fishing a run between two rock shelves. The

dark run, it snags, stopping like I’m hung up.

channel gets deep for a few hundred feet

But I’m not.

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The unknowable. The ghosts.

Perhaps that’s what draws us to water.

Photo: Sammy Chang 50

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I feel the weight move. The fly’s taken and

four feet long, wider than I am, on the end of

The unknowable. The ghosts. Perhaps that’s

dragged, like it’s hooked to an anchor, to

my line: a flathead catfish and, in its mouth, a

what draws us to water. Perhaps our constant

the bottom of the river. And there it stays,

channel catfish with my Clouser minnow in its

casting and wondering and wading is us

hovering back and forth. I try to work the

mouth. A fish turducken.

trying to coax the mystery out of each riffle,

fish towards me, pulling in an inch of line at a time, when I feel another strike almost

trying to hold something whole in hopes The ghost lets go and drifts off downstream.

yanking the rod out of my hands; half of

of understanding just a little more about a stream, a place, a fish, ourselves.

it goes underwater. I work the unrelenting

Now that it’s stunned and drifting like dead

weight towards me, and I finally get it into a

weight, I land the smaller channel catfish and

soft eddy where it surfaces for a moment. A

climb quickly up to the nearest exposed rock

dark ghost appears near the surface. At least

where it’s dry. Where no ghosts can get me.

There are ghosts in the river.

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the GREAT KATSBY

by Richard Chiappone

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My father always said, “Vic, remember that

“Yours leaking bad or something?” I ask.

“Last clients of the year,” he says. “I have

most people in this world haven’t enjoyed

Katz fishes all summer long in ancient

to play this right. This could be the mother

the fishing opportunities you’ve had.” I need

brown neoprenes with enough patches to

lode!”

to remind myself of that all the time here

enter them in a quilt show.

at Anchor Point, my Alaskan home each

Katz, who’s built like a brown bear and is

summer for the past three years. So when JJ

“No, no,” he says. “They’re fine. I just want

almost as shaggy, is wearing knee-blown

Katz, my neighbor from down the road, roars

to show up in a better-looking pair for these

Carhartt jeans and a tie-dyed t-shirt with

into the drive on his four-wheeler to ask if

new clients, Dawg.” Everybody is Dawg to

a cigarette burn just below his massive red

he can borrow my waders, I say, “Sure. I’ll

Katz. Or Homes. “There are times when

beard. I’m having second thoughts about

grab them for you.”

appearances matter in my line of work,” he

letting him use my waders: they’re brand

says. He’s absolutely serious.

name, state of the art, and way overpriced.

Katz is a walking guide on the Anchor River

Nobody but an outsider like me would

and one of the few locals who has welcomed

I’ll admit that walking a river carrying a fly

put that much money into boots for the

me here. I think he has a thing about the

rod is a nice “line of work.” But Katz’s real

Anchor; its banks are a Gore-Tex-shredding

wealthy. He’s impressed that I own homes in

job is at one of the local gravel pits. Guiding

nightmare of alders and willows so awful the

two far-flung states. I’ve conveniently failed

is very much a part-time gig here on the

beavers have given up.

to mention that my good fortune was more

Anchor, where the season lasts only from

a matter of luck, privilege, and my father’s

the mid-August silvers to our Halloween

canny business sense than any smart moves

steelhead. And now it’s mid-October.

on my part. Meaning that, aside from the top-of-the-line waders I’m lending him, I inherited almost everything I own.

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Katz hops off the quad, gawking at the

some atoll the size of a ball diamond in the

places, and it has a decent fall steelhead

waders like they come with a woman

middle of the Indian Ocean. If there was

run. It’s as nice a road-accessible fly-fishing

inside—which they should, for the price. I

something that would rise to a fly in North

river as you’ll find in Alaska. Looking at his

hesitate, holding them against my chest.

Korea, these two would’ve caught it. They

carefully cropped photos, a person could get

“Katz, since when have you ever worried

want to add an Alaskan steelhead to their

the idea that it’s a teeny bit wilder and more

about appearances?”

life lists.”

remote than it really is.

He lunges and yanks them out of my hands.

I scoff. “And they want to fish with the hoi

If I were an even slightly better person,

“I can’t look like a hobo for these dudes,

polloi on the Anchor River?”

I wouldn’t say anything to rain on Katz’s

Homes. They landed here in their own jet.

festival, but I can’t seem to help myself. “Are

They’ve got custom-made rods, enough

“They were in Anchorage this week for

these high-fliers going to be okay rubbing

lines to tether an aircraft carrier, flies tied

business. Caught some unexpected free days

kneecaps with the DIY crowd, or the other

by Swedish virgins or something.” He folds

between meetings and made arrangements

guided sports out there? I heard Charlie G.

my waders over one arm like they’re tuxedo

to land their rocket ship at our humble

at Silver Chrome has a bunch of JAL pilots

pants, caressing them with his fingertips.

airport. I picked them up an hour ago and

booked.”

“Oh, these will do nicely.”

dropped them at the hotel. You should see that freaking jet, Vic.”

“Why are they flogging roadside water

Chrome Outfitters, his competition on the

instead of the fly-in streams where they

I say, “Great.” But I’m feeling oddly jealous

river. “Silver Chrome,” he hisses. “Mr. Shiny

won’t be reminded that the other 99

for some reason.

Metal plants his sports in the Bridge Hole in

percent fish too?” I ask. “Don’t they have a helicopter or two?”

a row like they’re line dancing.” He’s spitting He’s beaming. “I knew that website would

foam. “Charging people money to lob beads

pay off.”

under a bridge. Same hole, same bead, same

“It’s too late for Bristol Bay. Anyhow, they

54

Katz goes stiff at the mention of Silver

drift. Over and over. All fucking day! Just

been everywhere, caught everything.”

Katz updates his homepage every evening

because they don’t speak English good?

Katz’s eyes glaze over. “Mongolian taimen.

with a river report. The Anchor is about

What a dick.”

Kamchatka ‘bows. Bumphead parrotfish on

30 feet wide and three feet deep in most

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“He seems busy,” I say, speaking of being a

Working class bona fides notwithstanding,

dick. “I see him and his sports every time I

Katz is a spectacular cook. I never turn

drive over it.” I’m doing it again. What has

down a meal at his place. But this seems

The bomb. When was the last time you

Katz ever done to me? Not a thing.

odd. “You’re cooking? Shouldn’t those guys

said that? The guy listens to the lite-rock

be redistributing their wealth in one of our

station, for God’s sake. Even so, when I had

local bistros?”

a downed spruce on my roof, or had a wheel

“I’m walking my guys way upriver, fishing actual flies. They won’t even be able to hear

“Homes, you’re the bomb.”

up to its axle in beach sand, Katz was the

the highway.” Katz goes on this way until

His big face takes on a sly gleam, teeth

first one there with a chainsaw, a winch.

his cell phone blasts the theme from Rocky.

lighting up behind his beard and mustache.

The least I can do is break bread with his

He yanks it from a pocket. “On my way,”

“I’m thinking these dudes could use a

genuinely rich clients and try to be nicer to

he barks, and straddles the four-wheeler.

fishing guide/master chef. Not just here and

him.

“My clients are suiting up. Thanks for the

now. I mean like everywhere they go, year

waders, Dawg. You weren’t planning on using

‘round. I put them into fish today, fix them

Katz makes a tight turn on the four-wheeler

them today, were you?”

something fine tonight…. Who knows?” He

and blasts down the driveway, gleefully

waggles his bushy eyebrows. “I could spend

clutching the waders against his chest

“Nah,” I say. “Done fishing for the year.

winters cooking conch in the Bahamas or

and hooting like a demented owl. I feel

Closing things down. Heading back to Taos

empanadas in Argentina.”

marginally better about myself for enjoying

again in a couple days.”

his happiness.

The thought of Katz living the high life with

***

“You snowbirds have a tough life,” he jokes

a fly rod in one hand and a saucepan in the

and starts to leave, but seems to have

other leaves a cold metallic taste under my

a brainstorm. “Listen, Dude, come over

tongue. “Okay. Seven o’clock,” I say. “I have

A few minutes before seven, I walk up Katz’s

tonight around seven. I’m fixing dinner.

a couple of good bottles of wine I don’t

driveway carrying the last four wine bottles

Meet the swells. You might like ‘em. They’re

want to leave in the cabin all winter.” I hate

in my larder—two South African sauvignons

educated, like you. You can tell them

myself for using the word “good” in that.

and two Oregon pinots—steering clear of

nice stuff about me and chat about your

But Katz is oblivious.

the mud and rust on the various colored

portfolios or some shit while I man the grill.”

fenders of his ancient F-150. There’s a west

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55

wind off Cook Inlet, and the tattered Tyvek

never seen him with any woman.

mummifying his cabin flaps wildly on the gusts. Even by Anchor Point standards,

festooned with what looks like dill fronds, glistens with oil. Out back on the deck, two

“Are you new here?” I ask.

Katz’s place looks a little bereft. On the

tall guys in good clothes are drinking wine.

Katz is so engrossed in the oyster he’s prying

porch my good waders dangle from a peg

“Just got in yesterday. Fish and Game. We’re

open with a shucking knife, he hasn’t heard

alongside his clients’ equally swanky boots.

taking down the weir for the winter.”

Daisy announce my arrival.

incongruously, the front streaked with blood

I’m about to ask for details when she gets

Daisy walks up behind him, burrows her face

from the salmon season, knees permanently

the jump on me. Over one shoulder she says,

in his hair until she finds his ear and gives

mud-stained, one gravel guard torn off.

“JJ tells me you’re parting out soon. Arizona

him a peck on it. “Vic’s here, Monkey Bear.”

Katz’s old, brown neoprenes also sag there

or something?”

I knock on the door with one of the bottles.

She’s only been in town two days?

A blond answers wearing a white tank top

“New Mexico,” I say. And then before I can

I’ve always thought of Katz as a big,

over low-ride jeans and flip-flops. She has

stop myself, “But I could stay longer.”

uncomplicated guy. Give him an IPA and a

long, long toes with glo-bug pink nails. “You

7-weight, and he’s content. The idea of him

must be Vic. I’m Daisy,” she says, eyebrows

That stops her. At the doorway to the

having a love life has never occurred to me.

furrowed. “What’s so funny?”

kitchen she turns, eyes wide, looking at me

Monkey Bear? Jesus.

with one arched eyebrow and a quizzical “I beg your pardon?”

“You’re grinning.”

“Oh, Katz’s waders. They’re kind of hilarious.”

smile. I wait for the flirtatious retort

He turns and grins at me, nods toward the

I’m hoping for. A little encouragement

several bottles already open on the counter.

could change everything. Her face goes

“Dawg, grab a glass. Go meet the sports. I’ll

noncommittal. She turns away and calls out,

be out with the bivalves in a minute.”

“JJ! Your buddy Vic’s here!”

I point at them with the white wines.

***

She glances at the ravaged neoprenes and shrugs, not finding them as amusing as I do.

The sun is low behind the old volcano across Cook Inlet, and the dusk-to-dawn porch light kicks on. Daisy’s yellow-blond eyebrows seem to glow with a weird, green light. It only makes her more beautiful. She reaches for two of the bottles. “Let me help you with those. JJ said you’d be bringing libations, but

Daisy crouches in front of Katz’s expensive and expansive side-by-side refrigerator/ freezer. She sets the two bottles of

She picks the shucking knife off the counter and holds it up. She looks like she wants to use it on me.

not a whole wine cellar.”

sauvignon in the wine-cooling shelves. The whale’s tail of her thong shows between her jeans and tank top. I really don’t want to leave the room yet.

Finally shifting my gaze off Daisy, I fill a glass. “How was the fishing today?”

Katz puts another shucked oyster on the plate, holding up five fingers.

“Libations?” I snort. “Did he actually use the

The kitchen air is thick with butter and

word ‘libations’? You’re kidding.”

garlic and the weedy smell of the sea.

“Five steelhead? Wow.” That’s a good day on

Fleetwood Mac blares from Katz’s Bose. Of

this little river when you’re fishing flies.

Now she smiles, revealing a space between

course. I’ve been here before, but the room

her two front teeth that gives me a thrill

never ceases to stun me. Every spare penny

Daisy straightens and beams at Katz. “JJ is

so deep it makes me consider why I’ve been

Katz makes at the gravel pit has gone into

an amazing guide!” She looks like she’s going

alone so long—a question I assiduously avoid

the kitchen. Five-burner stove, massive

to nibble his ear some more.

thinking about. “No,” Daisy chuckles, “he

stainless steel range hood, enough granite

said, ‘Vic always brings good vino.’” That

to land a jet on.

smile again. She turns and walks into the

56

Barely acknowledging her, Katz sets another oyster in his left palm and jams the point of

house reading the wine labels. “Ooh, Sokol

Katz is wearing what has to be the only ten-

the knife into the hinge. “One was 35 inches,

Blosser Winery. That’s a good vineyard.”

button white chef’s jacket in Anchor Point.

maybe 12 pounds. Happy clients. Happy,

He’s standing at the sink shucking local

happy, happy.”

Daisy is no local. I’ve seen Katz coming and

Kachemak Bay oysters and setting them on

going on our little road all summer, on the

a plate in their half-shells. Another plate

I’m trying to be pleased for him. But how

river with clients, in the bar at the Anchor

holds Kodiak scallops the diameter of poker

much good fortune can you wish on a guy

River Inn. I’ve never seen him with her. I’ve

chips. On another a slab of king salmon,

with a girl like Daisy?

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“I’ll go meet the sports,” I say with as much alacrity as I can muster facing chitchat with the truly rich. Being born into merely comfortable money is a terrible thing. You can’t help asking yourself why some people were handed even more than you got. Worse yet: What if they actually earned theirs?

“What are these guys like?” I ask Katz.

“They’re just like you and me,” Katz says, “only they have more money.”

“Who said that?” I ask. “Hemingway or Fitzgerald?”

Katz looks at me like I’m speaking in tongues and then turns back to the oyster in hand.

“They’re a lot nicer than I thought they’d be,” Daisy says. “Come on, I’ll introduce you.”

She picks up her wine glass with one hand and slips the other around my elbow and guides me toward the deck. As we squeeze through the doorway, she leans against me with one hip carelessly—like this isn’t her first, or even second, glass of wine—and says, “Vic, tell me the truth….” Her voice is something between a whisper and a wet kiss, the conspiratorial tone harpooning my heart. But then she finishes the sentence. “…Isn’t JJ just the biggest, cutest thing you’ve ever seen?”

I groan something I hope sounds affirmative.

Over the smoke from the grill, I can smell the aroma of money oozing from these two. I mean no matter how well-off you are, these are guys you either suck up to or resent. Probably both.

They’re relaxed, dressed in jeans and leather aviator jackets—Brooks Brothers—over starchy chambray shirts, wearing western boots that must come with in-house financing. Their names are Kerry and Raymond. They’re from Austin and do something with mining claims. Buy. Sell.

Lease. Whatever.

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57

“You survived a day with the Great Katzby?”

“It’s stuck,” Katz says, tugging on the

I say.

wooden knife handle. “One of you guys

“What a day,” the taller of the two says, no

“Did he get the knife out? Is he all right?”

hold this hand down tight so I can pull the

She picks the shucking knife off the counter

bastard out.”

and holds it up. She looks like she wants

sign he’s detected my attempt at humor. He

to use it on me. “The Texans weren’t much

nods toward his partner. “Kerry here got a

The Texans look at each other. Their

help,” she says. “I had to pin JJ’s hand to the

big ’un.”

noblesse oblige apparently stops short of

sink with both of mine. Once he got a good

performing triage on people that many

grip on the handle, the blade pulled out.

“Yeah, that’s what the maestro told me,”

tax brackets below them. They look at me,

Lots of blood then.” She stares hard. “You

I say, playing it straight now. “Thirty-five

Katz’s supposed friend. I want nothing more

wouldn’t’ve liked it.”

inches is very big for this river.”

than to redeem myself by going to his aid now, but I look at the knife sticking through

I pour myself a glass of red. “Look, earlier,

“He’s a great guide,” Kerry says. “Knows

his hand, and I’m about an inch-and-a-half

out on the deck…I shouldn’t have poked fun

those fish by name.”

away from fainting. Shaky all over. Knees

at Katz like that in front of the clients. I

rubbery.

don’t know why I….”

I’m almost one of them, or might have been

“Vic,” Katz says. “Come on, Dawg. A little

Daisy cuts me a look that kills the rest of

if I’d been at all ambitious. “He’s a true

help here!”

that. “He’s your friend, Vic.” She leaves it

For some reason, I want these guys to know

local,” I say. “A real river rat.”

The Texans look at me askance, but I can’t

at that and shovels a third oyster into her One look at Daisy, and I know I have to do it.

gorgeous mouth. “These are delicious,” she

I take a step toward Katz, and I’m gone.

says, so obviously angry with me I can feel it

stop myself. “I mean did you see those

***

hilarious waders he has? They’ve been

in my teeth.

patched so many times….” I finally manage

When I wake up on the kitchen floor, Daisy

to hit the brakes, feeling my face go hot. I

is crouched over me, mopping my forehead

hear myself sputtering, “I mean…I mean,

with a damp cloth, wine glass in the other

She swallows. “Here’s what you’re going to

he’s a great guy. Just a little, you know,

hand. Her hair and tube top radiate white

do,” she says. “JJ is going to come home

rough around the edges.”

under the recessed lighting. Her sauvignon

with that hand in a bandage the size of a

glows. She looks like an angel with a drinking

cantaloupe. So tomorrow, you, Vic, are going

problem. The room is otherwise empty.

to help him guide those guys. You’re going

I’m sweating like a cold beer in a sauna.

I look to Daisy for help. She gives me a

“Daisy, really—”

to knot their flies on for them, unhook their

penetrating stare over the rim of her wine

“Where’s everybody?” I try sitting up. I

fish, take their pictures—everything that

glass. That same blond eyebrow arches

almost faint again.

he’s not going to be able to do one-handed.

again. No hint of flirtation this time.

You got that?”

“They took JJ to the hospital.” Cool as snow,

Just as I open my mouth to try to undo the

she stands and goes to the counter and

damage, Katz—as though he’s heard my

pours herself some more wine. She picks up

betrayal all the way from the kitchen—howls

one of the oysters, gives me a brittle look,

in pain. The four of us scramble back into

and slurps it off the shell.

the house. Katz is bent over the sink, his

“Be here at first light,” she says.

I have a hopeful thought. “But I loaned him

wide back to us, groaning. Daisy grabs his

“Think you can get on your own two feet?”

my waders. He’ll be wearing them. I don’t

arm. “Honey, what’s wrong?”

She doesn’t offer a hand.

have another pair.”

He turns, gripping his left wrist with his

I moan something and pull myself up.

“Well then,” she says, showing me that gap

right hand. The blade of the oyster knife is

Someone seems to be hammering on sheet

in her teeth again, “I guess we’ll find out

stuck completely through his meaty palm,

metal inside my head. “I guess I wasn’t very

how hilarious those old neoprenes really are,

the starched white cuff of his chef’s jacket

helpful.”

won’t we?” She reaches for another oyster.

rimmed with blood. He plunges his impaled

“I could eat these things all day.”

hand under the faucet and the water runs

Her mouth turns down. “We can’t all be

red.

heroes,” she says. She sucks another oyster

On Vic’s radio Sonny and Cher are singing:

off its shell, swallows it, and sips her wine.

“The beat goes on….” On and on.

“Jesus!” Daisy yelps. The two Texans and I add our own exclamations.

58

It is not a request. I nod.

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2022

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59

THE FOUR DEATHS OF MACHO MABABI In rural Sonora, whitetail deer hunting is more than meets the eye.

by Andrew McKean

60

The first time he died, the Mexican buck

steep canyon, then shove ourselves up the

emerged from the shade of a manzanita

other side, praying the withered branches of

bush just long enough for me to confirm

scrub oak will hold while our boots scrabble

“We’ll find him,” says Shelton, my guide on

five points on each antler and send 130

for purchase on the friable rocks. Between

this hunt for Sonoran Coues deer, about 100

grains of Federal Trophy Copper zipping

lung-searing pitches, Ron is consoling. He

miles south of the Arizona border where he

across the canyon. When I recover from the

watched it all happen through his tripod-

works as an agricultural inspector. The way

recoil and get back in the scope, the deer

mounted binocular, and he says that on

Shelton says it, with no daylight for doubt,

is gone.

my shot the buck went down “like a bag of

makes me glad he’s not going through my

flour” in the head-high wild oats. He didn’t

luggage with latex-gloved hands.

I have a full hour to relive the rushed shot

see it get back up, but neither did he see it

as Ron Shelton and I pick our way down the

roll down the slope, gravity replacing sinew

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and fear as the primary agent of propulsion.

Only we don’t find him, not in a half-day

kicking through the ocotillo and banana

have missed the buck. The January sun

these little desert whitetails, was lecturing

yucca, or even after Shelton traverses the

warms the rocks around us, and we tuck into

me on perspective: “This country looks all

canyon to guide me to the precise spot the

our sack lunches. As we relive the last few

the same for a few hours on either side of

buck was standing when I shot. Not a bead

days, munching tortillas smeared with queso

noon,” he was telling me. “It’s all rock and

of blood or a tuft of creased hair shows

and chili paste, the deer dies a second time.

grass and cactus. But when the light gets

itself where that Mexican deer stood as my

long, that’s when you start seeing things.”

trigger broke. It is as though the ground

I had initially seen him in the last light of my

opened to swallow him whole.

first evening, the Sonoran alpenglow rising

He was coaching me into the ways of

in pinks and blues from the sand-colored

finding deer, but instead, I conjured all

Shelton crosses the canyon for the third

foothills. Shelton’s dad, a fleshy Arizonan

sorts of other magic as I peered into the

time, and we reluctantly conclude that I

named Nick Forsythe who grew up hunting

rising night. I coaxed jaguars out of the

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61

purple light, dappled shadows moving

whitetail might weigh 270 pounds and carry

sparks that ignite all those candles. Skylined

through the dark wash. Was that a black

170 inches of antler. A Coues might weigh

as we are, it’s no surprise that the buck

bear against the night, fat on acorns and

100 pounds on the hoof, but he’s packing

turns to us, lifts his nose to the violet sky,

the sticky hearts of desert spoon? Beyond

100 to 120 inches of antler. So a mature

and then sinks into the earth.

the coyotes, I might have heard the wails

Coues has more antler-to-body-weight than

of smallpox exiles, condemned to rimrock

a corn-country whitetail.”

Rancho Mababi

settlements below with the invisible death

As Nick fills my head with proportion, I spot

Early the next morning, Alice Valenzuela’s

that finally showed itself in red rashes and

movement against the black hill facing

wood stove pops softly, transporting me

hollow eyes. The infirms’ last visitors were

us. At a quarter-mile, I can just make the

back to my childhood in rural Missouri, the

inevitably deer, leaping off the painted walls

outline of an animal moving to the left,

toasty umber of banana bread and Bessie

of the caves to prance in the feeble, fevered

but then it stops in front of a patch of

Torrey’s crusty biscuits distracting me

firelight.

yellowing chaparral. I see heavy dark antlers

from her husband Curtis’s reminiscences of

caves so they wouldn’t infect the mining

62

against the light background. It’s a buck,

county-fair tractor pulls and where to find

Nick pierced my shamanic trance with the

with maybe five wrist-thick points on each

morel mushrooms after a rain.

clinical calculations of a trophy hunter.

side. Or maybe it’s a hundred tapers, like

“Here’s the thing about these little Coues

the candelabra in the mission church at the

Alice’s kitchen has a different smell, the

deer,” Nick was saying in the gathering dark.

downvalley villa of Fronteras that are only

sharp piquancy of chilis and cumin nudging

“They’re tough as iron. You can imagine

lit on Easter and Día de los Muertos. Though

aside the sorghum molasses and cinnamon

how hard it is to scratch a living out here,

it’s far too dark to shoot, and though my

sugar of my youth. But the throbbing

where it can get 125 degrees in the summer

rifle is inside Nick’s pickup, I kill him where

warmth thrown off by the enamel stove

and where water’s hard to find and where

he stands, imagining the shot’s arc as a

is the same, and so is my interest in this

everything has either a fang or a claw or

comet streaking through the night and the

generous woman.

a spike. But realize this: A big Missouri

bullet’s arrival as a festival of flame and

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FALL 2021 SPRING 2022

She’s telling me how she was an Army brat

She mentions Apaches and how they found

children to be tutored by Alice at this very

who moved all around the United States and

safety between raids in the highlands above

kitchen table, and about those kids who

the world, and how she met her husband

the ranch house. She tells me about Beatrice

have left this oasis beneath the mountain in

Roberto at the University of Arizona 35

Paxon, the first modern matriarch of this

order to make a life elsewhere.

years ago and maybe 200 miles to the

ranch, which was named Mababi, meaning

north of here. How they built a life together

“where the bears bathe.” Beatrice was the

It occurs to me Alice could be talking

just as Silicon Valley was hitting its high-

wife of the British counsel to the Mexican

about the exodus of my classmates from

tech stride. Roberto had grown up here

government, who was gifted the 280,000-

our own rural utopia. It also occurs to me,

on this remote rancho in northern Sonora;

acre ranch in order to start a market

tucking into the next of several of Alice’s

he traded a career with Oracle for the

economy based on cattle, timber, and

confections, that I have momentarily

wood stove and ribby Mexican cows of his

mining. Alice tells me about how mines to

forgotten all about hunting these tiny

homeland. Alice started a Spanish-language

the west of the ranch were the incubators

Mexican whitetailed deer. This might be the

newspaper in the Bay Area. As she spins the

of revolution, and about how Pancho Villa

first time I’ve voluntarily refrained from

trajectory of how they returned to Roberto’s

often rode through the courtyard here,

hunting, which is a testament to both Alice’s

home to raise their children in a place with

helping himself to provisions to supply his

prowess with pastries and the pull of her

more accountability and consequences than

guerrillas. She tells me about the battles

story.

Palo Alto might require, it occurs to me that

of Agua Prieta to the northeast—right

I never got such a far-flung narrative in

across the border from Douglas, Arizona—

“Okay, enough for one day,” she finally tells

Bessie Torrey’s kitchen—though I still borrow

that sparked the Mexican Revolution that

me. “There’s more where that came from.”

from Curtis’s mushroom-finding wisdom.

resulted in the redistribution of big ranches

She nods at my plate, but I know she’s

like Mababi. About how Roberto’s family

talking about the story of this remarkable

She’s telling me about the people who came

ended up with a small chunk of it. And she

place. Besides, she observes, the wind is

before, about places where Mogollon pit

tells me about all the women who have

finally right to return to the ridge and kill

houses and kivas still hold intact pottery.

worked here or who have brought their

that phantom buck.

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63

Daylight Apparitions

in position when they stand up. That’s

the nickname isn’t as charitable. More like

textbook. And it almost never happens like

demons, says Shelton. Or smoke.

that.”

The wind is indeed perfect, soft and warm

So you rely on your optics to resolve deer

on my face, which in January is usually

Partly that’s because everyone glasses

out of the gravel. The more you fall into the

turned against Montana’s stinging snow.

too quickly. It’s a natural tendency. After

image pouring out of your binocular, the

Shelton and I sit the rest of the morning—he

all, there’s so impossibly much country to

more you see other apparitions of Rancho

on a little collapsible stool, I on an inflatable

cover from a ridgeline perch, and the only

Mababi. From my vantage point overlooking

pad—watching the hillside through our

way to rule out deer in entire townships is

the ridge where I had first seen the 5x5, I

15-power binoculars. If Shelton can seem

to quickly scan what can be seen. Unlike

keep panning up to the high timber, even

fidgety other times, he becomes stoic as a

the farm-country whitetails that Nick

though I know the deer would be lower,

cornerpost when he squares up behind his

Forsythe described, Coues deer could be

in the waving grass of the mid-elevation

Vortex, breaking his gaze only to take a sip

anywhere on this immense landscape, from

slopes. But that high country enchants

of water or rub his eyes.

ridgeline rimrocks to mid-elevation meadows

me: Douglas fir and old-growth ponderosa

to limestone-ledged streams lined with

cloaking crenellated ridgelines, more Sierra

Over a quick break of marzipan cookies—

improbably grand and abundant sycamores.

Nevada than Sierra Madre. That’s where

one of the only foods in a week at Rancho

That distribution requires that you glass all

grizzlies roamed in the old days, before

Mababi that didn’t originate in Alice’s

of it.

the Paxons built their manor and before

stove—Shelton describes the playbook of

64

Zapata’s revolutionaries burned through

Coues spotting-and-stalking: “I want to

But that’s almost never the way to spot one

the country like wind-whipped fire. It’s

dig them out in the morning, figure out if

of these cryptic little whitetails. Instead,

where black bears still live—and possibly

they’re worth going after, and then watch

deer reveal themselves only when you slow

bathe—and where slant-eyed jaguars return

where they bed down,” he says. Shelton

down and give in to the Zen of glassing,

from their periodic raids across the border

replaces the verbs “seeing” or “spotting”

replacing the “what-if” doubt that you’ll

into southern Arizona. That high country

with “digging out,” his term for resolving

see a deer with the “when I” certainty

is out of reach of the narcos that Alice

a deer out of a wilderness of same-looking

that, by looking deeply at one or two

told me sometimes cruise up her dirt road

terrain. The way he describes it, it’s like

chunks of ground, you will see a deer—or

from Fronteras, looking for another kind of

sleuthing a diamond from a gravel pit,

more accurately, some small parts of a

refuge. I imagine that, up in that timber,

noticing the odd glint within the obscuring

deer. The first time you hunt Coues deer,

it’s cool and clean as the sun pours over the

rock. “Then I want to make a plan to work

you’ll call them the “gray ghost” with a

low country. But through the mirage of my

in on them in the afternoon so you’re

certain affection. On subsequent hunts,

binocular, the lenses compressing wavering

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strands of gossamer sunlight, it seems to

out of the obscuring grass, I can’t say. But

float above the world. Though it’s right

I whisper to Shelton that there’s a buck on

there in front of me, forever out of reach.

the right edge of the milling does.

The Third Death

His low whistle is my sign to switch from binocular to riflescope, and I swing my .270

Following Shelton’s lead, I pan lower, focus

Mossberg just as the buck ducks into the

my Swarovskis on hard shadows, and open

shade. But I’ve been ready for this and lead

my mind to the certainty that I’ll dig out

him like a flushing quail. The third time

deer based on the twitch of an ear or gleam

he died was in a little cleft of agave and

of an antler. Instead, I find wild turkeys

matted bear grass that kept the earth from

gathered in a winter flock. In the springtime,

swallowing him again.

Roberto and Alice host Gould’s hunters from the north, turkey hunters looking to

I strap the buck into my pack and carry

complete their grand slam of gobblers.

him whole down the slope, using my tripod as a walking stick. My legs burn, and for a

These are immense birds, some weighing

moment I’m tempted to let gravity take him

nearly 30 pounds, and I watch them shift

takes over. I pan my binocular to the bench

home. Tonight, we’ll have my tenderloins

like a swarm of restive black insects,

behind the nearest ridge, and then the next,

with Alice’s tortilla soup. Tomorrow, I’ll

grubbing for acorns and pinon nuts along

a hogback a half-mile away and already

butcher this buck and pack what meat I

the dry washes. Shelton tells me they roost

gauzy in the rising sun. Before I know it, I’m

can take home. The fourth time he dies will

in those white-boned sycamore trees, and

glassing the high shimmering timber again,

be when my family finishes the last of the

in the springtime the vaqueros can’t sleep

drawn to the highlands like an alcoholic to a

roasts and steaks.

in their line camps owing to the constant

bar sign.

booming gobbles all around them.

But like those stories in Alice’s kitchen, like I shift on my glassing pad and adjust my

the legends of Rancho Mababi, the antidote

I raise my gaze above the turkeys, digging

tripod so I can see what’s right in front of

to death is memory. And as long as I have

out a coyote on the ridge, and then the

me: a grassy bench that is suddenly full of

that buck’s bleached skull on my wall, he’s

bleached shed antler of a deer that may

deer. Whether they’ve been there all along

as alive and real as the ocotillo that flowers

now be dead—an unburied bone on the

or whether they chose the very moment

every spring on the hillside above the

open slope. And then the power of promise

that I stopped my binocular on them to rise

sycamores.

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24/7, It’s a Dog’s Life Being married to your business partner is a blessing, especially if it includes dogs.

By Tom Keer

below seemed out of place in the grasses,

“Hey, turn that frown upside down,” I said.

but the dogs didn’t care. They cast around

“We got a nice point and back.”

The cool wind blew hard through the bicolor

the top, and when they got a snootful of

lespedeza and continued down the slope all the way into the seep. It carried the earthy smell through the thick stand of green-leafed switch cane and all the way up the next hillside. When the breeze hit the Blackwell switchgrass, Johnson grass, and pearl millet, it stopped. The dank mustiness that rose from the water and the mud down

Photo: Nancy Anisfield

66

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quail they locked up tighter than a tick.

“Nope,” she said. “Rebel stole that point. He backed for a bit and then crept up.”

I looked over at Angela and smiled, but she wasn’t happy. Her normally friendly blue

“He’s young,” I said.

eyes were cold and grim, her forehead was wrinkled, and her tight lips turned into a

“He’s old enough to know better.”

frown. When momma ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.

“I’ll reposition him. He’ll back off after we put a few feathers in his mouth.”

We did, and he did, and all was right with

training we moved to Dakota Air Force Base

for our kennel. I started training other dogs

the world.

in Tokyo. Blaine served as an NCO Officer in

as well as guiding hunters for grouse and

Charge of Canine Training. He trained dogs

woodcock in a number of sporting camps

I have lived a life without cats, but I can’t

to detect acetic anhydride, a chemical that

and lodges. It’s hard to believe that was

imagine a life without bird dogs. Neither

was used to make heroin. Drug trafficking

nearly 40 years ago.”

can Angela. That shared connection is part

was as big an issue back then as it is now, so

of what binds us together. We’re in each

Blaine was pretty busy.”

other’s company 24/7, so much so that our

The Carters divide responsibilities that take their personal strengths into account.

dogless friends think we’re nuts. But we get

It was a dog that changed their lives. “One

“We both work on breeding, and when we

nods of agreement from couples who are

day, Patti and I spotted a Weimaraner in

have a litter on the ground, I mostly work

equally connected through their dogs. Some

the base dog pound,” Blaine said. “The poor

with the puppies,” Patti said. “Blaine will

are breeders, others are trainers, and still

dog was in terrible shape, and he was going

work on advanced training as well as test

others are field trialers. It doesn’t matter

to be euthanized. I had a Weimaraner when

preparation. We overlap on weekly training

if you’re running bird dogs or retrievers.

I was a kid, so we rescued him. We nursed

sessions. Last night we had 20 dogs in for a

Being connected through gun dogs is the tie

him back to health and changed his name to

clinic. Add in NAVHDA events and outreach

that binds. If you can work through a setter

Rip. Towards the end of the war, all I wanted

programs for kids, as well as our own

stealing a point, then you can probably work

to do was to go home and go hunting. We

personal hunting, and we’re always really

through anything. And along the way you’ll

smuggled him back into the States, but he

busy.”

live one of the sweetest lives in the world.

was gun-shy and wasn’t much for hunting.

“For me, Patti is an Eveready battery,”

***

“Patti wanted another gun dog. In 1976

Blaine said. “She’s my motivator. She’s a

we went to a NAVHDA [North American

hard-charger, she’s well organized, and

Patti and Blaine Carter, the owners of

Versatile Hunting Dog Association] event

she’s always upbeat. I’m disorganized. I’m a

Merrymeeting Kennels in Brunswick, Maine,

and fell in love with shorthairs. Steve Babine

terrible navigator, but Patti always keeps me

have been together for such a long time

gave me a dog named Babine’s Brandi Mist.

focused and on point.” And Blaine is Patti’s

that they recently celebrated their golden

We trained her, hunted her, and she turned

true partner. “We’re known to everyone as

wedding anniversary. “Blaine and I met at a

out to be such a great dog that we linebred

Blaine and Patti,” she said. “We enjoy doing

high school dance in 1968,” Patti said. “His

her to her littermate, Mayflower’s Chip.

what we’re doing and have a tremendous

draft card was about to get punched, so

We kept two pups—one for me and one for

overlap in other areas. We’re both family-

he enlisted in the U.S. Air Force. After basic

Patti—and they were the fountainhead dogs

oriented, we love fishing, boating, hiking,

Left: Laughs are infectious when hunting with Patti and Blaine Carter of Maine's Merrymeeting Kennels. The couple travels the country with other like-minded friends and, of course, their string of shorthairs. Top: Angela Keer's Rebel and Albert point a covey of bobwhite quail. Rebel stole the point.

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and being in nature. We love meeting people, and we travel a lot to hunt with our friends.

It comes as no surprise to anyone that many of our friends are husbands and wives who are equally connected through gun dogs.”

*** Maybe there is something about dogs and high school, because Brad and Ellen Arington of Mossy Pond Retrievers in Patterson, Georgia, have a storyline similar to the Carters. “We started dating in 2002, and when we graduated from high school Brad got his first Labrador retriever. We got married after college, and since those were pre-children days, our dogs and our kennel were our life. Back then we had around a dozen dogs in training, and we’d work with them on basic socialization, obedience, and advanced training—and of course do all of the kennel chores. It’s hard to imagine that we now have over 1,100 acres of land for training and a 4,200-square-foot kennel with between 90 and 100 dogs.”

The Aringtons are trainers and competitors, but they do not whelp any litters. Some clients enroll puppies in their training program when they’re about eight weeks old, and Ellen is their first point of contact.

“I’ll work with the pups for their first six months,” she said. “I’ll work on socializing them to the environment, to different people and places and to other puppies.

I work on establishing normal routines like crate training, feeding, and tailgate checkups. I’ll handle all of the basic obedience commands such as here, sit, stay, and heel. When the pups are all good, I’ll start using those commands with more distractions inside of the lodge, around customers and other dogs. Brad and the other trainers take over when the pups are ready, and that’s usually around the six-month time. They’ll focus their attention on steadiness and retrieving to hand, and then move on to running marks and blinds, both with bumpers and live birds. When the pups are fully developed, he’ll focus on conditioning as well.”

Photo: Nancy Anisfield A life with gun dogs is a wonderful journey that creates a deep and unique connection between husbands and wives and extends to family and friends.

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In the early days, Brad was on the road quite a lot. “To develop our business, Brad spent years traveling all over the country to title dogs and compete in hunt tests and field trials,” Ellen said. “He’s also a Eukanuba pro trainer and does a number of seminars and

Even though Angela Keer favors an over/ under and Tom Keer prefers a side-byside, they agree on English setters as their breed of choice.

clinics. Brad is very competitive and had been running Super Retriever Series, AKC Field Trials, and Master Hunter tests across the country. He’s got four pros now, and they travel those 25 to 40 weekends per year. I’m thankful because now he can spend more time at home with our four kids.”

“Brad is super honest, an extremely hard worker, and a patient teacher. I think those skills make him excellent not just when working with dogs but also with people, too.

Brad always knows what to do and when to do it. If he needs to be tough, he’ll be tough, but he also understands when a different approach will work better. I worked at a hospital in nuclear medicine for 11 years and left so we could work together. We’ve been working together for nearly a decade now, and while I loved my job in medicine, I love working with Brad even more.”

Brad sees things a little differently.

“Everyone looks at me as the boss, but the fact is that Ellen really runs the show,” he said. “She’s the glue that keeps us all together. Ellen has been helping me build our business since day one. She’s smart and organized and is a big reason that our business has grown to the level that it has.

These days she handles the bookings for training and hunts, regularly communicates with vendors and clients, and oversees the caretaking of our dogs. She’s a professional in everything she does—so much so that these days, I’d be lost without her help. It’s awesome to do something you love with someone you love. And while we’ve had long days and hard years, they’ve never once felt like work.”

24/7 isn’t a life best lived for everyone. But when it involves gun dogs, it always seems to work. And in these times, it is poet W. H. Auden’s words that ring true: “In moments of joy all of us wish we possessed a tail we could wag.”

Brad and Ellen Arington created Mossy Pond Retrievers through hardwork and the combination of their different skillsets.

Dogs are a family affair which now involves their kids. Bottom right: Angela Keer collars up Albert for a run.

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strung magazine

FLY FISHING

FISHPOND PIOPOD MICROTRASH CONTAINER $12.95 (FISHPONDUSA.COM)

Conservation is the theme of this year’s Fly Fishing Gear Guide, and not leaving trash behind when we are fishing is one small step we can all take to preserve the waters we fish. Loose pieces of leader, worn out split shot, and other small pieces of trash have a tendency to escape our pockets and make their way into the water.

The Fishpond Piopod (PIO stands for “Pack It Out”) addresses that problem by providing an easy, portable container to stuff small bits of trash. The Piopod easily attaches to waders, a pack, or a belt, and comes with a well-designed lid that makes it easy to dispose of garbage. The Piopod not only makes it easier to pack out your own trash, it’s also a way to clean up those frustrating bits of litter we too often find while fishing.

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COSTA DEL MAR UNTANGLED COLLECTION $206-$276 (COSTADELMAR.COM)

A longtime frontrunner in environmentally conscious business practices, Costa leads by example with conservation initiatives like Kick Plastic. Costa also heavily supports over two dozen conservation organizations such as American Rivers, Captains for Clean Water, Trout Unlimited, and the Theodore Roosevelt Conservation Partnership. Recently, Costa launched a program called Untangle Our Oceans, which aims to rid the oceans of one of the most harmful forms of plastic pollution: fishing nets. As part of the effort, Costa’s Untangled Collection sunglasses are made from 100 percent recycled fishing nets. We tried them out scanning for bonefish in Hawaii, smallmouth fishing in Minnesota, and poling the flats in the Keys, and found they are as good for fishing as they are for the ocean.

LIVING STONE ANCHORS $125 (LIVINGSTONEANCHORS.COM)

Living Stone Anchors are the original rock anchor for drift boats, rafts, canoes, kayaks, or whatever else you can imagine. Losing a 25-pound lead anchor to the bottom of a river or lake is something that happens far too often. Living Stone Anchors were created to remedy this problem. They are a great use of natural materials, and if you lose one to the bottom of the river—well, that’s where it belongs anyway. Will it bring your overloaded gear battleship to a dead halt in raging water? Nope. But that’s not where we want to be anchoring anyway. Living Stone Anchors minimize rope twist with a built-in swivel, and they created a rope recycling program that repurposes climbing rope for use on the water. Custom order online or request to have them available at your local fly shop.

EPIC WATER FILTERS $38-$42 (EPICWATERFILTERS.COM)

If you’re like us, you have a favorite, well-worn water bottle that accompanies you on every trip. On backcountry days, the problem is keeping that bottle full of filtered water. Epic Water Filters have been a game changer for us. A simple dip of the bottle in the river, and you’re back to drinking clean, cold, filtered water. No fumbling or rummaging through your pack for a separate filter, no worrying about keeping the contents of your pack dry, and no neglecting your hydration so that you can keep fishing (we all do it). Options range from replacement filters to fully assembled kits. “The Answer” comes with a conversion kit top, straw, and filter that can be purchased for all major water bottle brands (Hydroflask, Nalgene, Camelback, etc).

Each filter is BPA free, filters 100+ gallons of water, and is recyclable.

100 gallons is a lot of bottles (750+ to be exact) that would otherwise be headed for oceans and landfills.

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strung magazine

FLY FISHING

SIMMS G3 GUIDE WADERS $599.95 (SIMMSFISHING.COM)

We’ve been using the same pair of Simms G3 Guide waders since they first came out in 2018, and that in itself is a testament to their durability. After four years of wear and tear, they are still doing what a good pair of waders should do: keeping you dry and comfortable.

A fleece-lined zippered chest pocket, opposing suspender buckles, articulated knees, front and back leg seams for added mobility, an athletic fit—it’s easy to get lost in the exhaustive list of features that makes these waders so great. It’s no surprise the G3 wader is currently the best-selling pair of waders on the market. The new iteration of the G3 waders boast a new four layer GORE-TEX® fabric, making them 23% more puncture resistance and 33% more breathable. Even better, Simms supports organizations like Trout Unlimited, Captains for Clean Water, and Bonefish & Tarpon Trust, among others.

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PATAGONIA FOOT TRACTOR WADING BOOTS $399 (PATAGONIA.COM)

Patagonia and Danner collaborated to make the most durable, comfortable, and stable wading boot we’ve ever worn. These fullgrain leather boots with 1,000-denier nylon paneling have stood up to every environment we’ve worn them in (including saltwater) and can be refinished at the end of the season for longer life. Their Vibram sole was developed to grip wet surfaces, and the boots are available in rubber, felt, or with aluminum bars that grip slimy rocks like nothing we’ve ever seen. Foot Tractor Boots are made in the USA, and when the soles eventually wear out you can send them to Danner to be resoled. Along with making products that last, Patagonia has been a loud and consistent voice for conservation. Their 1 % for the Planet program devotes one percent of their sales (not profits) to the preservation and restoration of natural environments. Since the program was founded over $90 million has supported grassroots environmental projects for dozens of organizations such as the Native Fish Society, Watershed Watch Salmon Society, and Bonefish & Tarpon Trust.

FISHPOND CUTBANK GEAR BAG $299.95 (FISHPONDUSA.COM)

We tested the Cutbank Gear Bag by Fishpond, and along the way it was relentlessly tossed from tailgate to boat, rode shotgun on hot and humid saltwater flats, and saw frigid days on trout tailwaters. After a year of use, it looks no worse for the wear. Sturdy and waterproof, the Cutbank Gear Bag has padded top and sidewalls and a reinforced, molded bottom that protects cameras and fishing gear even in standing water. Endless configurations make organization a breeze, and the rimmed, firm top tray serves as a perfect fly changing workstation.

As an added benefit to protecting our wild places, the Cutbank Gear Bag was created within Fishpond’s “CyclePond” program, which utilizes recycled materials like plastic bottles and discarded fishing nets to produce a variety of waterproof fabrics. The newest Cutbank is made from Fishpond's NewStream fabric, 100 percent derived from recycled single-use plastic bottles.

TROUT UNLIMITED MEMBERSHIPS START AT $35 (TU.ORG/STRUNG)

While we like our “gear” to be tangible, to invest in the quality of your fisheries may be one of the most important purchases you can make. Whether you realize it or not, chances are you’ve benefited from the work Trout Unlimited (TU) has done in the protection and maintenance of our cold waters. From boots-in-the-stream work to hard-hitting political action, TU staff and volunteers are relentless in their efforts to ensure clean, cold water and healthy fish for not just our generation but those to come. At Strung, we have personally benefited not just on the fishing front, but by meeting folks we now call friends. There are several levels of membership, from youth to lifetime. Some memberships do come with tangible perks, like the rod/reel combo currently available with the life membership option.

Trout Unlimited is the iconic cold water conservation group, and becoming a member is one donation you will not regret.

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By Lukas Leaf

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Spring is akin to a great awakening in

Over the years, I’ve spent the majority

the clean, clear, cold waters lapping the

nature. Everything seems to emerge

of my fishing openers in the Boundary

shoreline in front of you.

from hibernation at once, bursting

Waters Canoe Area Wilderness (BWCA). My

back to life from a long winter waiting

relationship with the BWCA began when

Spending time outdoors is what

for warmer days. Spring also signals

I was 12 years old during a lake trout

rejuvenates and energizes us. Our

the beginning of our primary foraging,

fishing trip with my Dad. It was chock-full

adventures in nature inspire us to

fishing, and hunting seasons, aside

of everything a backcountry camping trip

explore and shape us into the outdoor

from the small amount of freezer-filling

can throw at you: amazing fishing, freezing

enthusiasts and conservationists that

possible during the winter months. Gone

rain, high winds, sunny days, a snowstorm,

we become. I, for one, want very much

is the need to tap into the reserves, as

campfires, lessons in safety and stewardship

for my little girls to have those same

opportunities to harvest our own food

principles, being wet and miserable, and

experiences.

begin to grow exponentially.

so much more. And I loved it. It was a trip

Now don’t get me wrong, I love our long

that would solidify my connection to the

One of the greatest conservationists

outdoors for the rest of my life.

of our time, Sigurd Olson, described

winters here in Minnesota. Ice fishing,

what it means to reconnect with nature

snowshoeing, and small game hunting

Nowadays, a core group of my friends and

and ourselves. “In wilderness people

during the dark winter months are some

I take a similar BWCA trip every year to

can find the silence and the solitude

of my favorite activities of the year.

reconnect and recharge the batteries. I can’t

and the noncivilized surroundings that

We’re used to being creative in the bitter

think of a better time than relaxing around

can connect them once again to their

cold, like drilling holes in the ice so we

a campfire with that group of friends,

evolutionary heritage, and through an

can keep fishing year-round. Trust me:

enjoying a great meal. It’s a special kind of

experience of the eternal mystery, can

It really is fun! But nothing beats the

camaraderie. The satisfaction runs even

give them a sense of the sacredness of

spring fishing opener.

deeper when the meal’s centerpiece (such

all creation.” Sig was spot on.

as the recipe that follows) is fish fresh from

Fisherman’s pie is a classic British dish similar to the well-known shepherd’s pie. Both consist of a rich, meaty filling topped with creamy mashed potatoes and baked until bubbly and golden brown on top. I first learned about fisherman’s pie by chance, researching recipes and looking for something unique to bring the winter and spring months together into one meal. The first thing I liked about it was how it snubs the restaurant world by pairing fish with cheese—a big no-no in professional cooking, but a combination that can work in the right circumstances. As this recipe proves, it’s an archaic cooking rule that should be put aside.

For this recipe, I decided to dive into the freezer and bring springforaged ingredients into the mix. Fisherman’s pie traditionally has both poached and smoked fish in the filling, so naturally I turned to the fruits of Minnesota’s land and water. I love the combination of walleye, smoked whitefish, morel mushrooms, and wild leeks in this recipe, but you could easily substitute several different fish species and ingredients.

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RECIPE:

For the filling

Servings: 6 Prep Time: 24 hours Cooking Time: 90 minutes

½ pound smoked whitefish or trout (directions below)

Ingredients

1 cup frozen petite sweet peas

For the mashed potatoes

½ cup carrot, small diced

3 pounds russet potatoes 1 cup whole milk 1 cup cheddar cheese ½ cup sour cream 4 tbsp. unsalted butter 3 tbsp. creamed horseradish Coarse salt to taste

2 cups whole milk 1 pint heavy cream 1 cup reconstituted dry morels 1 cup onion, small diced ½ cup celery, small diced ¼ cup cooked wild leeks (ramps) ¼ cup all-purpose flour 2 tbsp. sherry vinegar 3 tbsp. garlic, minced 4 tbsp. unsalted butter 2 tbsp. extra virgin olive oil

For the gremolata

3-4 bay leaves

1 packed cup of chopped parsley

Zest of one lemon

½ cup extra virgin olive oil

Coarse salt

Zest of two lemons

Brown Sugar

2 tbsp. garlic, minced

Cracked black pepper

1 tsp. crushed red pepper

Chives to finish

1 tsp. coarse salt

Bread such as dinner rolls or baguette

METHOD 1. The day before you plan to smoke the

minutes or until cooked through. Let cool,

back into the pan along with the peas. Cook

fish, it needs to start brining. For fish like

strain, and reserve the milk for the filling.

until the filling becomes thick. Gently mix

trout and whitefish, I prefer to go with a

4.

dry brine. Evenly space the filets in a large

salted, cold water. Cut the carrot, celery,

and lemon zest. Check for seasoning and set

dish. Sprinkle coarse salt (I prefer Morton’s

onion, garlic, morels, and ramps and set

aside.

Kosher Salt) over the top of the fish—not

aside. Chop the parsley for the filling and

7.

excessively, just enough to lightly coat

zest one lemon.

are tender. Mix in the butter and whole milk

Peel the potatoes into a pot with lightly

in the poached fish, smoked fish, parsley,

Strain and mash the potatoes when they

them. Now do the same with the brown

5.

sugar. Add whichever spices and aromatics

potatoes are boiling, start the filling. Add

you would like on top. I added whole cloves,

the olive oil to a dutch oven or pot with

8. Pour the filling evenly into a large cast-

fresh dill, and thinly sliced lemon to the

the carrot, celery, onion, and garlic. Cook

iron pan or baking dish. Carefully cover the

whitefish I used in this recipe. Cover the fish

on medium-high heat until the onions are

top of the filling with the warm mashed

and let it cure for at least 24 hours. The

translucent. Add the morels and ramps;

potatoes so you do not push the filling out.

salt will draw out the moisture, inevitably

cook for another minute. Season with

Using a spatula, seal the edges of the pie

melting the sugar and creating a hybrid wet

salt and pepper, add the sherry vinegar to

with the mashed potato. Bake the fish pie

brine in the process.

deglaze the pan, and pour the vegetables

for 25-30 minutes at 400º. Immediately

out for later.

move it under the broiler for 3-5 minutes to

2.

The next day smoke the fish at around

Bring the potatoes to a boil. While the

warm. Gently mix in the remaining mashed potato ingredients. Keep warm.

200º for about 90 minutes or until the fish

6. Add four tablespoons of butter to the

has a deep brown color. Chill the fish and

vegetable pan with the flour. Whisk over

the pie from the oven and let it sit for 10-15

pull ½ pound into large chunks for the pie.

until combined over medium heat. Cook the

minutes.

get a dark crust on the potatoes. Remove

flour mixture until it begins to turn golden

9.

a small pot with the bay leaf. Cut the

brown. Now slowly whisk in the poaching

and add the olive oil. Serve it over the fish

walleye into 1-inch chunks. Bring the milk

milk. Next, whisk in the heavy cream; season

pie with crusty bread.

to a simmer and poach the walleye for 3-5

with salt and pepper. Add the morel mixture

3.

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1 pound walleye, poached in milk (directions below)

Add the two cups of whole milk to

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Mix the gremolata ingredients together

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Goose hunts are events, sometimes scaled large and sometimes small.

ACCIDENTAL GEESE VERSUS THE BIG SHOW

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E. Donnall Thomas Jr. Photos by Don and Lori Thomas

honkers and snows—high altitude mares’

no water nearby to complicate the recovery

tails had started to glow pink and orange

of downed birds. Part of my response is

above the eastern horizon, although the

purely personal: I just don’t feel that I’m

leading edge of the sun’s disc had yet to

hunting waterfowl unless I have a dog with

We Montanans may be proud of our Big

appear above the earth’s rim. With nothing

me. I recognize practical considerations as

Sky Country, but no sky is bigger than

better to do, my wife Lori, our old friend Jeff

well. I hate losing game, and a goose with

the one that spreads across southern

Lander, and I crawled into our layout blinds

a broken wing can disappear quickly even

Alberta’s farms and prairies. Since all the

to begin the essential element of field-

from a stubble field, especially when more

grain had been harvested earlier, we found

shooting geese: waiting.

birds fall at the same time. A good dog can

no amber waves to rhapsodize about,

take care of that problem quicker than I can,

but devoid of other terrain features, the

Our party included one other member: Sonny,

allowing everyone to get back into the blinds

endless rectangles of stubble stretching

my male yellow Lab. Bringing a dog along on

sooner to await the next flock.

from horizon to horizon looked dramatic

this kind of shoot is not without controversy,

in their own way. Someone had planted

and I would never consider doing so without

We had set up a long way from the nearest

and harvested all those windswept acres,

the express permission of my hunting

highway or farming hamlet. Only one sound

converting a lot of dirt and a little water

partners. A dog that breaks wildly just as a

rose above the sigh of the freshening

into food for hungry humans who seldom

flock of geese starts to descend on set wings

breeze: the faint, squeaky gabbling of

appreciate its origins. I usually feel that

is an obvious liability, but I had trained Sonny

geese stirring themselves back to life after

waterfowl should be hunted over water

to flatten and remain motionless beside me

spending the night sleeping on a large

(duh), but there wasn’t a drop in sight.

as I lay supine in my layout blind. With his

reservoir two miles distant. As sunrise

Nonetheless, I couldn’t help but feel

coat a near-perfect match for the yellow

finally broke across the wide expanse of the

impressed by the scope of the morning’s

stubble, I never thought his presence resulted

prairie, the volume of the goose talk rose

undertaking.

in flaring geese.

right along with the light level, as if both

By the time we finished setting out our

Even so, one could reasonably ask why one

after nearly an hour of slow but steady

truckload of decoys—an integrated mix of

should bother with a dog at all when there is

increase in noise, the geese began to sound

were controlled by the same rheostat. Then,

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urgent, informing us that they had finally

and a lapse in judgment can result in birds

lifted off the water and were heading for

flaring before they reach shotgun range or

the fields to feed.

passing straight overhead without anyone firing a shot.

Undulating lines of geese began to appear over the terrain fold that hid us from the

We experienced no such disaster that

reservoir. Being in just the spot where

morning. Jeff cried, “Take ‘em!” at the

the game wants to be is a tremendous

perfect moment, and suddenly I was sitting

advantage in all forms of hunting, none

up awkwardly, trying to isolate one honker

more so than this one. As the first several

from the flock of 30 and remembering all

flocks passed us to the north acting as

over again how much I hate shooting from

if they hadn’t seen our decoys or heard

layout blinds. After reminding myself that

our calls, I felt a rising sense of despair.

geese are always flying faster than they

Fortunately, Lori’s visual scan remained

appear, I extended my lead with my first

diligent. “Coming over the end of the field,

barrel and watched in satisfaction as the

right out of the sun,” she whispered—

bird crumpled with the shot. I drove my

unnecessarily, since we could barely hear

second barrel back over my head as the birds

ordinary conversational tones above

flared and registered the impression of a

the racket from the sky. “Wings set and

good shot although I couldn’t see the bird

dropping!”

fall. Lori and I were both shooting doubles, and I knew she had put her first round to

After a final reminder to the dog, I dropped

good use. Jeff took full advantage of the

my call and thumbed my safety. Electing a

third shot from his pump.

Jägermeister to call the shots is essential in

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this situation, and an earlier game of rock-

After comparing notes, we concluded that

paper-scissors had awarded the title to Jeff,

we had dropped a total of five birds, four of

to my relief. It’s a thankless responsibility,

which lay stone dead in the decoys while the

fifth humped frantically toward the brushchoked ditch that bordered the field to the

many is never a problem, but most of those ***

east. With no other geese in the traffic

I shoot each season fall more or less by accident. Serious goose hunters (several of

pattern, I elected to send the dog. By the

As much as I enjoy mornings like the one

my friends fall into that category) may sneer

time we had removed the dead geese from

just described, I don’t do a lot of that kind of

at my amateurism, but I’m perfectly happy

the decoys, I saw Sonny returning to home

goose hunting. I really don’t mind the work,

with a goose that makes a mistake while I’m

base carrying a goose that looked two sizes

but the amount of time needed to invest in

hunting teal or even pheasants. A honker

too big for his mouth.

scouting, arranging blinds, and dealing with

looks and feels bigger when it’s hanging on a

mountains of decoys invariably comes at the

game strap with something other than more

Limits were generous that season, especially

expense of other activities I enjoy at that

geese.

on snows. By the time we cried uncle two

time of year, ranging from hunting upland

hours later, we had all the Canadas we could

game to plotting against the local whitetails

One such accidental goose hunt arose simply

shoot, as many snows as we wanted to

with my longbow. October and November

because I was paying attention. Driving

clean, and even a handful of speckle-bellies,

just don’t seem to last long enough.

down the road west of town one autumn

which I valued above all for their table quality.

day I noticed an ordinarily barren stock pond A Big Show goose hunt such as we enjoyed

covered with ducks. Investigation revealed

that morning in Alberta will supply our table

that the landowner was a friend who not

We had just enjoyed a sterling example of

with a lot of goose dinners, and Lori and I

only gave me permission to hunt the pond

what I call goose hunting’s Big Show.

really enjoy eating wild geese. Having too

but invited me to drive across a stubble field, saving me from having to carry a big bag of decoys nearly a mile.

Sunrise the following morning found us crouched down in the lee of an old earthen dam with nothing but some skimpy brush for cover. When the first flock of ducks zoomed by over the decoys, I hesitated. The ducks looked unfamiliar, and I just couldn’t identify them positively.

On their next pass, however, I did: “Ringnecks!” I shouted to Lori. “Take ‘em,” and we did. For some reason, ringnecks avoid my central Montana home county, and the two I knocked down from that flock were the first I’d ever killed there.

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82

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A mixed flock of honkers and specklebellies descends over an Alberta wheat field.

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An hour later, we had a nice mixed bag of

back until he spotted the crippled goose, at

But since they were only 20 yards above the

ringnecks and puddle ducks resting on the

which point it was all over but the inevitable

deck, I decided our firepower was sufficient.

ground beside us when I heard a goose

shower of pond water when he returned to

That proved to be the case, and both birds

honk somewhere behind us, sufficiently

my side.

fell to our first barrels. One lay stone dead

distant to allow us to chamber heavier loads

in the snow, but the other took off flopping

undetected. (This maneuver usually looks

A dog’s first goose can cause consternation

down the creek on one broken wing. In

better on paper than it proves to be in the

under any circumstances. Kenai met his on

retrospect I wish I’d shot it again on the way

field, but we got away with it this time.)

a bitter winter day right after Lori and I

down, but in this case, hindsight proved no

As we flattened out and tried to make

finished shooting limits of greenheads on a

more helpful than usual.

ourselves disappear into the brush, a trio of

local spring creek. We were out of the blind

honkers flew overhead and turned into the

and on our way to start picking up decoys

By the time we declared our shotguns safe

wind toward our duck decoys.

when I heard a honk somewhere in the mist

and exited the blind, the wounded goose had

overhead. Because of thick snow cover, we’d

disappeared around a bend in the creek with

I never was sure exactly who shot what, but

dressed head to toe in white, a trick that

Kenai in pursuit. Anticipating problems, I

by the time the wind dispersed the sound

offers better camouflage than any other I

hustled downstream after the chase. When

of the shooting, all three geese were down

know.

I re-established visual contact, I saw Kenai

on the water, two obviously dead and the

84

lunging around in circles looking confused.

third headed across the pond as fast as it

It certainly proved effective that day, as the

There was no sign of the goose. The latter

could swim. Larger than most local stock

pair of geese flew directly over our heads

observation left me confused too, for the

reservoirs, the far shore lay over a hundred

with no interruption in the rhythm of their

creek was no more than a fly line’s length

yards away. Rocky, another male yellow Lab,

wingbeats. We had been shooting 20-gauges

wide and two feet deep, and I could see over

was with us that day. After whistling him

at the decoying mallards, and I hesitated

a hundred yards downstream to the next

off the nearest bird I kept signaling him

briefly when the birds first flew into view.

bend.

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Concluding that the goose had to be hidden

That late in the season I assumed we were

somewhere within this perimeter, I kept the

hunting educated geese. After we unloaded

dog working against the far bank while I

our gear, I drove the truck a mile down the

An hour later, we were two birds shy of

set off through the snow looking for tracks.

road and parked it under the first tree I saw

our limit when someone had the good

Suddenly, Kenai pivoted in my direction

while my hunting partners arranged layout

sense to say, “I don’t need another goose

and leapt into the drift overhanging the

blinds and decoys according to our best

badly enough to stay any longer.” We all

water on my side of the creek. After a minor

guess about the eventual direction of the

unloaded, and while my friends started to

blizzard of suspended snow crystals and a

morning breeze. That guess proved wrong,

pick up decoys I started hiking toward the

racket of flapping wings and churning water,

and by the time I returned to the field my

truck with Rocky at my side. By this time,

Kenai emerged holding the goose by the

partners were already moving the blinds to

a breeze had developed out of the east,

neck. I had walked right by the bird, which

the other side of the decoys.

which put it right in my face. I didn’t need

had crawled up into the dead space between

worry about who had shot what.

a wind chill chart to tell me what happens

the overhang and the water. Kenai’s form

Although the river lay nearly a mile away,

to sub-zero temperatures when a 10-knot

may have been less than perfect, but I

the geese were gabbling so loudly and in

wind arises. When my eyelids started to tear

never would have found the bird without

such numbers that we had to shout at each

over and freeze shut despite my face mask,

his nose. Over a lifetime spent with working

other to make ourselves heard. They were

I had to turn around and walk backward

retrievers, successful recoveries have always

in no hurry to lift off the water, and we

the rest of the way to the truck. As with

meant more to me than style points.

spent the interval pacing around outside our

many installments of the Big Show, this one

blinds, stomping our feet and doing jumping

proved sweeter in retrospect than it did at

jacks in order to stay warm. Despite these

the time.

***

efforts, by the time this first line of beating Not all versions of the Big Show are as

wings cleared the cottonwoods at the far

comfortable and sedate as the one we

end of the field, I wasn’t sure I could shoot.

enjoyed that long ago morning in Alberta.

*** Accidental Geese or the Big Show? Take

Geese—and misery—both proved more

I could, albeit awkwardly, and despite a miss

your pick. Each option has its downsides

abundant closer to home.

with my first barrel I dropped a bird with

and rewards. The important point is that

my second. Upon my command, Rocky leapt

hunting should make you happy. Even

Montana’s hunting season structure is such

up from his position beside my blind and

if the geese stand you up, there are the

that geese provide the last wing-shooting

started gathering the handful of geese we’d

friends, the dogs, and the time outdoors to

opportunities of the season here. One New

dropped collectively. We were all too cold to

compensate.

Year’s Day, a friend living near the North Dakota border called and reported that thousands of honkers were wintering on the open water in the Missouri River below Fort Peck Dam. Lori, another friend, and I met him there that night just in time to scout.

The air above the river was full of geese, and we soon located a field where hundreds of them were feeding—with a lovely green Montana Block Management Program sign on the gate providing us permission to hunt.

By the time we returned before dawn the following morning, my truck’s thermometer read 10 below, and when I stepped outside my fingers grew so cold that I could barely write my signature on the sign-in sheet.

However, we had dressed appropriately for the cold and the air was dead calm. After a brief huddle back in the truck’s cab, we decided that yes, we could do this.

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Dream-On Creek

Words by Joe Doggett, Photos by Arian Stevens The view through the great window of

rivers and creeks, and tensions build during

competition. Often, it is not enough to be on

Alaska’s Angler’s Quest Lodge was beautiful,

the late season when rainbows migrate from

the right stream; being on the right pool on

even inspiring. The glass faced Lake Iliamna

the big lakes following spawning sockeye

the right stream is the difference between

and the setting sun burst through a shroud,

into the tributaries.

an okay trip and a world-class session. That

illuminating the calm water and a fresh

is a lot of “rights” to consistently juggle,

dusting of September snow on the Aleutian

The big trout hold in the gravel runs, finning

and Crowe dominated the drill. He was rarely

peaks. In that moment, the quiet panorama

softly and gorging on drifting eggs amid

beaten by other lodges. His clients seldom

seemed to answer every promise that Bristol

bears and eagles—perfect water to cover

had a slow day. His attention to detail and

Bay ever made. But the fleeting glow was

with a light rod and floating line. The roll call

ability to read water put Crowe in an elite

lost on Crowe.

of Bristol Bay drainages is legendary: Upper

league.

Talarik, Lower Talarik, Kvichak, Gibraltar, He stood holding a heavy coffee cup in the

Copper, Tazimina, Newhalen, Alagnak,

He hastily stabbed the cup under the

kitchen. He was a tall, powerful man in

Moraine, Big Kukaklek, Little Kukaklek,

pot and spilled coffee onto the counter.

his mid 40s. He had a case-hardened tan,

Battle, Kulik, Brooks, and more.

“Dammit!” He swabbed the splash and

thick black hair, and clear blue eyes. In the

86

stared absently at the billboard of photos

winter he fished and surfed his way through

In years past, amid the braids and twists,

and messages. The back door squeaked.

Mexico and Central America; in the summer

the occasional rumor of a barely known

Splinter walked in and shucked his faded

he guided in Alaska. Up north, he focused

stream such as “Dream Creek” or “Chosen

parka. He was several years younger, a bush

on wild rainbow trout—the big “slabs” that

River” surfaced amid guarded whispers.

pilot for the lodge. And as did many of the

drew anglers from all over the world. But

But the days of discovery are gone; veteran

great bush drivers before him, he favored de

guiding for high-stakes trout is a demanding

guides and outfitters agree that no major

Havilland Beavers. When he slid his short,

business. Egos often clash on the remote

secrets remain amid the crush of fly-out

slim frame behind the wheel and cranked

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the big radial engine he was in his element—

snapping up eggs. I rigged Escritor with one

“Anyway,” Crowe said, gesturing with

man and machine fusing to become one.

of my big “Talarik Specials,” one of those

contempt, “I bit my tongue and suggested

12mm beads painted pink and peach.

that maybe he had set a bit too hot, and

Splinter tugged his sandy mustache and

he immediately started blaming my knot.

grabbed a cup. “How’d it go on Lower Talarik

“The sun was high, so I dropped down to

I pointed out there was no piggy tail, just

with Escritor Famoso?”

6-pound Maxima with no split shot and a

a clean break, but no way he hit too hard,

small yarn indicator. A real stealth mission.

blah, blah, blah. But I’m not finished.”

“Famous Writer” was the name Crowe had

Well, he waded out and got all excited,

dubbed the big-name outdoor scribe who

but I can’t blame him. This was a big fish!

Crowe sloshed another half-cup from the

was visiting the lodge. The goal for the week

Anyway, he pulled himself together and

pot.

was to put Big Name on a wild rainbow

made a good cast and threw a decent mend,

taping over 30 inches. But even during prime

and the drift came right down the chute.

“Later he stalked off upstream by himself

time and backed by top talent, landing a

The trout actually boiled coming after the

while I was working with his buddy Pete.

fish of that size is far from guaranteed.

bead. The indicator shot down, and Escritor

I saw him near the top of that deep cut

Despite the lodge’s hype, honest 30-inchers

set like a powerlifter!"

bank—you know, about a hundred yards up

were scarce. Finding one was hard enough; catching one was another story.

where it bends hard above the Rock Hole. He Splinter laughed. “The old Texas Clean-and-

was dredging a dark streamer down through

Jerk!”

the hole. Fine, I thought—then looked closer

“The guy knows his fishing,” Crowe said.

and saw him pointing the rod low and

“I’ll give him that. But nothing is ever his

“That and more. He vaporized the tippet

fault. We were at the Rock Hole, and he was

and the fish jumped right in front of us—32,

working that gravel bar where it starts to

maybe 33 inches, and really thick. Maybe 15

drop off just above the rock. A good pod of

pounds. I could see the bead trailing from

sockeyes was holding high in the run, and

the hinge of its jaw. It would have been the

you could see this big guy stationed just

best fish this season.

downstream. You couldn’t miss him—a real battlewagon. He was darting back and forth,

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strip-striking hard during the retrieve. He

“They just had a ball on 6-weights; the

Pfleuger Medalist. His right hand curled

was trying to snag one of the fish holding

weather was great, and the bugs were down,

under the big gill plate and hoisted the

in there! He was leaning way out, and I was

and to hear them talk, nobody had ever seen

hook-jawed supertrout. The fish’s wide tail

hoping he’d fall in.

a bald eagle or a brown bear before. Then,

nearly dragged in the sand.

right before we got back to the plane, Karen “The worst of it is, a big one hit fair and

caught a dandy: a solid 27-incher.

square. I guess it got stoked by all the

conservative in estimating fish, a skill honed

commotion. He hauled back, and by the

“And Jim was as happy as she was. You’d

from observing thousands of big rainbows.

time I ran up there with the net, he had

think it was the biggest rainbow in Alaska,

Better, far better, to have a fish grow rather

it flopping against the bank. 31 inches.

as big as…well, as big as old Arnie’s trout up

than shrink in the net.

On a big hook and 20-pound snagging

there.”

tippet. They got some great grip-and-grins,

The fuzzy image of Hawkes’ trout had

although if I had had anything to do with

Both men stared at the faded snapshot

been scrutinized many times over,

it, he would have been holding a pus-head

pinned to the corner of the kitchen bulletin

and they estimated it to be a solid 40

sockeye. Anyway, how was your day with the

board. The little photo with its crinkled

inches. Probably more. By any educated

Pattersons?”

edges had been there forever. Arnie Hawkes,

assessment, the long-ago bush pilot was

the legendary bush pilot, was standing by

holding a 25-pound rainbow.

Splinter smiled and grabbed a dish towel.

the struts of a Piper Super Cub and holding

Crowe was a superior angler and a master

a stiff, over-dead rainbow that looked as

The funny thing was that the Iliamna region

guide, but when agitated, not much of a

large as a king salmon. Alaskan anglers

just didn’t produce trout that large. A

coffee pourer.

routinely killed trophy trout back then,

32- or 33-incher was, realistically, a once-

and the grainy photo wasn’t taken on the

in-a-lifetime fish. The pair recalled several

“It was a real pleasure. I flew ‘em to the

stream but back at a gravel air strip. The

documented slabs in the 35- to 36-inch

outlet of the Little Ku. We hiked up and hit

location of the catch was a frustrating and

class, but nothing topping that mark on

a hole loaded with fish. They were stacked

taunting mystery.

an honest tape could be verified—except

behind a clump of rotting salmon hung in

88

Crowe and Splinter were accurate but

Hawkes’ fish. He died in a plane crash. That’s

a root wad waiting to feed on the drifting

Hawkes was a lanky man with a craggy face

flesh. I waded out and kicked the root a few

and a swashbuckling grin. He wore rumbled

times, and the trout went nuts. We used

khakis and a dark fedora and an aged

Splinter sighed. “Man, wouldn’t it be great to

tan flesh flies and must have caught 15 or

leather flight jacket. Hawkes’ left hand held

find his spot? Just think: A ‘Dream Creek’ of

20 from that one spot. Nothing big but solid

a white fiberglass fly rod and what appeared

monster trout all to ourselves. No question,

Kukaklek fish.

to be a simple clicker reel—probably a

he had a secret stream.”

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all anyone knew.

The mystery of “Arnie’s Creek” continued.

“Besides,” Crowe would offer to critics,

Splinter rigged his lightest outfit: a 9-foot

“concepts in fly fishing are changing.

6-weight. Even with that, he knew he was

Nothing this side of a classic dry fly or

over-gunned for the game at hand. They

Atlantic salmon pattern uses only feathers

piled into an aluminum boat with a jet-

Several days later Crowe was sitting at the

anymore. If you want to be traditional, I get

powered outboard, and he stared curiously

Angler’s Quest tying bench. Only he wasn’t

it. But these big late-season rainbows in the

at Crowe’s battered rod tube. It was thin and

tying; he was painting, dabbing plastic

spawning streams want eggs, and a bead rig

silver and carried a scarred blue Orvis label.

beads with carefully combined fingernail

with a long rod and a light leader does the

polishes. Commercial trout/salmon beads

job. If you want to throw a mouse pattern or

Whoa, he thought, an old two-piece cane

were available, but Crowe prided himself

swing a streamer, great; but don’t mind me

rod, and a short one at that.

on his custom hand-tweaked work. He had

if I work through the same hole behind you

several dozen painted; each was drying on

and hook 10 to your one.”

***

the tip of a toothpick stuck into a white

They ran to a small creek. It held no significant population of rainbows but

***

block of foam. The bright orange and pink patterns of newly spawned eggs were to the right, followed by several muted hues to

But there was more to Crowe than an

resemble old current-faded eggs.

obsession with catching big rainbows.

boasted healthy numbers of resident grayling; therefore, it was totally off the

Splinter discovered that during Crowe’s first Dead drifting a bead can be an exact science

season. Splinter, already a top guide, had a

of size and depth and color, depending on

few misgivings about the recruit. Crowe was

stream level, current velocity, and spawning

maybe too one-dimensional, too focused

duration. The usual setup consists of an

on the big trout/bead program. Splinter

8- or 9-foot leader with a tippet section

suspected him of not appreciating the

testing six to 12 pounds. The bead is

overall bounty of the Alaskan experience. A

positioned about two inches above a single

good guide spreads the wealth, making it all

short-shank hook. The bead is either pinned

special.

in place with a toothpick or allowed to slide above a nail knot. In deep or fast water, a

Splinter reconsidered his stance when, on

split shot is pinched above the tippet knot.

a day off, Crowe invited him to go fishing.

Regardless of weight, the dead-drifted bead

“Screw the trout,” Crowe said. “Let’s go have

should tumble naturally, without dragging

fun. Let’s get a couple of light rods and go

or swinging. A small strike indicator is fixed

dry-fly fishing for grayling.”

By any educated assessment, the long-ago bush pilot was holding a 25-pound rainbow.

a foot or two below the fly-line connection.

Crowe preferred pale indicators, having seen

The pilot gave Crowe a studied look and

too many suicidal trout rise to grab a bright

nodded. Grayling seldom top an honest

red or orange bauble.

three pounds, and an 18- to 20-inch fish is brag-sized. Grayling are considered B-List

The technique of drifting a bead has

by virtually all the salty Bristol Bay guides

detractors but it is not, as some outsiders

and, in truth, the average fish on a bead rig

assume, rough snagging. It is a refined

or a streamer rod is a nuisance in big-trout

radar. The flow was lazy and slick, rimmed

skill, a close-range finesse approach like

water. But no fish has a prettier rise to a dry

by grassy banks—more like a spring creek

high-sticking a nymph. And, important on

than a grayling. On the take, a solid grayling

than the typical tumbling, riffling Alaskan

catch-and-release water, bead-caught fish

with its dazzling purple and gray sail often

stream.

are rarely hooked deeply.

leaps clear of the surface. Sometimes they grab on the way up, sometimes on the way

They beached the boat below a long run and

Crowe was good about waggling a finger

down, and sometimes they do not grab at

assembled the gear. Curling his thumb and

to emphasize this truth. When a fish

all—just arch with all flags flying as the

index around the mouth of the tube, Crowe

strikes a bead, the small trailing hook

startled angler panics and jerks the fly

pulled the Battenkill sock and selected one

invariably sticks in or near the jaw, easy to

away. For those who bother to look, the

of the two matching tips. He joined the

extract with minimal stress and damage.

unappreciated grayling is one of Alaska’s

German silver ferrules and attached a small

Conversely, aggressive fish gobbling small

secret thrills.

Hardy St. George clicker reel—one of the

egg-imitations are often impaled in the throat or, worse, in the fragile gill rakers.

older models with a ribbed brass foot and a “I’m in,” Splinter said.

large agate line ring.

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“This is the Orvis 7 ½-foot, 3 7/8 -ounce

high quality. Hell, builders like Halstead and

They caught a dozen or so and called it a

taper—one of their best for dry fly work. I

Gillum worked at Orvis before going solo.”

day. Crowe slipped the rod sock into its tube,

bought it years ago from Marty Keane. You know, that classic old tackle broker? I used

and Splinter concluded that, beads or no “Uh, yeah, right.”

beads, his partner was a fine fly fisherman.

to love the booklets he would send out and his pumped-up descriptions. You know, ‘crisp

Crowe and Splinter walked up the brushy

and joyous dry-fly action’—BS like that.”

bank of the grayling creek and snuck into

***

position to cover the first stretch of fishable

The week after the beaming Escritor Famoso

“Uh, yeah, right,” Splinter allowed, not

water. They agreed to take turns, and Crowe

departed, Crowe was at work again at the

having a clue.

was up first. The pool held several visible

bench, dabbing beads with the tiny nail polish

grayling, all good ones. They were stationed

brush. He had a keen touch for a big man.

“Based on the serial number, this rod was

near the gravel bottom in four feet of water.

Splinter paced brightly into the room.

built in 1956. I’d like to think Wes Jordan put

They looked almost black, and their dark-

his hands on it.”

spotted dorsal sails wavered in the soft flow.

“Uh, yeah, right.”

Crowe crouched in the high grass, and

“Working on your Junior Woodchuck Wampum-Painting Merit Badge, I see.”

the Battenkill flicked out a false cast. The

Crowe glanced up and waved past the drying

“You know, the old Orvis impregnated

flexing cane shone in the afternoon light.

beads to the conventional rack of seldom-

bamboo rods are a great bargain. That’s

The line turned over, dropping a No. 10

used hackles, yarns, and threads.

because they made maybe 50,000 of them

sponge black beetle about 10 feet above the

back in the day, compared to maybe several

closest fish. The fly drifted down toward the

“Instead of Dan Bailey and Whiting Farms,

thousand by the small shops. But they were

fish before the grayling rose with abrupt and

it’s Estee Lauder and Max Factor for us

startling certainty. It vaulted high and fell

tough ballers in Alaska.”

back as the light rod bent.

“No doubt, but I’d rather have your bead box

Splinter spread a chart and stabbed a finger at a spidery vein that ran from the foothills into a small bay. “This is it. I remember seeing it, flying down the coast from Douglas to Big River."

“Yeah! Did you see the take?!”

for big ‘bows any day.” Splinter paused for effect. “Especially where we’re going.”

The big grayling struggled for several minutes, a mix of short runs and four or five

“And where would that be?”

full-bodied leaps—a pleasure to watch in the bright current. Crowe unhooked it with his

“Arnie’s Creek. I’ve found it.”

forceps, and the orange-ribbed pelvic fins faded back into the creek.

The Frosted Peach brush paused.

“Nice, very nice,” Splinter said.

“When I flew into Anchorage this morning I had some time to kill, so I checked with the

“You’re up; here, try my stick.”

FAA office. They have case records of all the documented bush crashes. And Arnie was

Splinter covered the next pool, and his fast-

right there. He was flying solo and went

lane graphite timing had a bit of trouble

down on Sept. 21, 1967.”

with the cane.

Crowe rubbed his chin. The late-season date “Slow down, give the rod time to load,”

was not lost on the big-trout theories.

Crowe coached from behind.

“But here’s the interesting part. He wasn’t A 17-inch grayling rose with a slurping gulp,

near any of the Iliamna or Kukaklek streams.

and Splinter played the fish with smooth

He was over on the coast—the Shelikof

efficiency. He enjoyed the clicking reel and

Strait. He landed on the beach. That’s where

the nodding cane. He grinned and handed

he crashed.”

back the little rod.

“But there’s no rainbow trout on that side

90

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“I’ve got to get one of these! My rod feels

of the Aleutian Range. Silvers and pinks

like a club with these guys.”

and chums, maybe char, but no resident

rainbows. Everybody knows that.”

big fish would think they were all straggler

The two friends looked at each other. Their

chums or silvers.”

eyes glittered.

“Think about it,” Splinter said.

***

Splinter spread a chart and stabbed a finger “A steelhead!” The possibility of a big sea-run

at a spidery vein that ran from the foothills

rainbow had never occurred to Crowe.

into a small bay. “This is it. I remember

Angler’s Quest Lodge, like most of the

seeing it, flying down the coast from

fly-out operations in the region, books

“Yeah,” Splinter said, “remember that

Douglas to Big River. There are rock ledges

weeklong package trips. The turnaround day

guy several years ago caught a 12-pound

just north and south but a beach near the

offered the only opportunity for the pair to

steelhead when we were fishing silvers in

mouth. It’s really narrow, really sketchy—not

implement a surgical strike on the mystery

the Kamishak River? A fluke. But good runs

much to play with.”

creek. On the sixth day of the following

of steelhead come into Kodiak Island, across

week, Splinter approached Crowe. “Johnny

the channel. It could happen. Arnie found a

“Well, what about landing a Beaver at the

said we could use the Cessna tomorrow; he

creek with a small run of steelhead. Mondo-

mouth?”

wants us to scout the coast for a fresh push

giant steelhead! Maybe like the Kispiox River down in B.C.—a genetic strain of giant fish!”

“And that’s where he crashed?”

of silvers.”

“Not so good. You know how the wind can kick up over there. Plus, big boulders are

Crowe smiled. “If things look right, we can

scattered like tank traps in that little cove.

drop into Arnie’s Creek.”

The creek’s clear, but the bay’s chalky from “That’s where he crashed,” Splinter said.

glacier melt. No matter the tide you might

The Cessna 206 was an excellent bush plane,

“Nobody notices the creek anymore because

tear a float or flip the plane. Nobody buzzing

boasting the Lycoming 300 hp engine and

nobody cares. The main rivers are the ones

the coast would take it seriously. You’d have

a set of heavy-duty Alaska Tundra tires.

that draw the big silver runs. Anybody flying

to really want to put in there and land a

Hard-packed beach would be no problem,

over Arnie’s Creek and maybe seeing a few

wheel plane on that little low-tide beach.”

assuming the strip was long enough and no

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bear digs or driftwood limbs were in the way.

through his headset. “You spend all your

“Big steelhead!”

time staring at a damned drifting indicator, “Weather on the coast early tomorrow is

sometimes you forget to look up and see how

“It’s a hike, but that’s where we want to

predicted to be clear and calm early, with

incredible Alaska really is.”

be,” Crowe said. “There’s more good holding

the wind picking up during the morning

water higher, but we’d never have time to

as a system approaches,” Splinter said.

Splinter pointed ahead. “That’s our creek:

“According to the tide tables, we’ve got a

See the little beach tucked inside those rocky

15-foot swing. Low tide is at about 6:30—

points?”

not exactly ideal but, hell, if we wait for

reach it.”

The sloping beach was tight, with a belt of usable gravel well above the low tide.

everything to be perfect, we’ll never get a

“Doesn’t look like much. Looks like you could

Splinter came in low and dropped smoothly,

shot.”

jump across the outlet.”

maximizing the available strip. Close

“Sounds like we need to hit the creek first

“Well, if you couldn’t, that bear down there

clattered and bounced to a halt. Splinter

and then look for silvers.”

probably could.”

taxied back up the bar and turned the plane

brush and grass whizzed past as the plane

for a clean exit.

“That’s the way I figure it. Pack light, with

The brown blob grumped along the crescent

no extra weight. We’re wheels-up at first

of beach, pausing and staring as the plane

“Let’s hump it,” he said. “We’ve got maybe

light.”

buzzed past.

two hours before the tide becomes a real issue. It’ll swallow that beach in a hurry.”

The flight in the hot little Cessna across

Splinter made several low passes, tilting

the Aleutian Range took about an hour. The

and turning to give Crowe’s Costas the best

They each took a ready-rigged rod, and

coast was beautiful under the dawning sun.

vantage. The creek was clear, but low-angle

Crowe shouldered a small backpack. The

The glassy sound was rimmed by steep cliffs

light and dark bottom made spotting difficult.

hiking was relatively easy, but visibility

and backed by forested valleys and ragged

Spawned-out salmon were scattered through

was limited. “Hey, Bear! Ho, Bear! Coming

peaks. Chalky glacial runoffs clouded some

the shallows. The creek opened about a mile

through, Bear!”

streams while others ran clear. The weather

from the outlet, and a wide run beckoned

was CAVU—Clear and Visibility Unlimited.

below a sharp bend. Another swing past the

Walking was slow across a swampy stretch

run revealed several long, gray-green shadows

before they broke onto a firm ridge of

of spooking fish.

tundra rimmed by thick alders. As they

“Wow—freakin’ awesome,” Crowe crackled

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skirted the green cover a huge brown bear

the tailout and Crowe stopped, huffing and

rose up 20 yards away.

chuffing. The morning was cold, and he

Crowe said. “We’ll divide it. You pick first.”

made the rookie mistake of wearing one

Crowe paced to the head of the run, angling

“Son of a bitch!” yelled Crowe, waving his

heavy layer too many during the forced

out and around so as not to spook any fish,

arms. Splinter jumped close to provide a

march. Plus, bouncing off the Dominator

while his partner waded several steps into

single, more intimidating mass—Streamside

had jacked his temperature.

the flow and unfurled a short exploratory

Bear Tactics 101. But this Alpha boar was

line—Fish Close First. Both anglers began

not intimidated. The massive hips and

Crowe shucked his parka and peeled off

casting and nothing happened. They fished

sagging belly made his large head appear

his navy Guernsey sweater. The classic

for 20 or 30 minutes, each working slowly

small—pin-headed, the sure tip-off of a true

wool garment was an excellent insulator

downstream, before pulling back and

big boy. The mean beast rocked side-to-side

and, perhaps more important, a fond gift

converging.

and took a step forward with a ponderous

from an old girlfriend. He draped it over

paw. The heavy claws were ribbed with

a prominent boulder. The hair on his neck

Splinter said, “I’m gonna try stripping a big

white. The mouth was half open, showing

prickled. There, cut into the side of the

streamer, a black egg-sucking leech.” He

yellow incisors, and the dark, rheumy

smooth boulder, were deep and weathered

smiled. “Like Escritor Famoso.”

eyes glittered. One of the cubby ears was

slash marks: “AH.”

crimped down from an old injury.

“Good call. But no snagging, you potlicker.

“Check it out,” he said quietly. “Unless this

I’m switching to a smaller bead.” Crowe

“Whoa, that ear! He’s the Dominator!”

means ‘Assholes Halt,’ I reckon we’ve found

pawed through his box and held up an 8mm

Splinter breathed. “That’s the big boar that

it.”

orange-and-pink swirly painted bauble. “And

was over on the Swishak last month. He

I’m going to a lighter tippet. Big fish or no

chased us off several silver holes, trying to

They stood together and stared at the rock.

grab our hooked fish. He’s moved, or maybe

Then they looked at the craggy, icy wildness

this is his home territory!”

of the distant mountains.

Crowe fumbled with a puny can of bear

Splinter smiled. “Let’s go fishing.”

big fish, it’s too bright for heavy stuff.”

He snipped the 10-pound Maxima and reached in a pocket for a spool of 6. Many

spray and held ready, hoping he had the nozzle aimed in the right direction. The face-off lasted lingering moments until

bead masters prefer fluoro, but Crowe was old school and liked the way the more-

***

amid a buzzing halo of flies the bear

“This whole setup reminds me of the Rock

lumbered into the brush.

Hole, even that cut bank on the far side,”

buoyant mono allowed the bead to tumble in slow current.

They readdressed the stream. “We don’t

“Johnny said he’s the closest thing you’ll ever see to an honest 10-foot bear,” Splinter said. “He’s twice the size of most of the sows and young boars you see on these salmon rivers. Those old bears don’t like being around people. That’s probably why he’s holed up here. Enough fish for him, and he can run off any competition. That smaller bear we saw on the beach was probably just passing through.”

Crowe exhaled and eyed the uncertain brush. Then he glared at the piddly spray can. “Yeah, including us. We need a shotgun!

With slugs! I don’t think a bear like that will false charge. If he comes, we’ve got serious problems!”

The prime water waited ahead. No evidence of angling traffic was visible along the streamside bear trail. They approached

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have time to rest the water,” Crowe said.

the jaw of an upstream strike. He felt the

several times. It looked impossibly big.

“You want to switch stations?”

ponderous weight of a big fish yanking its

Crowe held firm, afraid to do anything.

head from side to side.

“Yeah, let’s flip-flop and see what happens.

Then, with a sucking boil, the fish screeched

You probably missed all the prime water,

The line curved. Then a gigantic steelhead

downstream. The angler countered with a

anyway. Let’s make it count. We’ve got

launched in a broadside leap. The scarlet-

Talarik-tuned response by lunging several

maybe 30 minutes before we’ve got to haul

slashed gill plate looked as big as a saucer.

steps to the rear to parry the quick-turning

ass.”

The buck was, without argument, north of

sag of slack. Then he sprinted fast to

40 inches.

maintain tension.

“Holy shit!”

Crowe smiled. Dacron spun from the reel as

Crowe snorted and walked to the middle stretch. He eased forward in the kneedeep flow. He flicked the bead rig up and

the fish continued down the long pool and

over several times, nodding at the way it

Splinter heard the commotion and turned

into a bend of riffles. Several times the line

worked, then pushed thigh-deep. His goal

as the fish jumped again. He reeled fast and

plucked rocks. Crowe stumbled once, falling

was to gain a drift past a humping bulge of

ran down the bank to join his partner.

to his knees on the bear trail but keeping

midstream water caused by a submerged

the rod and line away from tangles. The

boulder. The cast to the slick run was

“You’ve got the biggest trout in the world!”

steelhead reached a small pool and again

about 40 feet, blocked by a belt of faster,

he howled.

started sulking. Crowe closed the distance,

choppier current. The green fly line snaked The massive steelhead chugged upstream.

indicator and trailing bead rig above the

Crowe held the rod high and scrambled

rock. Crowe reached with the 10-foot stick

along the grassy bank to keep square to the

Splinter, the pilot, trotted close. He was

and threw a strong upstream mend; then he

sawing line. The fish plodded for lingering

worried. He lifted his watch. “You’ve been

promptly followed with a sharp half-mend

minutes, sulking against the strain of the

on that fish almost 20 minutes. The tide’s

downstream. The result of the quick one-two

rod. The wavering silhouette was visible

piled several yards of slack onto the choppy run, sufficient to allow six or eight feet of drag-free drift before the current grabbed the bellying line. It was classic Crowe, a masterful display of reading water and managing line. The indicator rode the slick flow. Abruptly, the fly line shot tight. Crowe hit on reflex, sidearm to set in the corner of

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gasping and panting. The fish would not

out and turned over, dropping the small

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move.

starting to roll big-time now! I don’t like

showing in chest waders over uneven

“You did a hell of a job there,” Crowe said,

this wind picking up, either. You’ve got to

terrain. They stopped, heaving and sweating.

measuring his words. He relaxed the death

do something quick, Crowe; no kidding,

grip on the side of the seat. The leather was

we’re getting way short on time!”

“Oh, no!” Splinter cried. “Look at the beach!”

cracked from years of bush service. “That’s

Crowe doubled the rod and leaned with

The gravel was almost gone. Incoming

sideways pressure. “He won’t budge. I don’t

chops under a nasty crosswind pushed and

Arnie’s silver trickle flashed below as the

think he’s on a rock; he’s just so big and

scrabbled scant yards below the parked

plane climbed smoothly, aiming above the

heavy!” Crowe felt the broom tail beat

plane. They ran to the Cessna, and Splinter

wind-whipped sound and the ancient and

slowly, going nowhere.

popped open the driver’s door. “Stow the

uncaring cliffs. Ahead waited blue sky and

about as tight as I ever want to call it.”

rods,” he yelled. “Just break ‘em down and

the white puffs of friendly clouds. Splinter

“No kidding! We’ve got to get out of here!”

toss ‘em behind the seat.”

adjusted his headset. “If that fish took

Crowe held the fly line against the

The engine cranked and roared, and Splinter

pounds. I know one thing,” he added. “I know

cork grip and pulled slowly, resolutely

ran through his checks. He was grateful

we’re not going to try to put Johnny’s 206 in

downstream. The steelhead jolted and the

for the bush pilot’s instinct that had

there again.”

line sprang slack.

positioned the plane for a quick exit. The

a deep breath it would have weighed 30

plane accelerated, digging and bouncing

“I know something else: We’re not going

“Damn it!” Crowe cursed, but he was

and scattering wet gravel. The right wing

to hike in and camp overnight. Not in

already reeling fast and following Splinter.

dipped, almost clipping the water. The load

Dominator’s bedroom. Remember that guy

They jogged, high-stepping across the

needed at least two hundred yards, and

years ago that was killed and eaten trying

spongy tundra and floundering through

Crowe blanched as the usable beach seemed

to live with the bears down near Hallo Bay?”

low patches of frog water. They reached

to vanish under the nose. Splinter yanked

the high berm within 20 minutes, a strong

the plane into the sky and they were clear.

The plane leveled. Splinter peered at the real

Neither spoke for lingering moments.

Alaska far below. “Well, now what?”

“I don’t know,” Crowe said. “We’ll think of something. Besides, I left that wool Guernsey on Arnie’s rock.”

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On a revered North Georgia stream, massive hemlocks, low-lying rhododendron, and mountain laurel choke out the light. Trying to see your fly drifting on the water is often like trying to find a speck of sand floating on an oil slick. Angler Adam White finds a pocket of light and tries to coax a brook trout into the glow.

Photo: Sammy Chang

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Join the Ruffed Grouse Society & American Woodcock Society today!

Help us celebrate the 60th anniversary of the Ruffed Grouse Society. Your membership dollars go toward forest wildlife conservation that benefits ruffed grouse and American woodcock, and hundreds of other wildlife species including songbirds, white-tailed deer, and pollinators.

Forests are essential, not just for wildlife, but for all life. As we face unprecedented challenges, we are uniting conservationists to improve forests for our wildlife and our future.

RUFFEDGROUSESOCIETY.ORG

PHOTO: JIM MCCANN

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