Strung Magazine - Summer 2021

magazine

ISLAND OF MISFIT DOGS REBUILDING A LEGEND STRIPERS IN THE SURF THE ART OF FLUIDITY BEYOND SALMON WHITE WING

Summer 2021 INDEPENDENT, PASSIONATE, UNCOMPROMISING STRUNG MAGAZINE

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“When a man is part of his canoe, he is part of all that canoes have ever known.”

—Sigurd Olson, The Singing Wilderness Ethan O’Brien walks his canoe back upriver after a highly successful (and beer-filled) day casting small dry flies to fussy rainbow trout in Central Oregon. Photo: T. Nolan

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“A wild trout is magic enough for me. I want to see sunlight slicing a shaded pool and a jeweled fish arrowing up from the bottom for my little fly. The apparition is as quick as a camera’s shutter and as slow as life. Dark water. Slanting ray of sun. Trout flashes, moment passes. Image lasts.”

—Datus Proper, Running Waters A wary rainbow trout moves in to inspect Ryan Brenneke’s fly in the shallow, crystal-clear water of a Central Oregon river. Photo: T. Nolan

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Contents

WHENCE IT CAME: REBUILDING A LEGEND Keith R. Crowley “If you press him hard enough, Damian Wilmot might tell you he’s a pretty fair fishing guide on a pretty fair trout stream in northwest Wisconsin. He’ll likely also tell you he’s an itinerant trout bum and bird hunter. He may even mention some of the incredible furtrade era artifacts he has pulled from the Bois Brule, a river that was crucial to French voyageurs three centuries ago. But he will surely tell you about his meticulously restored Joe Lucius Guide Canoe.”

SHADOWS, SPOKES, SURF, AND STRIPERS Jerry Audet “Without a light I have no thoughts of “next,” only of “now” because the terrain becomes visible only a fraction of a second before it’s already behind me. Make a wrong move in this rocky terrain and the consequences are high and usually painful. It pulls all your focus to the present. It would certainly be faster (and safer) to ride with a light, but being seen would defeat the purpose of the bike in the first place: to be alone, in the dark, fly fishing for striped bass.”

WHITE WING A Photo Essay by Russell A. Graves “The South Texas sun was still searing as it sank over the small town of Hondo. For most of the day, temperatures had hovered in the upper 90s—not unusual for the first of September in Texas. Still, the brutal heat did little to deter the hordes of hunters who look forward to this day all year. Around here, the opening day of dove season is a holiday of sorts. After a long, hot summer, hunters are finally able to dust off their shotguns and put an end to the off-season.”

RESERVOIR DOGS Dave Zoby “Lately I’ve been trying to convince myself that skulking off into the obscure landscape with my two dogs and a fly rod is a threshold experience equal to globetrotting for exotic fish. Pretty early in the experiment, my feigned enjoyment became actual enjoyment.”

FROGGER Bryan Gregson “I’ve seldom had the opportunity to photograph any type of bass, and I had never been on a shoot where smallmouth were the target. Still, a native fish in its native habitat gets me excited. Schultz explained that Huron smallmouth eat a variety of things—small bluegill, salamanders, insects, baitfish—but during the summer when they’re eating frogs, it’s all about frogs. Frogs and smallmouth go together like French fries and gravy.”

THE SURVEY PARTYAndrew McKean “An old rancher told me about this place, just as he told me about the ridge studded with stone teepee rings farther south, but he let me find both for myself. It took almost 10 years of looking before, one gray afternoon with biting snow in the wind and a mule deer tag in my pocket, I found the graves.”

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BRETT FERENCE’S ISLAND OF MISFIT DOGS Tom Keer “My friend Brett Ference collects dogs that no one wants. On his string, only one came from good lines, but take a look at his Vermont kennel and you’ll see bright eyes and cracking tails that aren’t indicative of their origin. Ference has never made a call to find a dog; they just sort of wind up with him. I should know—several years ago I placed one with him.”

THE SUMMER GRAB-AND-GO GEAR GUIDE Strung Staff You never know what summer is going to throw at you, but this grab bag of gear is perfect for every summer trip.

RATIONS & INTOXICANTS Jenny Nguyen-Wheatley “Vietnam’s signature sandwich includes an assortment of thinly sliced cold cuts, generous amounts of pork liver pâté, and full-fat mayonnaise, and it is always garnished with plenty of carrot and daikon pickles and fresh herbs for balance. Making Vietnamese cold cuts isn’t something that I’ve delved into yet, so for this issue’s recipe, I’m mirroring another classic: grilled pork bánh mì. Pork is used heavily in Vietnamese cooking, and luckily, I just recently came into some wild boar meat from Texas.”

NIGHT Words by Kevin Kennedy, Illustrations by Tim Ryan “The song of those badlands coyotes, that frigid Montana night, and the sensation of wellbeing as we packed that deer remain with me, as do the individual voices of my hounds, the delicate clicking of crawdad claws in a tin pot, the distant talk of migrating geese, and the bugling of elk, in tight or a ridge away. Those memories are like the smiles and laughter of old friends: unseen, unheard, but vivid and indelible, and enhanced by darkness.”

BEYOND SALMON: FISHING OUTSIDE THE BOX IN ALASKAN SALT WATER Words and Photos by E. Donnall Thomas Jr., Additional Photos by Lori Thomas “As much as I love fly fishing for salmon at sea, salmon come and salmon go—that’s just their nature. And when they’ve gone, it pays to have a Plan B.” BRETT JAMES SMITH AND THE ART OF FLUIDITY Ryan Sparks “What is important in these outdoor paintings is mood, a feeling of how things were and still can be,” he says. “The idea is to convey the natural ruggedness of the sport without missing the subtle nuances that make the experience personal.”

OF SECRET TAPES AND SOCKEYE LAKES Words by Reed Knappe, Photos by Jay Beyer “If the struggle to keep Pebble undeveloped and preserve Bristol Bay fails, the costs will be incalculable. Much of the damage inflicted on the natural world over the last 200 years was inadvertent, shaped by ignorance of earth’s fragile ecosystems and finite natural resources.

No such excuses exist in Bristol Bay. We know better.”

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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.

Wild Foods Editor: JENNY NGUYEN-WHEATLEY Editors At Large: EHOR BOYANOWSKY

ALEXEI JD BOYANOWSKY JOE DOGGETT

MARK HATTER

Copy Editor: LEILA BEASLEY

Website: MICHAEL DUCKWORTH

ALEXA SPARKS

CREATIVE CONTRIBUTORS Jerry Audet

Kevin Kennedy

Jay Beyer

Toby Nolan

Keith Crowley

Tim Ryan

Russel Graves

Brett James Smith

Bryan Gregson

Lori Thomas

Brian Grossenbacher COVER

“Barring love I’ll take my life in large doses alone—rivers, forests, fish, grouse, mountains. Dogs.”

—Jim Harrison, Wolf: A False Memoir Trigger Dawes riding shotgun on the Henry’s Fork with Jim Hickey and Mike Dawes on the oars.

Photo Brian Grossenbacher

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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For Subscription inquiries visit: www.STRUNGMAG.com For Advertising inquiries: advertising@STRUNGMAG.com Editorial inquiries: editor@STRUNGMAG.COM All other inquiries: business@STRUNGMAG.COM ©2020 Strung Magazine. All rights reserved.

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letter from the EDITOR This is an exciting time for Strung. In the fall of 2020, we announced a fleet of new department editors who have since brought a depth of outdoor knowledge and powerful storytelling to our magazine. It has been a pleasure to get to know them better over the last several issues.

Jenny Nguyen-Wheatley’s approach to wild food is both lyrical and grounded—a hard line to walk, but something she does issue after issue. Take, for example, her recipes for Grilled Wild Boar Bánh Mì and Plum Brandy in this issue. Every time she sends me her work, I quickly compile the ingredients, cook the thing, take a bite, and wonder how she does it.

a deadline approaching, he makes me lose sleep at night. I might get a text saying, “I’m camping in the desert researching the mating behavior of Gambrel’s quail and won’t have cell service or internet access for a month,” or “Can’t talk right now. I’m on the Trans-Siberian Railway somewhere north of Mongolia, and the Russian soldiers on the train are questioning the taxidermied boar’s head I have with me.”

Then at the last possible minute he turns in writing that is incredibly well researched, beautifully written, and thought provoking.

How he does it remains a mystery.

By contrast, our Upland Editor, Tom Keer, is a scoundrel. Don’t get me wrong: I mean that in the best possible way. Somewhere along the line he figured out that turning a journalistic eye to the outdoors results in writing that is humble, insightful, and refreshing. If he could shoot as well as he writes, the grouse and woodcock near his home would be in serious trouble.

Our Conservation Editor, Reed Knappe, is aloof. I never hear from him, and he doesn’t answer the phone. When we have

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From there, McKean worked for Montana Fish, Wildlife & Parks before becoming the Hunting Editor for Outdoor Life. McKean served as Hunting Editor for four years and as Outdoor Life’s Editor-in-Chief for another four years before beginning a career as a freelance writer and editor.

He has been a finalist for an American Magazine Award (ELLE), won a few state conservationist awards, and is a hunter education instructor as well as a high school track coach.

I look forward to getting to know McKean better, but I can already tell you one thing: The guy is a hunter. He’s hunted five continents, taken all but a handful of North American big game species, and is perfectly at home in Eastern Montana, where other, more citified folks might lose their minds. “I came for a job and stayed put for the last 20 years because the hunting and fishing are so good,” he explained. Although he has hunted Spanish ibex with a crossbow and paddled through British Columbia in search of moose, his first contribution to Strung is about hunting in his backyard. In it he explores the deep sense of place that hunters develop after years of burning boot leather and surveying their hunting grounds.

It seems whenever I speak to Strung’s Waterfowl Editor, Don Thomas, he is either heading out or coming back from a hunting and fishing trip. To say Thomas is well versed in the outdoors is the understatement of the century. He lives a life we mere mortals dream of: hunting with a bow; fly fishing for everything that swims; loading dogs, decoys, and shotguns; or following his pointing dogs around. He’s also the only person I know who has caught a halibut on the fly. It doesn’t hurt that the guy is also a damn fine writer.

Speaking of writers, I am continually amazed by Dave Zoby’s ability to produce the most meaningful and nuanced writing in the outdoor space. In an industry fueled by ego, his work is both brutally honest and hauntingly beautiful. We are immensely fortunate to have him as our Fly Fishing Editor.

a week—and then spend the other week roaming his beat with a fly rod and an eager dog.

When we announced these new positions, many readers noticed a gap. Where, they asked, is the Big Game Editor? Are you still including big game content? It was a big hole to fill, and we were waiting for the right person to fill it. I’m happy to say it was worth the wait. Andrew McKean has been writing about the outdoors for more than 30 years, and I’m excited to introduce him as Strung’s Big Game Editor. McKean grew up on a Missouri farm but followed the pull of the West to Eastern Montana, where he began working for weekly newspapers for his first “real jobs” before joining the staff of the defunct Fishing & Hunting News. He found he could compile content for the biweekly in the span of

When I asked McKean what else I might add to this introduction, his response was fitting: “I don’t know what else to add.

That sounds like a decent obituary to me.”

I am humbled to work with such authentic and talented people.

Keep casting,

Ryan Sparks Editor-in-Chief

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JERRY AUDET

Jerry Audet is a writer, photographer, lifelong fisherman, and general adventurer. He writes on a variety of Northeast angling topics, across multiple disciplines. Specifically, the philosophy and psychology of fishing.

He has fallen in love with photography, and strives to capture exceptional images to accompany his written pieces. While Jerry is most well-known for his dedication to shore-based striped bass angling, affectionately known as “surf fishing,” Jerry is also a passionate backcountry bass and trout fisherman and an accomplished trail runner and mountain biker.

He also holds academic degrees in Biology (B.S.) and Physiology (PhD).

Jerry is enthusiastic, intensely driven, and highly curious. He brings these traits to all his professional and personal pursuits. He currently resides in south-central Massachusetts with his wife and two schnauzers. You can find more about Jerry at www.indeepoutdoors.com

JAY BEYER

Jay Beyer never planned on being a photographer. He didn’t go to a fancy photo school and he didn’t study under an artistic mentor. He picked up a camera one day and started taking it on trips. It didn’t take long, and his photo business was keeping him so busy he had to quit pounding nails and just shoot photos. Now, he travels the world capturing stunning imagery of skiers, snowboarders, hunters, bikers, climbers, runners, and fly anglers doing what they love. When he’s home he spends as much time as he can with his amazingly understanding wife and overly energetic son who are the fuel behind his motivation.

KEITH CROWLEY

Keith Crowley is an award-winning writer and photographer and the author of three full-length books on the outdoors: Gordon MacQuarrie: The Story of an Old Duck Hunter, Wildlife in the Badlands, and Pheasant Dogs. His wildlife photography appears in many national and international publications, including National Geographic Explorer, The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, Paris Match Magazine, and The Times of London. When he is not traveling in search of new stories and images, you can find him at his home on a lake in northwest Wisconsin with his wife, Annette, and a collection of old dogs and old boats. You can see more of his written and photographic work at CrowleyImages.com.

RUSSEL GRAVES

If you’ve read any Texas-based magazines over the past 25 years, chances are you’ve seen some of Russell’s work. Since 1989, he’s been traveling the state telling authentic Texas stories with his camera and his words. A graduate of Dodd City High School and East Texas State University, Russell was an ag science teacher in Childress, Texas, for 16 years where he was named Texas Agriscience Teacher of the Year on three occasions. After leaving in 2009, he continued to photograph, write, and speak. In 2010, he began delving into television production.

His first documentary film, Bois d’Arc Goodbye, was filmed entirely in Fannin County and chronicled his and his brother’s traversing the creek by canoe before a lake forever changed the landscape. The film aired to a prime-time, national audience. Recently, Russell’s focus has pivoted to leading educational photo tours. In addition, he’s writing two books scheduled for release in 2021. Russell lives on a small farm north of Dodd City, Texas, with his wife ,Kristy, and their two children, Bailee and Ryan. While he spends a considerable amount of time creating content for clients, he still finds passion in working and developing the land.

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Brian Grossenbacher has shot commercial campaigns for Yeti, Orvis, Simms, Costa, Shimano, Mossy Oak, and Case Knives.

His work has taken him off the beaten path through Central and South America, Russia, New Zealand, Mongolia, Myanmar, the Bahamas, and many locations in between. He is a regular contributor to Field and Stream, Outdoor Life, Grays Sporting Journal, Covey Rise, Shooting Sportsman, Gun Dog, The Drake, and many more outdoor publications. He has provided all of the photography for The Orvis Guide to Upland Hunting, Training Bird Dogs with Ronnie Smith Kennels, and is currently collaborating with Tom Rosenbauer to create The Orvis Book of Trout.

BRYAN GREGSON

Bryan Gregson is an accomplished independent photographer and cinematographer specializing in creative visuals. Based in Bozeman, Montana, he travels the globe working on assignments and commissions in some of the most remote corners of the planet. Known for his unique vision and storytelling abilities, Bryan is the humbled recipient of numerous awards and today is a leading source of outdoor imagery. Bryan’s work has been featured internationally in publications and ad campaigns for Patagonia, Volvo Cars, National Geographic, Yellow Dog Flyfishing, Orvis, Yeti, Sage, Trout Unlimited, American Angler, The FlyFish Journal, The Drake, and the Big Sky Journal, among others.

KEVIN KENNEDY

Kevin Kennedy loves to hunt and fish throughout the West, yet still enjoys the opportunities available within a day’s drive from his lifelong home in the Puget Sound region of Washington that he shares with his wife, Laurie, and their Cesky Fousek, Colton. Kevin’s enthusiasm for new adventures has hindered his progression toward being an expert in any outdoor discipline. But, as an adequate game cook, a so-so fly caster, a reasonable bird dog trainer, an okay shot with a recurve, rifle, or shotgun, and a passable hand in the stern of a canoe, he continues to have plenty of opportunities to find new and fun ways to aspire to be “not bad” at the next thing.

BRETT JAMES SMITH

For the last 30 years Brett Smith has been known for his authentic depictions of sportsmen in the outdoors. They are authentic because he’s lived the experience. His paintings have a classic style that harken back to simpler times when people hunted and fished for sustenance as much as the pleasure of being out in the woods. Brett’s oils and watercolors are collected by those who recognize their own experience through his work. As Brett explains his success: “I have been fortunate to have found a place in the market that allows me to develop my skills and gives me a reason and a subject to paint every day.” See more of Brett’s work at brettsmith.com

CONTRIBUTORS

BRIAN GROSSENBACHER

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Rebuilding a Legend

By Keith R. Crowley If you press him hard enough, Damian

He has a special affinity for Lucius and his

Wilmot might tell you he’s a pretty fair

handmade guide boats. Wilmot believes

fishing guide on a pretty fair trout stream in

the Lucius boat he rescued is circa 1900,

northwest Wisconsin. He’ll likely also tell you

maybe even as early as 1895, and handbuilt

he’s an itinerant trout bum and bird hunter.

by Lucius on the banks of the great river.

He may even mention some of the incredible

Resuscitating the craft and making it Brule-

fur-trade era artifacts he has pulled from

worthy didn’t happen easily.

the Bois Brule, a river that was crucial to French voyageurs three centuries ago. But

It was part luck that brought this boat to

he will surely tell you about his meticulously

Wilmot—and it was part destiny. He had

restored Joe Lucius Guide Canoe.

helped restore another Lucius boat with local boat builder Stub Swenson a few

Wilmot is immensely proud of that boat,

years back and loved the way it handled

and he should be. He spent two years

the swift Brule waters. “There is nothing

resurrecting the 100-plus-year-old Lucius

like fishing out of a wooden boat,” Wilmot

boat from certain doom, and now it’s a thing

exclaims. He enjoyed it so much that he

of aesthetic and functional beauty. Most

was on the lookout for more of the wooden

important, it’s back ghosting over the Brule,

canoes. When he learned about this one,

serving as Wilmot’s guide boat. Calling the

he immediately went to check it out.

20-foot canoe lovely is an understatement

Lucius was a prolific builder, even if not

akin to calling Wilmot a decent fishing

many survive. “Those boats got used hard,”

guide.

explains Wilmot, “but this one was really in a bad way. It was literally on its way to the

With a snow-white beard and an even whiter

dump at one point.

shock of tousled hair, the cigar-chomping,

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50-something Wilmot looks the part of

“Once I got it home and looked at it closely,

an Old Brule guide. He speaks with quiet

I thought there was no way it could be done

reverence about the river, the fish, and

right. I was going to turn it into a planter

especially the rivermen who came before

in my yard,” says Wilmot. “Seriously. I was

him: men like Joe Lucius, Johnny LaRock,

going to fill it with dirt and put flowers in it.

George Babb, and Johnny Degerman.

But Stub reminded me that anything can be

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fixed, and Lloyd convinced me we should try

materials later, Wilmot guides out of it daily

made it a natural and efficient corridor for

to bring her back.

and sometimes runs the river just to run the

commerce—primarily furs in those days—

river. “There’s no point leaving it sitting on

from the center of the continent to the

“I can’t begin to describe the condition it

the trailer,” Wilmot explains. “It was built

Atlantic and Gulf coasts.

was in when I got it,” says Wilmot. “It had

for this river, and it’s tough enough to take

been stored in a boat shed where the roof

whatever the Brule gives it.” The Brule has

Joe Lucius came to the Brule region in the

had collapsed. The hull had caved in, and

been “giving it” to boats for a long, long

early 1880s. He was a settler, a builder,

there were massive breaks on both ends

time. More than one modern canoe made of

and a fishing guide on the Brule and St.

of the boat.” All the ribs, the planks, the

aluminum, fiberglass, or even Kevlar has had

Croix rivers. Lucius Lake and Little Joe

decks—everything needed replacement

its spine broken on infamous Brule boulders.

Rapids on the Brule River are named for

or major repairs. According to Wilmot, “It The 44-mile-long Brule draws people from

from the Brule in his adopted hometown

new one from scratch. No one in their right

around the world and has for centuries.

of Solon Springs. He was a handy guy to

mind would have looked at that boat and

The first European to travel the Brule was

have around, having learned much about

said, ‘let’s fix it.’”

Daniel Greysolon, Sieur du Lhut, in 1680.

building things that float at the shipyards

Duluth, Minnesota, was named for this

in Superior, Wisconsin.

But that’s exactly what he did.

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him, as is Lucius Woods a few miles away

would’ve been so much easier just to build a

French soldier and explorer. Sieur du Lhut discovered that the headwaters of the Brule,

About the time Lucius arrived, lumber

Wilmot removed the shattered hull from

flowing north to Lake Superior, came within

barons discovered the vast tracts of old

a riverside shed and carted it to his friend

a mile of the headwaters of the St. Croix

growth white and red pine. Iron ore was

Lloyd Hautajarvi’s workshop in Duluth,

River, flowing south to the Mississippi River

also discovered nearby in both northern

Minnesota, 40 miles away. Two years, 700

and the Gulf of Mexico beyond. This short

Michigan and northern Minnesota. Railroads

man-hours, and several thousand dollars in

portage from one watershed to another

crisscrossed the region, and commerce was

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Seriously.

I was going to fill it with dirt and put flowers in it. king. Somehow, however, the Brule River

fishing holes are found throughout the

Everyone used Lucius-built boats back then.

Valley was left unscathed. Perhaps because

central section of the river. Just mention

Wilmot estimates that about 90 percent of

of the region’s unique beauty, early settlers

May’s Rips, Rainbow Bend, Lucius Lake,

the boats on the river during the end of the

and anglers fought to hold back the forces

Wildcat Rapids, or McDougall Springs to

19th and first half of the 20th centuries were

of industry, and they succeeded: The Brule

the Brule faithful, and their heart rates will

built by Lucius. LaRock apprenticed under

Valley looks much as it did in its primordial

climb and their casting arms will start to

Lucius and eventually began building a few

beginnings as the last ice age glaciers

twitch involuntarily.

of his own guide boats, too. But if you saw

retreated north.

an angler in the front of a canoe, sitting in a As it has been for more than a century,

high-back chair, with a stoic guide standing

What the ice left behind was the perfect

the middle section of the Brule is home to

in the rear directing the proceedings like a

recipe for trout: Clear artesian springs feed

numerous old estates owned by wealthy

Venetian gondolier, chances are they were in

the Brule headwaters with cold, pristine

families from Duluth, St. Paul, Chicago, and

a Lucius boat.

water. The sinewy upper river winds through

beyond. For most of its modern history

wide bogs, alder-studded marshes, and

the Brule has been a summer getaway for

To build these immense summer lodges

upland swales until it narrows and begins a

families with names like Rand, Ordway,

required a certain level of ingenuity by

35-mile-long descent toward Lake Superior.

Congdon, and Weyerhaeuser. Originally they

the local tradesmen. Joe Lucius was one

Mucky bottoms and shallow gravel runs

came for the clearwater springs, the cool

of the most sought-after builders, and he

lead into broad, still pools. The river darts

summer days, and the brisk nights, but

determined that the most practical way

between boulders and skips over ledges

when they discovered the trout fishing, the

to move the required lumber up and down

until it begins a steeper, faster run for its

legend of the Bois Brule was born. As word

the river was using big, wide canoes. Since

last dozen miles, where it dives through clay

spread among the wealthy elite, big rustic

no one in the region was building such a

cliffs and slick passages to Lake Superior.

lodges and compounds were constructed

craft in the late 1800s, he did it himself,

In its upper reaches it is ideal trout-rearing

along the banks of the river. And they

perfecting a design stout enough to handle

water, and where there are trout there are

hosted some famous visitors.

the rocks and ledges of the river but nimble

trout anglers.

Five U.S. Presidents have fished the Brule:

enough to maneuver through tight chutes

Ulysses S. Grant was first, coming to the

and shallow riffles. For more than 20 years

In years past, the Winneboujou Train Station

river in 1870. Grover Cleveland was next in

of building riverside lodges, Lucius boats

platform, situated close to the midpoint

1880. Calvin Coolidge, Herbert Hoover, and

carried tons of construction materials

of the river, was the busiest station on

Dwight Eisenhower all fished the “River

through the treacherous Brule rapids and

the river. Set on the rail line built by the

of Burnt Wood.” Today, celebrities and

across countless shallow rock bars. When

Duluth, South Shore and Atlantic Railway,

VIPs still fly into a private runway just up

the work was done, Lucius converted the big

the Winneboujou Station saw thousands

the hill from Stone’s Bridge and another

canoes into guide boats, complete with thru-

of anglers and countless trout cross its

downstream at Cedar Island.

hull fitted livewells.

platform from the late 1800s through

Most of them come for brief fishing

the mid-1900s. The Winneboujou Station,

sojourns, but when President Calvin Coolidge

The lodge owners saw the newly minted

named for a mystical Anishinaabe (Ojibwe)

came in June 1928, he stayed for three

Lucius fishing boats and turned Joe loose to

prophet, is long gone, and now a steel and

months, making the Pierce Estate on the

build a fleet of them. By the turn of the 20th

concrete bridge crosses the river there. But

Brule’s Cedar Island his “Summer White

century, the big Brule lodges had dozens of

the landing itself is still a popular put-in and

House.” Legendary Native American Brule

Lucius custom canoes in their boathouses.

take-out point on the river.

riverman Johnny LaRock guided him that

Just upstream from Winneboujou lies the most storied part of the river. Famous

summer, and Coolidge fished with LaRock

That’s when Lucius transitioned from

out of a Lucius canoe named “Beaver Dick.”

local guide and contractor to full-time professional boat builder. He set up his shop

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in Solon Springs and streamlined his boat-

extravagances. For one thing he used

building process. Many of those shop-built

mahogany for most of the secondary woods.

canoes survive in various states of repair—

“Lucius used what he had, which means

or, more commonly, disrepair—throughout

a lot of painted white pine for seats and

the region. The few Lucius boats still in

decks,” explains Wilmot. “But if he could

existence sit idle in long-term storage. “You

have gotten his hands on mahogany, he

still see them in boathouses up and down

would’ve used it.” The planks and ribs and

the river,” Wilmot laments, “but they never

keel are the same materials as the original:

get used anymore.”

white cedar, white oak, and white pine, respectively. The results are exquisite.

The earliest Lucius boats, like the one Wilmot restored, were built by hand on the

Like Lucius before him, Wilmot wasn’t a

banks of the

boat builder in the

Brule. “You can

beginning—but

tell those early

he is surely the

boats,” Wilmot,

world’s foremost

a machinist by

expert on Lucius

trade, explains,

boat construction

“because the

now. Born in

rib spacing

Ohio, Wilmot’s

varies just

family brought

slightly. The

him to northwest

later boats are

Wisconsin as a

all precisely

boy; he’s been

measured

on the river ever

and dead on.” Wilmot still marvels at

since. “My dad was a fly fisherman,” says

the workmanship in the original Lucius

Wilmot, “and he brought me here early.”

canoe. “The stem and stern were the real masterpieces. They were the only pieces

Wilmot is inescapably connected to the

we didn’t really have to fix,” Wilmot says.

history of the river, and tradition is a crucial

“Lucius used tamarack knees. Incredibly

part of the Brule experience for Wilmot and

strong stuff, and you don’t have to bend it

the people he guides. Silk may no longer

into shape.” The knee is the natural flare

be the fly line of choice, but split bamboo

where the trunk transitions into the roots,

rods and vintage Hardy reels combined with

and as Wilmot explains, “It was a favorite of

traditional Brule fly patterns like the Rat-

wooden boat builders for a reason.”

faced McDougall are always ready for use in Wilmot’s boat.

Wilmot did take a few liberties when he rebuilt this boat. You might call them

That interest in history was mirrored by

Brule River fishing guide Damian Wilmot nets a brown trout on the Brule with angler Matson Holbrook in a 1895 Joe Lucius guide canoe Wilmot meticulously restored over the course of two years.

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President Calvin Coolidge (below) fishes the Brule River in Douglas County, Wisconsin, with Native American guide John LaRock in 1928.

The canoe, built by local boat builder Joe Lucius, is named "Beaver Dick” and in the middle is Coolidge’s white collie, Rob Roy.

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Wilmot’s friend and frequent companion

Holbrook, who prefers bamboo to graphite,

in the front chair of the boat, Matson

rolls onto an 18-inch brown, just as the sun

Holbrook. Holbrook has been coming here

dips behind the towering pines and Wilmot

with his family since 1945. Pilgrimages to

reaches out with a handmade net. A few

the river still intoxicate Holbrook, especially

quick photos and lasting smiles see the

the scent of a sultry summer evening:

trout disappear back from whence it came.

“It takes me right back to my childhood,” he says, as he eases a dry fly onto the

Wilmot’s infatuation with the Brule

flickering surface of the river. In the back

convinced him to buy a small cabin just

of the boat, Wilmot silently maneuvers

a shout from Stone’s Landing, a famous

the craft through the misty water with

put-in. From his front stoop he can throw

deft touches of the pole. It is an ethereal

a shotgun under his arm and follow his

experience to witness, and it’s easy to

German shorthairs, Woof and Casper,

believe that this scene has replayed a

into the grouse and woodcock coverts in

million times on this bend in the Brule.

autumn. Or he can wander down the trail to Stone’s Bridge, often just to watch the

There are no false moves from Wilmot.

clear waters pass by.

His skill at placing the boat in exactly the right place has been honed by decades

For generations, Stone’s Landing has

of experience and near daily excursions

been a favorite put-in for Brule anglers,

on his beloved river in the restored boat.

including famed outdoor writer Gordon

MacQuarrie, who grew up in Brule Country

creels. Although MacQuarrie was already

Today Wilmot takes anglers out in the

and was the outdoor editor for the

espousing the virtues of “putting them back

historic Lucius canoe as often as he can.

Milwaukee Journal from 1936 to 1956.

alive” in the mid-1950s, “catch and release”

“Sometimes they get it,” he says, “and

He knew all the Brule regulars, including

didn’t truly catch on for Brule anglers until

sometimes it’s just another wooden boat

Lucius, whom he called “one of the finest

late in the 20th century; by then, few big

to them.” Not surprisingly Wilmot has an

old gentlemen in the north.”

native trout remained.

affinity for those people who “get it.” And he is especially pleased when a brookie

MacQuarrie did much to popularize the Brule

For decades, a brook trout over 9 inches was

grabs a fly with the species’ famously

in the first half of the 20th century through

a noteworthy event, but through years of

reckless attitude.

his stories of the Old Duck Hunters (and

careful management of the river the fish

Fly Casters) Association in Field & Stream,

are back. Now, Wilmot regularly releases fish

Brook trout are what brought anglers to

Outdoor Life, and other magazines of the

twice that long. Browns over 20 inches are

the Brule in the first place, and those early

day. Beginning in 1931, MacQuarrie wrote

common, and they get much, much bigger,

sportsmen and women used Joe Lucius

about the immense brook trout found on

too. Bragging-class rainbows live there as

boats. Wilmot uses them now. I believe “full

the Brule in the early days, even letting on

well. “Kitchen Sink Fish” is what MacQuarrie

circle” is the proper phrase.

that there might still be 22-inch native trout

called them.

lurking in certain holes. But MacQuarrie was not the first, or only one, to do so. In 1846,

Salmon and steelhead make spawning runs

a passing land surveyor wrote, “It surpasses

each autumn from the big lake, too. Yet for

all other streams in its brook trout, some of

Wilmot there’s particular satisfaction in

them weighing 10 pounds.”

sliding the net under a nice Brule brookie, lifting it over the gunwales of the Lucius

Because of those brookies, the Brule was

canoe to admire it for a moment, and then

fished hard—exploited, some might say, as

returning the speckled gift to the river.

You can contact Wilmot through his website, Fly by Night Guide Service at fbnguideservice.com

countless trout went home in fishermen’s

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SHADOWS, SPOKES, SURF, AND STRIPERS

By Jerry Audet

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Riding a bike at night is a visceral experience. It necessitates a level of concentration not required when riding during the day, particularly off-road. Normally mundane terrain becomes technical and punishing, and the feeling of speed, even at a modest pace, intensifies in the finite beam of a headlight. Yet I go without a light on most nights because it gives away my fishing spots.

Without a light I have no thoughts of “next,” only of “now” because the terrain becomes visible only a fraction of a second before it’s already behind me. Make a wrong move in this rocky terrain and the consequences are high and usually painful. It pulls all your focus to the present. It would certainly be faster (and safer) to ride with a light, but being seen would defeat the purpose of the bike in the first place: to be alone, in the dark, fly fishing for striped bass.

I use my bike in the relentless pursuit of stripers along the coast of New England.

Catching stripers with a fly rod from shore is as much about combating the elements in which they live as it is actually hooking and catching them. Stripers love nasty weather and rocky, boulder-filled shorelines, which in combination makes reaching, hooking, and landing fish a tightrope walk of skill and luck.

And yet despite all there is to appreciate about striped bass, the thing I love most

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about shore fishing for them is the necessity

week. The collateral damage isn’t fun, but

of fishing at night. Small stripers can be

you have to accept it.

caught almost around the clock, but large

Striper fishing, especially from shore, is a secretive affair. The ocean may be the

fish—those over 15 pounds and topping out

A huge contingent of anglers comprise the

last great wilderness, but the New England

around 60—are easier to fool in the dark.

“dawn patrol”: Those who head to the surf

coast is highly developed, clogged and

They use the dark as camouflage to ambush

as the sun is rising, retreating shortly after

choked by mega-mansions and privately

their prey and are nocturnal masters of the

full light. By contrast, I love the night and

owned shoreline. It can be hard to access

New England inshore waters.

everything that comes with it. At night,

stretches of fishy shoreline, and as a result

our primary sense—sight—is stripped

competition for the remaining space, and

Catching stripers involves sleep deprivation,

down to a small fraction of what it is in

the fish that occupy it, can be fierce. The

endless blind casting, and long hours spent

daylight. Without sight, the experience of

first rule of surf fishing is, Don’t talk about

alone in the night. Compared with sight

fishing becomes more enveloping; all our

where you surf fish. If I find a productive

fishing for bonefish or technical spring

senses must work together to make up

slice of shore, I guard it like a precious jewel.

creek trout, nighttime fishing for stripers

the difference. Fishing at night is textured

Only my closest friend knows where I fish,

is barbaric. It’s all about maximum casting

and rich and has an edge of fear to it. I still

and even he gets a handful of lies every

distance, huge fly profiles, and mental and

get nervous in the dark surf, even after

season.

physical fortitude. To many anglers, fishing

thousands of hours doing it. Particularly

at night is lonely and uncomfortable. It

on inky new-moon nights, dense with fog, I

Despite substantial development and

can be frustrating, with countless tangles,

fight the sensation of being watched. And

angling competition, pockets of solitude

snarls, and broken bits of gear. I once broke

I’ve had things bump into me in the water.

persist along the Southern New England

six rods in a single season. Three in the same

Big things. Finned things.

coast. They are the last semblances of

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what the shore was like before humans

uncomfortable ride. On virtually any climb,

identity. Standing alone on the edge of a vast

encroached–diamonds in the rough. Some

the weight of the tires is an anchor dragging

abyss, in the dead of night, blindly hucking

are open sandy beaches, with rolling

you down. Fat bikes might look cool, but

12-inch flies into the dark, churning surf is an

dunes and pounding surf. Others are

many who buy them discover too late that

experience with no equal.

rocky coastlines, studded with barnacle-

they aren’t made for normal riding.

encrusted boulders and threaded with

I am not a fisherman who loves the feeling

strong tidal currents. Still others are quiet

However, my riding is hardly “normal,” and

of “fighting” and reeling in fish. It may be

shallow bays, placid and serene. Like an

my fat bike is a surf-fishing machine, a tool

thrilling, but it’s not the reason I spend

addict, I hunt these places; they are some

of singular purpose, with a custom-built rack

hundreds of hours a year wandering the

of my favorite places on Earth, not just

to hold my gear and rods. I could never use

coast in the middle of the night. For me

to fish, but simply to be. What most of

a normal bike to ride the terrain I take my

fishing is a collection of adventures and

these places have in common–the reason

fat bike on. It handles sand with relative

experiences; undertaking a series of mental

they remain relatively untapped–is that

ease. On harder, low-tide intertidal zones, it

and physical challenges; and relentlessly

the majority of anglers are unwilling to

flies. The upper limit of what I can roll over

competing with an adversary I will never

walk the distances required to fish them.

is staggering: My bike can tolerate even

control, conquer, or understand. It is the

Adding eight miles of walking to four

bowling-ball-sized rocks for short sections,

justification I use to immerse myself in the

hours of steady blind casting feels more

if the fishing spot requires it. Consequently,

wild and forge a relationship with the natural

like an ultra-marathon than a typical

the fat bike excels in the dark, where I can’t

world. All of this to simply say, it is so much

night of fishing.

always see what I’m pedaling over. Just keep

more than a tug at the end of my line.

the momentum going, and those bulbous I bought a fat tire bike (a “fat bike”) about

tires will keep you upright. The bike is a

Fishing for stripers under the glowing

seven years ago in an attempt to break down

plow, my body the ox, and with my mind I

cascade of the Milky Way is spiritual. Under

access barriers, seek more solitude, and

happily crack the whip.

that curtain of stars, any given night may

hopefully catch more fish. What I found is

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evolve into a meditation on life. Then–in

that a fat bike is a cumbersome, superfluous,

Following stripers into the depths of the night

almost perfect juxtaposition–finding,

inefficient behemoth of a bike. With gigantic

on my bike is an intoxicating experience. I have

casting to, and battling striped bass is

5-inch off-road tires, it doesn’t excel under

become devoted to what feels like a sanctified

a heart-pounding, raw, and exhilarating

normal trail conditions. On smooth, packed

purpose. Fishing is something we do and

contest of physical power and mental

trails it feels sluggish and numb. If the

not something we are, but I do believe that

endurance. And when it is finally time to go

trails become rough, the lack of suspension

certain passions match certain personalities

home, I get to bump through forests, over

on most fat bikes induces a bouncy,

so perfectly that they become part of our

dunes, and along unseen paths on my bike.

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white wing A Photo Essay by Russell A. Graves

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The South Texas sun was still searing as it sank over the small town of Hondo. For most of the day, temperatures had hovered in the upper 90s—not unusual for the first of September in Texas. Still, the brutal heat did little to deter the hordes of hunters who look forward to this day all year. Around here, the opening day of dove season is a holiday of sorts. After a long, hot summer, hunters are finally able to dust off their shotguns and put an end to the off-season.

As the sun rises, shots ring out as swarms of white-winged doves zip past hunters concealed behind hay bales and under the cover of elm and mesquite trees. There’s no way to know for sure, but the best guess is that most hunters shoot ten times for every dove they hit. Translated, that’s nearly eight boxes of shells for a limit of doves.

That’s okay, though; days like this are about more than shooting. A South Texas dove hunt is a grand social scene. For most, fun, laughter, and friendship are more important than a bag limit, and the opening day of dove season is a venerable tradition that spans generations.

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On the evening of August 31, you’ll find

Dove hunting is popular all over the state,

throngs of white wings spill from their

local restaurants and watering holes

but it would be fair to say that Hondo has

roosts and head to agricultural fields to

filled with eager hunters from all over the

a storied reputation for sheer numbers

feed. Along their route, hunters wait with

state and many parts of the nation. The

of birds. One particular ranch, Paloma

plenty of shells, ready to be humbled by

excitement is palpable as anticipation

Pachanga, is legendary for dove hunting.

these winged rockets. It’s some of the best

builds for sunrise the next morning.

Until you’ve seen thousands of birds in the

wingshooting to be found in North America.

September 1 is Game Day in Texas.

air at once, you’ve never experienced a true Texas dove hunt. Just before the sun rises,

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Of the two species of dove in the state,

gather in huge flocks: A single migratory

the shoot was over just half an hour after

mourning doves are more geographically

group may include as many as 4,000 birds.

sunrise. Those in my small party had their

distributed, fly in smaller groups, and are

It just so happens that Hondo is where

limits and spent the rest of the morning

an extremely popular game bird in their

hundreds of thousands of white wings

catching up on old times. It’s social

own right, but you come to Texas for white

amass before migrating.

networking the way social networking was

wings. More of a tropical bird of the Rio

meant to be: people talking face to face,

Grande Valley and the desert climes of

In Texas, legal shooting light begins 30

plenty of good food, and a few drinks to

the Southwest, white-winged doves are a

minutes before sunrise. Because of the

wash it down. Long live the dove hunt.

favorite among wingshooters because they

number of birds in the air that morning,

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Reservoir Dogs

By Dave Zoby

My whole life I dreamed of finding myself in a position where I could fish every day.

My philosophy leaned toward Tom Sawyer, with a bit of Holden Caulfield thrown in for good measure. And then, in the early spring of 2020, my dream came true. Or at least, it felt like that initially. My classes at the local community college were forced online. In the gray light of the early morning, I checked in with my students, graded essays, and posted instructions. Then I had the whole day to explore Wyoming with my dogs.

Henderson is four years old and can best be described as burly. Rocket, now 16, is so old and decrepit that by the time you read

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this he will most likely be gone, hustled off

With loads of time suddenly on my hands,

moments when you are standing in the

to wherever it is that sweet, white-faced

I became a regular at the Gray Reef Dam,

river and you think you hear someone call

black Labs go. An outdoor brewery far in

the place where I began to learn about

your name. It wasn’t so bad to go back and

the distance? A wooden dock frequented by

trout in the first place. For a week or so

retrace my steps. Perhaps all of the travel

swimmers and their colorful towels? Rocket

I scuffed the linoleum floors at the Reef

writing I had been chasing lately came with

can’t hear, and he can’t see the prickly pear

Fly Shop to talk trout, to buy a handful of

a hidden cost. And now I was free of it.

that grows all over Natrona County, so I

seasonal flies, and to sample the occasional

often have to stop and pull the spines from

six-pack; they had installed a refrigerator

After all, my editor recently suggested some

the webbing between his toes.

case and were offering interesting IPAs.

of us refocus our literary interests on our

I bought a few flies. Then I reacquainted

home waters. But after a week or so, the

Rich Chiappone, a writer friend from

myself with the stretch of the North Platte

big hen rainbows moved into the shallow

Alaska, warned me about writing about

from Government Bridge to Grey Cliffs. I

water and began to build their redds. The

the pandemic. “Everyone with two fingers

fished the usual tailouts and eddies, the big

scene at the dam became lousy with pup

is going to be writing about this stuff,” he

water below the sandbars, and the islands

tents and guys who stood in the same

said. I took his advice.

populated by pairs of courting geese. It

run for half a day making the same drift.

felt like déjà vu, or one of those strange

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Worse, though, were the self-contained travel trailers and their raucous generators.

Men stalked the runs I used to view as my own. I wondered how this was affecting the spawning fish. Try as I might, I couldn’t avoid catching these large, colored-up trout even when I moved away from the obvious spawning grounds and fished the deepest runs. Same for the lovely stretch of water that runs through the tiny hamlet of Alcova, Wyoming, a town that is no more than a general store and inn, which rents rooms to visiting anglers. Alcova consists of an elementary school, a fenced-off area near the hydroelectric dam, an odd collection of abandoned travel trailers, and some twotracks where you can access the river. Mule deer often lie down in the city streets to doze.

Laid-off and furloughed trout aficionados drifted up from Colorado those first few weeks of April. They camped in the parking areas. I didn’t blame them. I smelled pepper

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bacon frying in a Jayco trailer that had

his career as a geologist for the petroleum

seen better days. The cook emerged, a bit

companies. On one side of the road, he said,

disheveled, and headed to the river to where

the rock formations were millions of years

he had been hammering the same fish for

old, and on the other side, billions. I was

days as if trout fishing had become his new

never able to commit the specific details to

career; he was good at it. I waved and he

memory, but let’s just say Herb impressed

waved back, but the pandemic made it so

me mightily with the chaos and beauty of

we couldn’t actually meet and exchange

what most of us simply call rocks.

fishing stories or swap flies. If I had been closer, I might have pointed out the breeding

This is Cheyenne, Arapaho, and Shoshone

pair of ospreys that had made some recent

Country. It doesn’t exactly scream fly

upgrades to a nest of sun-bleached sticks.

fishing. If I wanted some anthropological

Because I had nowhere to be, I loitered

adventures, it would not be out of the

under the great nest. I noticed the spines

question to hike through these draws to

of trout picked clean and gleaming in the

discover ancient fire pits where hunters

sagebrush directly below.

squatted and worked their chunks of obsidian into deadly broadheads and bird

I moved on. There was a Tom Waits CD

points. First you find the soot of a 300-year-

playing on my stereo, the very same CD that

old campfire, then you sift through the

got me from Tok, Alaska, to the Canadian

chips.

border a year ago in better times. Why change it? I drove through the granite

The hardscrabble country just outside of

landscape that looks like shapes of animals,

Alcova seems unlabeled, undefined. This

or gnomes, or whatever you want. One

whole watershed was once explored by none

series of boulders reminded me of a column

other than John C. Fremont—The Pathfinder,

of elephants walking in a straight line. Scrub

as he was known. Fremont, and his guide Kit

oak and cedar trees festooned creases in

Carson, came through in 1842. Their goal

the rock faces. Banks of this winter’s snow

was to survey the Oregon Trail. His group

held on in patches of shade—held on despite

also collected data and wrote descriptions

the recent string of nice days in the 70s.

of the flora and fauna they observed. In

The thought crossed my mind that a guy

those times, the North Platte and the

could thrust a couple of beers into that

Sweetwater rivers flowed freely. There

snowbank and return hours later to drink

were no trout. Rather there were sauger,

one of the coldest beers in history. I recall

shovelnose sturgeon, pike minnows, plain

driving through here years ago with the late

pocketbook mussels, brassy minnows, and

Herb Waterman, an octogenarian who spent

other species that have all but disappeared.

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Now the drainage is a coldwater fishery. The

Reservoir with my dogs. The fish cruise the

large fish cruising the nooks and coves of a

wild, trophy-sized trout that lure thousands

shorelines this time of year. You can pick

shoreline on which I had never stepped foot.

of out-of-state anglers each year are only

them off with crawdad patterns and wooly

They were mirror carp coalescing for the

made possible by bottom-release dams built

buggers. You can sight cast to them like

spring spawn. But on closer inspection, I saw

in the early 1900s. These tailwaters have

I’ve seen anglers cast to bonefish in the

other fish gliding along. These were shaped

been made famous, while the reservoirs that

magazines that litter my dusty bedroom.

differently. They were trout.

When I drive through the landscape I like

The walleye guys were going full tilt, even

These lake-dwelling rainbows imitate

to squint and imagine herds of bison, the

on a Wednesday morning. The parking

spawning rituals in the spring. They pair,

unruly North Platte swollen and turbid with

area was full of late-model trucks and

chase each other, and carve out redds

springtime snowmelt, the skies exploding

empty boat trailers. I heard the verve of a

in the gravel with their broad tails. But

with whooping cranes and widgeon.

distant engine. Lately I’ve been trying to

their efforts are in vain. Without moving,

make them possible go largely unnoticed.

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convince myself that skulking off into the

oxygenated water, the eggs won’t hatch. If

There were fly fishermen in all of the

obscure landscape with my two dogs and

you wanted to keep a trout for the frying

conspicuous runs in the Cardwell section, a

a fly rod is a threshold experience equal to

pan, the guys at the fly shop say these lake

fly-fishing-only section known for 20-inch

globetrotting for exotic fish. Pretty early

specimens are the ticket. The making of

fish that seem fools for size-18 midges and

in the experiment, my feigned enjoyment

redds is what scientists call fixed behavior,

nothing else. I saw the sheriff shaking down

became actual enjoyment. One only needs to

predestined by instinct. Sort of like the way I

a couple of guys standing beside an SUV

watch an aged waterdog ply over the stark

feel compelled to climb the granite boulders

with Colorado plates. A cooler was on the

and painful granite slabs that form Natrona

around Pathfinder and Alcova Reservoirs

ground with the lid thrown open. The men,

County to realize that there is something

and peer into the water’s glare. Or, perhaps,

including the sheriff, looked down gravely at

worth pursuing close to home. Rocket

the way my counterparts drift up from

the contents. My plan was always to eschew

wheezed and panted but never left my side

Colorado.

the crowded rivers and crawl into some

when we ventured further into the hoodoo

rarely visited cove on Alcova or Pathfinder

rocks. Then we saw them: Dark shapes of

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For weeks I ground over the stark landscape

nearly every day. I had to time my casts

do at least some damage? I have an ongoing

savor a few more trips into the unknown. I

between floating panes of lake ice. I watched

fund in which I stash 20-dollar bills to pay for

wanted to make it last a little longer.

legions of carp glide underneath the rafts

the eventual day when Henry breaks a fishing

of floating ice. The trout hit everything

buddy’s prized five-weight. I’ve rehearsed the

Henry crashed in to investigate my trout,

from weighted nymphs to hothead leeches.

apology.

and I had cross words for him. Rocket used

But that eventually dried up and the trout

to do the same. He used to run 100 yards in

became tight-lipped. Suddenly, it was

I discerned a shadow just where the lake

front of me, and when he spotted brookies

crawdad patterns only. The carp wouldn’t

water darkened from clear to opaque. I made

or cutthroats in a pool, he’d cannonball into

touch the streamers, but the trout zoomed

a cast that, under most circumstances, would

the stream. He was, quite possibly, the worst

up from the ledges and drop-offs to inhale

be thought of as unredeemable. But the fish

fishing dog ever to trot the national forests.

the flies.

turned and chased the fly. One strip and I

These days he’s content to snooze in the

came tight to a rainbow that didn’t run like a

sage a short distance away, his dream feet

I walked the shoreline, thinking of John

river fish but seemed to stand upright in the

kicking ever so lightly. He lets Henry harass

Fremont, and stopped occasionally to help

water column and wag its head. These lake

my fish.

Rocket find passage through the sage and

fish, truth be told, don’t fight like riverine

buck brush. I pulled the spines of cactus

trout. But I wasn’t looking for parity as much

The rainbow rolled until my leader was

from his swollen feet. Henry, spotting the

as I was looking for someplace to ride out the

thoroughly twisted. Henry leaned in as if

carp, surged forward and crashed into the

pandemic and remind myself why I moved to

he wanted to touch his nose to the trout’s

water, costing me many opportunities. But

Wyoming in the first place. And, also, now that

snout. Having not put up much of a fight,

have you ever met a fishing dog that doesn’t

my waterdog is on his last leg, I wanted to

and seeing the large face of my Lab, the

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fish finally realized its freedom was on the line. It went berserk, snapped my leader, and departed with my four-dollar crawdad pattern still in its maw. I cussed mightily, but there was no one to hear. A Great Northern Loon bobbed just offshore. As if on cue, it let out that eerie cry for which loons gained their reputation as arbiters of wilderness. The call of the bird must have shaken my old dog from his sleep.

He climbed upon a rock that looked like a giant’s face and stared down at me. The white whiskers on his face made me wonder where the time had gone.

I never intended to spend most of my life in Natrona County, but it somehow happened that way. I remember being a clerk in the fly shop in Laramie and hearing the great tales about the North Platte River and the lights-out fishing there. Some of the other clerks and I packed up our tents, a grill, and a cooler of weenies and light beer and drove north in a clunker Chevy Blazer with no idea what we’d find. We left Laramie late because one of the guys had to mow his parents’ lawn. We felt like early explorers setting off into the void. By the time we got to Casper it was dark. Worse, though, was the fact that we had a slow leaking tire and didn’t have a spare. We found a service station where a young mechanic said he could fix our problem for 10 bucks. I asked him if we were close to the river and the camping spots. All I could see through the darkness was sagebrush and rolling, elephantine hills.

We saw car lots, defunct hotels, and fastfood joints. Where could we camp? How did we find the river? He was startled by the question. It stunned him.

“The North Platte?” he said. His arms were tattooed and covered in oil and grease. He spread them wide, and then wider. “Why it damn near surrounds us.”

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FROGGER Story and photos by Bryan Gregson

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In Michigan’s Huron River, an abundance of smallmouth bass and frogs is a sign of change.

The forests east of the Mississippi divide

not what I pictured when I left my home in

their fake hockey teeth (a badge of honor

are thick. To a Western mind like mine,

Montana. It’s more countryside than urban,

around these parts) and place them on the

they are daunting. Nature hugs the roads

a place where people offer a genuine smile,

table before sharing a meal and a beer. As

in a tight hallway corridor and envelops

where locals politely wave as we pass each

my truck rumbled across the ramshackle

everything. This isn’t the industrial Detroit

other on the backroads. Here, I would later

bridge spanning the Huron River, and I

suburb outsiders imagine, and it’s certainly

find out, it’s customary for locals to remove

looked down at the water for the first time,

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I wondered what the fishing would be like.

The name of the park across the street from the fly shop should have been a clue: Frog Island.

I had come to fish with Mike Schultz of Schultz Outfitters in Ypsilanti, Michigan.

His shop sits on the banks of the Huron, a premier smallmouth bass fishery. I’ve seldom had the opportunity to photograph any type of bass, and I had never been on a shoot where smallmouth were the target.

Still, a native fish in its native habitat gets me excited. Schultz explained that Huron smallmouth eat a variety of things—small bluegill, salamanders, insects, baitfish— but during the summer when they’re eating frogs, it’s all about frogs. Frogs and smallmouth go together like French fries and gravy.

Frog season is a special time of year for anglers around these parts. The thrill of seeing a fish eat your fly is something any angler can relate to, but it just so happens these flies are 3- to 5-inch deer hair bass

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Frog flies mean summer: Big smallies eating on top, cracking cold beers as you drift downriver, and good times with friends.

This time of year is as close to a fishing Valhalla as you’re going to get.

bugs—some of the most enjoyable flies to fish on the planet. Frog flies mean summer: Big smallies eating on top, cracking cold beers as you drift downriver, and good times with friends. This time of year is as close to a fishing Valhalla as you’re going to get.

As we launched the boat into the Huron, I looked into the dense woods and thought about how this landscape has changed over the last several hundred years. I wondered what the first Algonquian peoples thought of this place 9,000 years ago. I thought of the wars, the fights for the right to exist on this small parcel of land—how Native peoples saw the influx of European settlers, and how the dams they erected and the pollution they brought changed the river. I watched a few painted turtles slide off a log and splash into the water, spooking a frog.

As a trout angler, I had stereotyped smallmouth as aggressive eaters, but these big smallies sipped our oversized flies like a big brown trout would delicately take a mayfly. What had struck me as

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A clean river with healthy populations of fish tends to attract anglers who in turn start to care about keeping the river healthy.

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inconspicuous coloring—plain earth-tones

that read “No Swimming” and “Do Not Eat

of olive green, bronze, and brown—became

Fish” sprouted up in communities across

a highly evolved, ornate pattern upon closer

Michigan decades ago. (Problems persist

inspection in the net. Their vintage army

in many places: Witness the recent water

camo paired with a sleek yet robust body

crisis in Flint.) Both frog and smallmouth

and translucent fins that seemed to change

populations declined due to industrial and

color depending on the light. Their deep red

subdivision development; poor water quality;

eyes are what frog nightmares are made of.

loss of habitat; and contamination from pesticides, herbicides, and other pollutants.

As tough as these fish might seem,

To anglers it became clear that bass and

they’re highly intolerant of pollution. The

frogs are linked: If one goes, so does the

same is true of frogs. Over the last few

other. Both need clean water to survive.

hundred years, they’ve fought to survive in the Huron. In the 1880s, the Huron was

Thanks to the efforts of the Huron River

intensely exploited for power: 17 separate

Watershed Council (HRWC) a pollution

dams on the river provided power to flour,

control program was created in the 1960s

timber, and woolen mills, changing the

to protect the watershed. Today, the Huron

flow of the river and transporting pollution

is considered the cleanest urban river in

downstream to Lake Erie. By the twentieth

Michigan, and is the only river in Southeast

century, the water had become toxic. Signs

Michigan to have a state-designated Natural

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River District. A clean river with healthy

both money and awareness for the Huron.

is rejuvenating. The Huron’s recovery over

populations of fish tends to attract anglers,

Schultz knows that it only takes one local

the last 50 years demonstrates that change

who in turn start to care about keeping the

kid to make a difference: He himself grew up

begins in our communities. Thanks to the

river healthy. Now the Huron has dedicated

less than 20 miles from where his shop now

efforts of the HRWC and conservation-

anglers who work to educate the community

sits on the Huron. Today he works to bring

minded anglers, the next generation of

about the cultural, economic, and ecological

new anglers from all walks of life into the

smallmouth bass, frogs, and anglers have a

importance of the river. At the center of

sport of fly fishing.

healthy Huron to enjoy.

that effort is Schultz Outfitters. Through a

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direct partnership with the HRWC they host

Catching big smallmouth on frog flies is fun,

numerous events and presentations to raise

but seeing a small fly shop lead by example

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The Survey Party

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Considering the mystery of unmarked graves in a desolation of antelope, sage grouse, and wind

By Andrew McKean

Out in the BLM ground off Cutbank Road, beyond alternating strips of fallow and pubescent winter wheat and past the abandoned bentonite plant, there’s a low hill in the prairie that’s only slightly higher than the scoria knobs around it. On its scraggly south slope are scattered cairns of prairie rocks—I count seven mounds for sure, though another two are probably part of the collection. I take them as hasty graves: Maybe 200 head-sized rocks covering each human body, either because at the time of interment the ground was too frozen to delve or because there weren’t enough remains to bury properly. They’ve been here long enough that lichens have ossified on the prairie stones like lithographic liver spots, and stunted wild roses somehow survive in the clefts between larger rocks.

An old rancher told me about this place, just as he told me about the ridge studded with stone teepee rings farther south, but he let me find both for myself. It took almost 10 years of looking before, one gray afternoon with biting snow in the wind and a mule deer tag in my pocket, I found the graves.

I wasn’t sure what they were at first, the irregular mounds only slightly more ordered than the litter of granite, chert, and fieldstones flung across this former seabed. In a horizontal wilderness like this, any human invention, whether a corner post or a skylined pickup, is magnified, and the more I looked the more I saw in the strewn stones. I laid my rifle across a rock and walked down the ridge, inspecting each mound of rubble with reverence normally reserved for an Arlington or a Gettysburg.

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Who were these people? Death can’t come

benchmarks” for the original section lines

“If you’re thinking of taking one of those

easy anywhere, but somehow it seems more

and townships.

points, go right ahead,” he said deliberately,

elemental in a place with no escape from

casually. “I probably wouldn’t miss one or two

the sky, wind, and yawning emptiness. I

Would there be belt buckles and brass

of them. I’d probably just figure that I had

finally shouldered my rifle and continued

buttons buried under those rocks, I

misplaced it or forgotten to put it back in its

my hunt, but I couldn’t shake the question:

wondered. Shattered femurs and staring

case. I’d go about my business, on to my next

What happened out here in this desolation

skulls? I admit to having been tempted a

presentation, and I wouldn’t think of it again,

of prickly pear and bitterbrush?

time or two to exhume a grave simply by

or if I did, I’d blame my own forgetfulness.

tipping enough rocks away to have a look

You might think that you got a real prize, but

“Nobody knows for sure,” my rancher friend

beneath. No one would know. Although I

every time you looked at it you’d be reminded

said when I finally told him I had found

might be able to see the lights of town 20

that you’re living with a thief.”

the spot. I asked what he knew about the

miles off to the north from the crest of

graves. Nothing resolute. A couple of old-

the ridge, this forgotten cleft in the prairie

That memory is enough to make me a sort

timers had shards of information, passed

would be my secret. And my knowledge

of protector of those graves.

down from older-timers, he said.

would make it mine.

“The best guess is that it was a survey

But every time I was moved to violate a

during sage grouse season, when I’m

party, and the word I heard is that they

cairn, I recalled the squirmy feeling I had

bouncing between desolate prairie washes

had a guard of a couple cavalry out of

as a sweaty kid. Our 4-H club had invited

and the hardpan flats where grouse dance

Fort Keogh. But whether they all got sick

a fellow from town with an extensive

in the spring, and again in October, when

and died out there or Indians got them

arrowhead collection, and he must have

antelope season opens and it’s cool enough

or they got trapped in a blizzard, nobody

known I was tempted to pocket one of those

that rattlesnakes and mosquitos are

knows—or has ever told me, anyways. I’m

elegant black points. The collector’s gaze

dormant, though both might be roused by

guessing that was in the 1880s, maybe

stopped on me only briefly as he addressed

the sun of a warm afternoon.

1890s, back when they were laying down the

us booger-eaters.

I visit them at least twice each year: once

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I’m surprised every time I encounter this place, though it’s my destination and I’ve been expecting its arrival for miles on faint two-track trails, over cattle guards, and through wire gates cinched with lever-action closures whose arms can snap up and punch you in the jaw if you’re not careful.

I climb the ridge to glass for sail-white pronghorns out on the alkali flats, but each time I count the cairns and wonder again what happened out here.

Middle of Nowhere When people ask me where I’m from, I’ll ask them how well they know Montana, and then help them out. Nowhere near the mountains or the postcard parts of the state, I say. I live in the northeastern corner, bounded by Saskatchewan and the Missouri River Breaks. West Dakota, it’s been called.

It’s mostly unbroken prairie, and it’s 300 miles to the airport in Billings, but we have mule deer and whitetails. Elk, antelope, bighorn sheep, and even moose drift south from Canada. We have pheasants and prairie grouse, the best waterfowl hunting in America, plus all the coyotes and gophers you can hope to shoot. And don’t get me started on the fishing.

But there’s no escaping the sky. Beyond my house, two million acres of same-looking sagebrush—nearly all of it unremarkable public land—tip into the Missouri Breaks.

This is gumbo country, coulees that summer a few cows and hardpan flats that were used as a gunnery range for freshly commissioned B-24 pilots stationed at the now-defunct Glasgow Air Force Base.

All that ground holds relics: fossilized bones of baryonyx and triceratops, petrified pines, spear points and buffalo skulls embedded in the cutbanks of dry washes, the shattered remains of homestead shacks, rusted frames of Model As and proto-Jeeps that were abandoned in sucking gumbo crossings.

Crumbling .44/40 cartridges in neat piles on ambush ridgelines, and the rare .50 shell shucked from a World War II trainer. And,

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every now and then, a bone that doesn’t look like it belonged to a pronghorn or mule deer.

“You have to assume that every prairie stream big enough to grow a cottonwood around here was an Indian graveyard,” says my friend Eric Albus. His family settled here with the first wave of homesteaders, in the years before the First World War, and he’s found enough bones beneath scarred old prairie trees to recognize them as funeraries. Sioux and Assiniboine and Gros Ventres built scaffolds for their swaddled dead, which were hoisted to the limbs and eventually pecked by magpies and eagles and scattered by winds.

I’ve often wondered about the mechanics of raising a freshly dead father or grandmother into the leafy boughs, fighting both gravity and decomposition to elevate a carcass to the heavens, where at least it wouldn’t attract grizzly bears and wolves. Who wouldn’t want to hasten the passage to the afterlife after that sort of ordeal?

But the dead beneath those heavy stones?

That must have been a different sort of interment. In my imagining, those surveyors died from an unseasonal blizzard that pinned them on the lee side of the ridge, huddled together hoping for a break in the horizontal snow. Later, after the storm, there would be wolves and coyotes to fret and spread the remains. No scaffolding trees for 10 miles in any direction.

Their bodies were discovered weeks or even months later, maybe because they didn’t report to a duty station, or because a tatter of uniform or glint of a sextant caught the eye of a drover in the spring. Authorities were called, and the decision was made to bury whatever remained of the survey party under these prairie rocks.

Nothing in the Record Live in one place long enough, and you work into its grain. The ladies at the Pioneer Museum out on the highway recognize my

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affection for the past and welcome my

“I rode that country on horseback for the

spring moon, the stones seem to generate

questions. No, they hadn’t heard of any

better part of my life, and I think I know

their own light.

graves, and couldn’t recall any mention in

what you’re talking about,” he says. “If

the archives.

they’re off that Cutbank Road, I don’t think

Are they simply collections of rock, prairie

they’re graves. Back in the ‘30s, there was a

stones gathered for a pedestrian purpose?

So I resort to a softer line of questioning:

CCC (Civilian Conservation Corps) crew using

Or are they tombs, the last evidence of

What can you tell me about the graves out

a dragline to dig reservoirs out there. I know

nameless folk who tried to tame this

south? I ask anyone whom I trust for both

because my uncle was a foreman for one

featureless prairie with math?

their knowledge and their discretion. Most of

of the crews, and he had his men gathering

the time, I get blank stares.

prairie rocks to be used as rip-rap on the

I woke up before sunrise to a herd of twitchy

dams of those reservoirs. I think you came

antelope grazing along the bottom of the

on one of his rock piles.”

ridge. They flushed when they saw me, and

But Billy Uphaus, one of those oracles of local history who savors the obscure, dwells

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for all I know they’re still running through

on my question. After a few days, he calls

I revisited the cairns last week, camping on

back.

the ridge above them. In the glow of a feeble

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this empire of sagebrush and dust.

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Brett Ference’s Island of Misfit Dogs

By Tom Keer

Gambling seldom favors the meek, so to win big you’ve got to go hard or go home. Had I trusted my gut and gone big on American Pharoah, I’d be retired by now. I didn’t, and six years ago I wagered such a pittance that when Pharoah crossed the finish line and won the Kentucky Derby, my winnings were just shy of 50 bucks. I didn’t think he’d win; I knew he wouldn’t win. How could he?

Pharoah was sired by a second-place Kentucky Derbywinning stallion and a mare that never raced. He had no pedigree.

But Pharoah won big. He went on to win the Preakness, and then the Belmont, and became only the 12th horse since 1919 to win the coveted Triple Crown. He then won the Breeder’s Cup Classic, which made him the first horse to win the Grand Slam of Thoroughbred racing. All that from a non-pedigreed horse.

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We’re raised on those kinds of rags-to-riches

author of 23 books and the classic story

Ference came to mind because he and his

stories, the ones where the underdog wins.

“The Road to Tinkhamtown”? Yeah, him.

wife, Kristine, had lost a dog in the spring

There’s David and Goliath, Robin Hood, Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday—even Tom

and a second one a few months later. Yet I called up Legh.

Brady, the 199th draft pick who sat on the

placing that call was a gamble because I didn’t know if they’d be jubilant or if I was

bench until Drew Bledsoe’s injury catapulted

“I hear you have a three-year old you need

picking at the scab left by loss. Losing two

him into the driver’s seat. He’s now

to place,” I said.

dogs within a few months is tough, so I

considered the Greatest of All Time. Each one overcame the impossible to win. Stories

flipped a coin for the answer. It was heads, “I do,” Legh said. “I placed her as a puppy

and I set down the phone.

like that tell us that good does in fact triumph over

Later in the day I belled

evil. They rejuvenate our

my own string for a run.

souls. When it comes to

I watched all four cast

dogs, pedigrees tell us

through the woods, jump

that an animal has been

over deadfall, and wind their

given a gift. How that gift

way down to the seep, tails

is used is what dreams are

cracking the whole way.

made of. But those strong

There were a few bobs by the

pedigrees matched with

back edge of the grass, and a

a bad attitude can easily

point was followed by a back

become nightmares.

and then another. The dogs seemed to tell me to quit

My friend Brett Ference

screwing around and pick up

collects dogs that no

the phone. I called Ference

one wants. On his string,

when I got back.

only one came from good lines, but take a look at

We chatted about sports,

his Vermont kennel and

fishing, shotguns, and a

you’ll see bright eyes and

whole bunch of other stuff,

cracking tails that aren’t

and when there was a

indicative of their origin.

pause in the conversation,

Ference has never made a

I mentioned the setter dog

call to find a dog; they just

up for adoption. He called

sort of wind up with him.

me three days later with an

I should know—several

answer, and if you’re into

years ago I placed one with him.

I learned about the setter dog the same

numerology then you’ve with a bird hunter, and she’s broke all the

got a story: three for Trinity, three for

way through. She’s three and in perfect

resurrection—call it divine. And here we

health. And she’s free to the new owner.”

are, three years later, talking about the

way I learn of most good things: A friend

happiness that spread throughout his valley.

of a friend gave me a call. “Do you know

We talked for a while, but one question

anyone looking for a started dog out of

nagged at me. “Why would anyone give

Ference is a Pied Piper of unwanted,

Legh Higgins’ Coronation Kennels?” That

away a broke dog of good lines when she’s

giveaway dogs. They come into his life, listen

dog turned out to be the first pup of good

knocking on the door of the prime time in

to his tune, and follow him everywhere.

breeding that Ference has owned. Higgins’

her life?” I asked. “There’s gotta be a catch.”

Every time he wants to pick up a pup with a

family has been in the setter breeding “She’s a good dog, and there are no

didn’t want. There is a page of adages on

grandfather placed Cider and Tober with

problems. If the new owner doesn’t like her

this topic, including “one man’s morsel is

the late Corey Ford. You know, Corey Ford

they can send her back to me,” he reassured.

another man’s meal,” but Ference’s dogs

of Field & Stream’s Lower Forty column and

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pedigree, along comes another pup someone

and training business for so long that his

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aren’t morsels. They’re biddable, they hunt,

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and they perform. His dogs handle well in

Dogs are like potato chips, and since you

Bonnie came from Legh Higgins, and her

Vermont grouse covers, on Montana prairies,

can’t have just one, Ference picked up

previous owner didn’t work her much. “One

and on hallowed, Red Hills quail plantations.

another: a five-year old in his prime. “A

of the reasons the owners didn’t want her

They are second rate in no regard other

few years later, another dog came on the

anymore was because she didn’t get along

than perhaps their bloodlines.

scene. He was a well-bred setter from good

with their older dog. Bonnie runs differently

lines, but for some reason the owner didn’t

than Wyatt and Doc, and her range is in

“I was always a big game hunter, mostly

really like him. He was broke, but after

between the two. Bonnie needed the same

for whitetail, elk, and mulies,” Ference says.

that training he spent most of his time in

thing that all of my other dogs did, and

“The first bird dog I hunted over was a

the dog run. At that point I was hell-bent

that’s an opportunity to shine. I give them

quarter century ago when I was in college.

on getting a puppy, but when I saw this

that, from training on spring woodcock to

That was in Montana, and my buddy had an

overweight dog with rough teeth that the

regular work and a long, aggressive hunting

English pointer named Huck. Huck ran big,

owners had kind of given up on I took him

season. What they give me in return is

he had style, and he had a great pedigree.

for a run. His range was big, he listened

immeasurable.”

He was fast, and he had a great nose and

well, and he was happy to be out of the run.

a head packed with

One day Ference intends

birdsmarts. I always

to own a dog with a

figured I’d have a

stacked pedigree, but

string of dogs like

don’t bet on it. “If

him, but life just

things line up for me to

didn’t work out that

get a puppy with great

way.”

genetics, then so be it.

But the odds are that if

Ference’s first bird

there is a sad hunting

dog was a drop. The

dog somewhere in the

drop wasn’t the result

world that crosses

of an accidental

my path, I’ll bring him

lock but a half-

home. None of my dogs

cocked deliberate

have been loved the way

experiment, a planned

they should have been

breeding between a

in their past lives, but

Brittany spaniel and

who really is? Maybe

an English setter. “I

that’s the biggest factor

got this dog when

in my choices; I don’t

he was about two

know. All I know is that

years old,” he said.

I’ve been lucky and

“He had dominant

blessed, and we’ll see

setter genes, and from looking at him you’d

Given half a chance he’d make a nice dog, so

never know he had any Brittany genetics.

I brought him home to show my wife. That

The previous owners mostly hunted quail

surprise didn’t go over so well. I slept on the

The late writer Thom Jones once said, “Dogs

on their plantation, and he ran shorter than

couch for three months.”

have a way of finding the people who need

they preferred. I hunted over him, and he

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what happens next.”

them, filling an emptiness we don’t even

had a moderate range that was perfect for

“Because that setter had more speed and

know we have.” When it comes to Brett

grouse and woodcock covers. I liked that

a bigger range than Wyatt, I wanted to

Ference’s kennel, you would want to bet

he was cautious around birds, so I brought

run them as a brace. He needed a different

that it goes both ways.

him home. I’m a sucker for Westerns so I

name, so I called him Doc Holliday—call

named him Wyatt Earp, with Wyatt as his

name Doc. At the time I lived in Wisconsin,

call name.”

so we were in the woods every day.”

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Each year, Strung’s editors choose outstanding products within their area of expertise as Blue-Ribbon Selections.

While we stand by every item we recommend in our gear guides, these are the products we believe represent the best of the best. Strung’s Blue-Ribbon Selections not only work well—they enhance our outdoor experiences.

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Everything about the Pursuit screams quality, including the travel bag it comes with. Exterior pockets with solid zippers have plenty of room for storing extra gear; additional straps and a padded pocket secure a gun or bow. The padded shoulder strap makes the chair a pleasure to carry in the field. We didn’t realize how much a quality chair can make a difference until we tried the Pursuit.

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GOPRO STORM DRY WATERPROOF BACKPACK $99.99 (GOPRO.COM)

When adventure calls, it’s important to be ready. Enter the GoPro Storm Dry Waterproof Backpack. This pack is the perfect size for holding all your essentials with room to spare. Its rolltop design is more durable than zippers and allows you to find what you’re looking for quickly. Its welded seams make it watertight to ensure your gear and valuables stay protected no matter what the weather brings. A front waterproof pocket with key fob keeps your phone, wallet, and keys protected and in easy reach. For those who want to capture their adventure, the pack comes with a GoPro shoulder mount for hands-free filming.

GEAR GUIDE

VR TRUTTA PERFETTA CLASSIC TITANIUM FLY REEL $750-$835 (VR-REELS.COM)

This is the sexiest click-and-pawl trout reel we’ve ever seen. The Trutta Perfetta is a full-cage frame with integrated axle and a one-piece spool, all fully machined from aerospace-grade bar stock titanium. The whole thing weighs just six ounces. The Asymmetrical Pawl System provides lower resistance on the retrieve and a noticeably louder outgoing click. (The reel is easily changed from left- to right-hand retrieve with a flip of the pawl and spring.) A textured palming rim allows for increased sensitivity during a run.

Including the hand-polished screws, the reel has just 22 parts, making it absurdly easy to disassemble. An optional spare parts kit ensures a lifetime of dependable use. With a spool width of just under an inch, the reel will accommodate a weight-forward 4- or 5-weight line and approximately 65 yards of 20-pound Dacron backing. At twice the strength of aluminum and completely impervious to corrosion, the titanium construction means that the Trutta Perfetta is an heirloom you’ll pass on to the next generation.

BENCHMADE MINI BUGOUT - $160 (BENCHMADE.COM)

When we first held the Mini Bugout we were shocked at how light it was. At an ounce and a half, we wondered if this smaller version of Benchmade’s Bugout series would hold up to everyday use. After carrying and using it for the better part of six months, it still looks new. You’ve achieved the perfect design when there is nothing else you can take away, and the Mini Bugout is there: perfectly proportioned and stripped to the bare essentials. The reverse pocket clip ensures the knife comes out of your pocket in the correct position every time. The blade shape is well suited to a variety of everyday tasks. The S30V steel exhibits a good balance between edge retention, corrosion resistance, and sharpenability. One feature we had never before come across in a knife is the pass-through design that allows dirt and debris (and blood) to pass through the handle instead of getting stuck and clogging the action. This is a great knife and one we expect will still be in our pockets 10 years from now.

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strung

SUMMER magazine

GRAB & GO

YOU NEVER KNOW WHAT SUMMER IS GOING TO THROW AT YOU, BUT THIS GRAB BAG OF GEAR IS PERFECT FOR EVERY SUMMER TRIP.

TURTLEBOX WATERPROOF SPEAKER - $349 (TURTLEBOXAUDIO.COM)

Much as Yeti turned the cooler world upside down years ago, Texasbased Turtlebox is revolutionizing what it means to listen to music in the outdoors. Their fully waterproof, dustproof, rechargeable, and impact-resistant speakers allow you to bring your favorite tunes wherever you go. New for 2021, their updated speakers feature a larger amp and driver, a five-step battery level indicator, USB-C input and output for charging your phone, and a beefed-up internal battery that lasts for over 50 hours of play time. You can also pair two Turtlebox speakers together for true stereo sound. We lived with this thing, playing tunes in the garage, tossing it in the drift boat for long floats, and using its tie-down anchors to strap it to the ATV while checking trail cams and hanging treestands. It’s awesome. The Turtlebox is available in a variety of color configurations. Nothing says summer like blasting your favorite music while jetting across the lake or motoring down the trail.

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NEUTROGENA SUNSCREEN - $7.50-$13.99 (NEUTROGENA.COM)

For years, we thought sunscreen was sunscreen. That was until a Montana guide told us the biggest danger he faced on a daily basis wasn’t mid-river boulders or class IV rapids, but the sun.

Sunscreen can suck, making you feel sticky, stinging your eyes, and damaging your fly line. But skin cancer and holes in your face also suck. We’ve found Neutrogena sunscreen to be the best we’ve tried. Yes, it’s more money than the gloopy kind we used as kids, but we think it’s worth it. For one, it goes on easily and absorbs quickly. We prefer the stick variety for our face, neck, and hands; keeping lotion off your palms and fingers means it won’t transfer to your gear. Along with a proper hat, sun-protective clothing, and a buff, good sunscreen means fun in the sun without a trip to the dermatologist.

GEAR GUIDE

NALGENE FITNESS ATB WATER BOTTLE - $7.99 (NALGENE.COM)

If you’ve got dogs, pay attention: Go buy a pair of these water bottles right now. Carrying them on summer adventures means you always have water for your dog even when you’re in dry areas with little to no ground water. At 32 ounces, throwing two in your bird vest during hunting season means you have the perfect amount of water for an average outing. The plastic cap keeps dirt and feathers off the spout.

The soft plastic build allows you to slowly squeeze the bottle to give Rover the perfect flow or crank up the volume to hydrate yourself when you need it. We’ve been using these for years. They are inexpensive and durable and they just plain work.

HARDY ZANE PRO ROD - $850 (HARDYFISHING.COM)

Pulling the Zane Pro from its rod tube for the first time, we were immediately impressed by the fit and finish. The stripper guides are constructed of a ceramic-lined titanium similar to the “recoil” guides on high-end conventional rods; when bent, they snap back into position rather than breaking off like traditional gathering guides. The bar stock aluminum reel seat felt sturdy, but just to be sure we chipped at it with a quarter. It didn’t leave a scratch.

Something we had never seen before but have enjoyed since using the rod: Small metal caps fit inside the ferrules of the top three sections, protecting them from knicks that would otherwise jeopardize the strength of the rod. So the rod looks good, but how does it cast? Effortlessly. The Zane Pro proves it doesn’t take an extra-stiff broomstick of a rod to throw long casts. Even with our average casting ability, we were throwing the entire fly line plus several feet of backing. Yet the smooth action also lends itself to accurate short- to mid-range targets. The 9-weight model we tested on a trip to the Florida Keys performed flawlessly on everything from delicate permit presentations to jumping tarpon.

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RATIONS& INTOXICANTS

By Jenny Nguyen-Wheatley

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I typically eat lighter during the summer

My father holds onto fond memories of

unfortunately, I am going to disappoint.

months, and many Vietnamese dishes check

buying bánh mì on the street corner on his

Vietnamese families don’t typically bake

that box. My family is from South Vietnam,

way to school as a boy. Although he could

their own bread. Visiting the neighborhood

and although both my mother’s and father’s

only afford a splash of hot cooking liquid

bakery while on a grocery run is a part of

ancestral homes enjoy the benefits of the

from the cart’s pot of braised pork belly

Vietnamese life. That’s how my family had

coastal breezes that come into Nha Trang,

inside his bread, at 82 years old this remains

bánh mì while I was growing up–and having

we have to fly into Saigon whenever we

one of my dad’s favorite food memories.

made our home in the Little Saigon district

visit, and the air in the interior is always

He can still recall the smell of fresh

of Southern California, good bánh mì wasn’t

stifling. It seems like no matter what time

yeasty bread mingling with savory aromas

hard to come by. I’m glad to see more bánh

of year I check, daytime temperatures

steaming from the braising pot. “When I had

mì shops opening in the metro areas of my

in Saigon hover in the 90s, along with

spare change, that was breakfast,” he says

home state of Nebraska these days. Unless

humidity that’ll make you sweat even under

dreamily. “It was such a treat.”

you live in the boonies, I bet there’s a shop

a cold shower in January.

near you. Ask for the bread by itself.

Vietnamese-French bread is the ideal

With a climate that can be sweltering year-

sandwich bread. When fresh, its thin,

Bánh mì can be filled with anything.

round, the food of Vietnam isn’t known for

golden-crispy crust offers a satisfying

Vietnam’s signature sandwich includes

being heavy. Even our iconic bread–called

crunch that yields to every bite. And unlike

an assortment of thinly sliced cold cuts,

bánh mì–would be considered light next

traditional French bread, its crumb is tender

generous amounts of pork liver pâté,

to its precursor. Inspired by and created

and airy, not dense–perfect for filling with

and full-fat mayonnaise, and it is always

during France’s colonization of Vietnam,

generous amounts of meat and vegetables,

garnished with plenty of carrot and daikon

the Vietnamese baguette is markedly more

while inviting warm juices and sauces.

pickles and fresh herbs for balance. Making

delicate than its imperial counterpart.

Delicious stuffed or simply eaten with

Vietnamese cold cuts isn’t something that

butter, spreadable cheese, or a few dashes

I’ve delved into yet, so for this issue’s recipe,

of Maggi sauce–one of my mom’s favorite

I’m mirroring another classic: grilled pork

snacks–there’s nothing like enjoying fresh-

bánh mì. Pork is used heavily in Vietnamese

from-the-oven bánh mì by itself. You always

cooking, and luckily, I just recently came into

have to sacrifice a piece while traveling

some wild boar meat from Texas.

home from the bakery–at least I could never help myself.

Although leaner and a bit tougher than

Now that I’ve made you hungry, you might be expecting a recipe;

domestic pork, cook wild boar similarly.

The same rules apply: Cook to at least 145 degrees to kill trichinosis, brine or marinate when possible for juiciness and tenderness, and don’t overcook the meat unless you’re going to braise it.

I referenced Andrea Nguyen’s Viet World Kitchen blog for her full-fat mayonnaise recipe.

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GRILLED WILD BOAR BÁNH MÌ Servings: 4 sandwiches

- 1 tablespoon + 2 teaspoons of white sugar

eat. This quick pickle will keep for 2 weeks in

- 1 cup of white wine vinegar

the refrigerator.

Cooking Time: 15 minutes

Full-Fat Mayonnaise (makes 1 generous cup)

Ingredients:

- ½ teaspoon of kosher salt

- 1½ pounds of wild boar loin

- 1 tablespoon of lime juice

- 4 bánh mì rolls*

- ½ teaspoon of Dijon mustard

- Sliced cucumber

- 2 teaspoons of white wine vinegar

Meanwhile, make the full-fat mayonnaise:

- Sliced jalapeño

- 1 cup of canola oil

Combine egg yolks, salt, lime juice, Dijon

Prep Time: Overnight

- 2 egg yolks

for 30 minutes prior to grilling. Prepare grill for direct, high-heat cooking.

mustard, and white wine vinegar in a food

- Small bunch of cilantro Special Equipment: skewers

processor and pulse 4 to 5 times to combine.

- 4 cloves of garlic, minced

* If there is no Vietnamese bakery or bánh

gradually add canola oil in a thin, steady

- 2 shallots, minced

mì shop near you, substitute with Mexican

stream and whip until thickened. If your

- 2 tablespoons of brown sugar

bolillo rolls.

mayonnaise breaks, whip in an extra egg

Marinade

- ½ teaspoon of freshly ground pepper - 2 tablespoons of fish sauce - 1 tablespoon of Shaoxing rice cooking wine

1. The night before, remove silver skin on

loin and thinly slice against the grain. In a

(not vinegar)

small bowl, combine marinade ingredients

- 2 tablespoons of canola oil, plus extra

and add pork to coat. Cover and refrigerate

- 2 tablespoons of dark soy sauce

for 8 hours.

Pickled Carrot & Daikon (makes extra)

2. To make pickles, sprinkle sea salt and

Then with the machine running on low,

yolk. Keep mayonnaise cold until ready to use.

4. Thread marinated wild boar meat onto skewers and brush with canola oil. Grill on

high heat for caramelization all over, flipping halfway through; this shouldn’t take long.

Split open slightly toasted bánh mì bread

sugar over the julienned carrot and daikon.

and spread mayonnaise on the inside. Fill

- Equal amount of daikon radish, peeled and

Submerge with white wine vinegar and stir.

with grilled wild boar, cucumber, jalapeño,

julienned

Allow to sit for at least 30 minutes before

a few whole sprigs of cilantro, and pickled

- 1 teaspoon of sea salt

serving, or refrigerate in a jar until ready to

carrot and daikon. Serve immediately.

- 1 large carrot, peeled and julienned

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3. If using wooden skewers, soak in water

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“DITCH WATER” PLUM BRANDY Ingredients:

- 6 pounds of ripe wild plums - 3½ cups of Sugar in the Raw (turbinado sugar), plus extra - White sugar, optional - About 1 bottle of brandy - Twist of lemon zest Special Equipment: cheesecloth, rubber band, large glass jar

1. Only rinse plums if they are noticeably dirty, but do not rub off the bloom–the white, waxy coating on the fruit. The bloom contains wild yeast, which helps fermentation. Slice each plum to allow juices to escape.

2. Transfer cut plums to a bowl and coat

with raw sugar. Add more sugar as needed; the fruit needs to be well coated. Transfer plums to a large jar, allowing at least a couple inches of headspace. Then use a potato masher or something similar to push down the fruit to help release juices. After a few hours to a day, juices should completely submerge plums. If not, add water, which prevents the fruit from spoiling. Use something heavy to weigh down the fruit.

3. Use cheesecloth to cover the jar and

secure with a rubber band. Store in a cool, dry place to ferment for 2 weeks. The amount of bubbling and foaming will vary. If you start to see mold, scoop it out when it’s in its white stages. Don’t wait until the mold gets black, which is toxic.

4. Strain the fermented plum juice through

cheesecloth and discard the fruit and seeds.

Transfer to clean jars or bottles and add equal parts brandy. If needed, add white sugar to taste.

Chill and enjoy the brandy now or, for a clearer drink, allow sediment to form at the bottom and siphon off the clear liquid into different bottles. Keep refrigerated.

I enjoy this plum brandy chilled with a twist of lemon zest on top. It’s also refreshing over ice.

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By Kevin Kennedy

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“Run away!”

Dwight, who was enthusiastically encouraging me to join him in retreat while unwittingly mimicking Monty Python, is the most collected man I’ve ever known. The sudden screaming of a bull elk mere steps away, compounded by darkness so dense we couldn’t tell the sky from the trees, momentarily confounded his normal calm.

For a week we’d chased bulls around the adjacent wilderness. For a week we had been skunked. With one morning left, we hoped to increase our odds with some late-night scouting. That intimidating bugle gave us a place to start at first light. I did kill an elk the next morning, but not the bull. Instead, a curious cow responded to our calls. On our

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last day, I didn’t hesitate.

listening to or searching for our dogs. We

past, he dove in, smashing my face into the

sank ourselves in beaver ponds, crashed

dirt and pinning us together in the hole.

My shining memory from that trip was not

through nettles, froze fingers and toes,

My increasingly stern instructions to Judge

the cow, or the freezer stuffed with elk

climbed and fell out of trees, dented and

were interrupted by my grunts and the

meat, but our uncontrollable giggling at

mired trucks, and sometimes treed a coon.

taste of dirt and bark. Amid the noise and

Dwight’s unhinged eruption over the late-

activity, I pondered the unpleasant prospect

night bull we never saw.

Hunting alone one night, I heard my black

of the porky making a run for it with Judge

Many of my most vivid memories in the

and tan Judge treeing, but he sounded

and me clogging the only escape route. With

outdoors are of events that took place

muffled. I found him bayed up in a hole

this inspiration I managed to squirm out

between dusk and dawn. I began associating

under a slash pile. The opening was barely

with no lasting injuries to any of the parties

the dark with fun from an early age. Where

wider than my shoulders and maybe twice

involved—although Judge was reluctant to

I grew up, Canada geese were rare, but one

that tall. I allowed myself a moment of

retreat and maintained a lifelong bitterness

night my dad excitedly woke me to run

rumination, a deep breath—and then I

toward porcupines.

outside to hear geese conversing as they

elbowed Judge aside and belly-crawled, arms

passed. I stood on the cold cement of the

extended, .22 pistol in one hand, flashlight

On another coon hunting trip with my friend

driveway in my astronaut PJs and bare

in the other. I’d convinced myself this was a

Curley, we were listening for Judge to open

feet, my face tilted toward the night sky.

bobcat, and I was excited.

on a track. Instead, we caught up to him in

I imagined geese looking down from their

a small clearing. My headlamp revealed him

invisible flight path and wished hard that

Slithering into the cavern, my perspective

shredding a sack of candy and snacks just

I could see them. Geese made the night

quickly changed. The soles of my feet were

a few feet away from a sleeping bag from

mysterious and full of possibility.

outside the hole, but mentally I was in

which emanated a pitiful whimpering. The

another world, noting the narrowing width

occupant of the bag was a boy, camping by

So did crawdads. At our family cabin on the

of the chute. To look forward rather than

the creek rather than in the campground

lake there were stars to see and campfires

down into the dirt, my head scraped hard

with his family. The kid, certain this dark,

to poke. I got to stay up late—and even

against the top of the tiny and shrinking

snuffling, nightmare marauder was a bear,

later if I was on the dock catching crawdads.

shaft. My flashlight was weak but enough, I

lay turtled, quaking in his bag, awaiting the

My preferred method was a chicken bone,

hoped, to reflect a bobcat’s shining eyes.

inevitable. When the sobbing and eye-wiping

preferably a drumstick, on the end of a

wound down, we walked him to his parents’

string. At first I used a flashlight to watch

Porcupines, it turns out, don’t face you when

tent. Years later, I gave up coon hunting to

the little lobsters approach, but soon I

they’re cornered.

spend nights doing daddy stuff, but it was

preferred to hold the string in the darkness Face to face with a thrashing tail of quills,

when a crawdad claimed his prize. Once a

I put it in reverse and punched the

crawdad had clamped on, I’d slowly lift. I

gas. But once Judge saw a

quickly learned to never lift them out of

sliver of room

the water or they’d let go. Lying prone on

where he

the dock, my arms were just long enough to

might

various spots he thought

reach under the crawdad and scoop it into

sneak

we might find elk. He’d

an old tin pot.

While we waited for crawdads, bats flashed above and even between us—darting black shadows against a slightly less black sky.

Dodging bats, whispering with a buddy, and waiting for crawdads was a very good way for a boy to spend a July evening.

Coon hunting seemed like the reasonable next step. For nights uncountable, friends and I wandered creek bottoms and beaches,

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too late: I’d become a creature of the night

feeling for the faint buzz in my fingertips

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forever.

Each day before sunrise on a Montana elk hunt, Floyd, our “guide,” dropped us at

return near dusk. Floyd was annoyed that we were never waiting

together than they had seemed just moments before.

when he arrived. We’d get to the rendezvous well after shooting light to be scolded:

deer, and in those days we both had dark hair and good knees. Still, it was half a deer on each of our backs, three miles across uneven

I don’t remember

ground—and I hadn’t yet learned to carry a

any screaming

flashlight. The cold was intense, and it was

until the

dark. As we helped each other into our packs

puddle.

it felt like the beginning of an ugly ordeal.

I never enjoyed packing a load like I did that buck. The purple sky had long since

“Good hunters

ripened to black. The clouds had cleared,

get out of the woods

so moonlight on snow helped light our way

before dark!” It seemed to be his one rule, and he cared about it. A lot.

In the dark, anyone could mistake an innocent puddle for a hole. It was a

across the landscape. With waning light and not an extra inch of paracord, we’d somehow created two perfectly balanced packs.

Coyotes sang their customary songs, but

The last night of our hunt, Floyd had

revelation how much anticipation one can

more than the normal yipping and howling

company as he fumed about our tardiness.

conjure in the instant between seeing what

chorus, they created new verses about

He’d brought a cowboy to take three horses

appears to be a crater in your path and

John’s buck as they escorted us all the way

down the mountain. The wrangler would

the splash. The horses remained upright,

back to the truck.

ride one and lead two. With several saddles

we all stayed aboard—tenaciously if not

in the bed of Floyd’s truck, Ronnie and I

gracefully—and subsequent puddles were

The song of those badlands coyotes, that

swapped bows for saddles and volunteered

less intimidating; but that night I swore off

frigid Montana night, and the sensation of

to ride along. The “cowboy,” as it turned

nighttime downhill horse racing.

wellbeing as we packed that deer remain

out, was a scared teenager who knew less

with me, as do the individual voices of my

about horses than we did. Ronnie and I, not

During a Southeast Montana deer hunt my

hounds, the delicate clicking of crawdad

much older than our cowboy, were elated at

friend John and I saw bucks from the road

claws in a tin pot, the distant talk of

the prospect of three hours on horseback

better than either of us had ever taken, but

migrating geese, and the bugling of elk, in

for our last night rather than 30 miles

agreed we hadn’t driven 1,200 miles through

tight or a ridge away. Those memories are

in a rattling pickup on washboard roads

a blizzard to shoot from the road. As the trip

like the smiles and laughter of old friends:

enduring another harangue from Floyd.

waned, I finally tagged a modest whitetail

unseen, unheard, but vivid and indelible, and

buck during a whiteout snowstorm; John

enhanced by darkness.

It was a gloriously still and moonless night.

wanted to hold out for a mule deer.

An hour down, a meteorite streaked across the sky so big and close we could clearly

Late November days at that latitude don’t

see the wonder on each other’s faces and

last long, but during the final hours of the

the hillsides exposed in sharp detail. The

hunt John whispered, “There’s my buck!”

fireball transformed us. We were cowboys.

indicating a mule deer a quarter mile from

Confident, we sat tall in the saddle. Cowboys

where we stood. Miles behind us were the

would get to the ranch sooner than a trio

road and the truck. I considered pointing out

of dudes. It was a road, for crying out loud,

how long of a pack out it would be, but as

not some treacherous trail. Pleasant though

the guy with a filled tag, I kept that thought

this was, it was getting late. A click of the

to myself. This was “John’s buck.”

tongue and a squeeze of the heels was all it took. The horses passionately agreed

We stalked in on the deer, and John went

that hurrying to the barn was a fine idea.

the final distance alone. When I arrived for

We never touched a trot as all three horses

the handshake, the sky was deep purple. In

rocketed through their gears from saunter

the waning light we dressed the deer and

to stampede. Galloping that dark, steep

then divided it into front and back pieces,

two-track, the curves quickly grew closer

providing pretty even loads. It wasn’t a big

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FISHING OUTSIDE THE BOX IN ALASKAN SALT WATER Words by E. Donnall Thomas Jr. Photos by Don and Lori Thomas

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Beginning with Captain James Cook’s second

Wales Island and the Alaskan mainland

but eventual British naval ascendency in the

voyage, British explorers navigating the

for the Duke of Clarence. Vancouver

North Pacific resulted in the loss of numerous

uncharted waters along the coast of what is

certainly understood both the tradition’s

place names.

now Alaska acknowledged influential patrons

importance and the water: He had served as

by naming points of geographic interest

a midshipman aboard Cook’s Resolution 20

My mind often wanders to such apparently

in their honor. In 1793, George Vancouver

years prior. A year before Vancouver’s voyage,

irrelevant matters whenever I’m not catching

continued this tradition by naming the

Spanish explorers had named Clarence Strait

fish.

120-mile-long channel between Prince of

La Entrada de Nuestra Senora del Carmen,

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That morning I had definitely not been

silver salmon near a point that had produced

could dig a bucket of steamer clams when the

catching fish, and since the only passenger

fish twice during the preceding week, but I

dog started to whine. That could only mean

aboard the skiff was my Labrador retriever,

hadn’t drawn anything I could even pretend

one thing, so I idled to a nearby beach and let

opportunities for conversation had been

was a strike. I’d finally given up on the silvers

her jump off the bow to do it.

limited. I couldn’t blame the conditions, no

and used my depth finder to locate the edge

matter how hard I tried. On a stiff southeast

of a hole where I’d taken halibut in the past,

Motoring slowly away from the beach—a

wind Clarence Strait can become a nightmare

but no one was home there either.

number of submerged rocks guarded the

even for commercial fishing boats, but now

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entrance to the cove, and I didn’t trust my

its surface shone like a polished mirror.

We had guests coming for dinner that

memory of their location—I noticed dimples

Fishing through a modest high slack tide, I

night, and I was determined to feed them

in the water along the edge of a large kelp

hadn’t had much current to battle. I’d spent

fresh caught seafood. I was trying to decide

bed. Since it wasn’t raining, fish were the

two hours drifting slowly and casting for

whether I should wait for the tide to drop so I

only logical explanation. I thought they might

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As much as I love fly fishing for salmon at sea, salmon come and salmon go—that’s just their nature.

And when they’ve gone, it pays to have a Plan B.

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be sea-run cutthroats feeding on salmon smolt from the stream bisecting the beach.

Catching some wouldn’t solve my dinner problem—I don’t kill cutthroats—but it might be more satisfying than returning to the dock with a skunk in the boat. Kenai the Wonder Lab seemed to nod in agreement.

I broke down the heavy rod and high-density shooting head I’d been using to explore the bottom and replaced it with a 6-weight rigged with an intermediate sink-tip line. Current had started to run as the tide fell, and I ran around to a starting point that would allow a nice drift down the edge of the kelp.

The best thing to be said about my first dozen casts is that I didn’t snag any kelp, which usually guarantees a lost fly. Then something tagged my streamer and ran toward the security of the weeds. I turned it easily, and the combination of a hard strike followed by one strong, brief run suggested the identity of the mystery fish before I could see it. The dimples were caused by surface-feeding black rockfish. Because of their abundance and short lifespans, I’ve never hesitated to keep a few pelagic rockfish. In half an hour, I had dinner in the ice chest, with one kelp greenling (a relative of the lingcod) thrown in for variety.

As much as I love fly fishing for salmon at sea, salmon come and salmon go—that’s just their nature. And when they’ve gone, it pays to have a Plan B.

Rock On The Scorpaenidae represent one of the world’s most diverse and widespread families of marine fishes, and nearly 30 species inhabit the North Pacific. The family name’s allusion to scorpions is accurate, since most possess venomous glands that can administer a painful sting through a fin’s sharp spine. Some, like the dangerous tropical stonefish, can be lethal, but stings from North Pacific species are equivalent to a bee sting. Experienced anglers learn to avoid contact with the sharp spines on their dorsal fins.

Commonly known as rockfish in the Pacific

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Northwest and Alaska, these diverse species divide into two general categories. Pelagic rockfish like those I teased from the kelp bed range throughout the water column, often appearing at or near the surface, and are generally dull in color. They reproduce rapidly, and their populations are stable.

In addition to the black rockfish described earlier (often inaccurately called “black bass”), this group includes dusky and yellowtail rockfish.

Although members of the same biological family, demersal rockfish differ in a number of respects. They seldom stray far from the bottom, in depths from 80 to 300 feet or more, which puts most of them beyond the reach of fly tackle, with occasional exceptions.

Many are brightly colored and beautiful, and they are among the longest-lived fish in the sea, with some attaining ages of 75 years or more. Most are caught incidentally by anglers targeting halibut.

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My friends and I caught plenty of them

up from depths greater than 60 feet—an

flounder, and sole, whose eyes rotate to one

when I was a kid growing up on Puget

inherent safety factor for fly fishermen, since

side of the body as they mature, making

Sound 60 years ago, and because they are

it’s difficult to get a fly much deeper than

them the world’s only vertebrates that lack

excellent food fish, we thought nothing of

that. For years, when a rockfish arrived at

a longitudinal axis of symmetry. Known

taking coolers full of them home for the

the surface with its air bladder protruding,

primarily as popular food fish, they can also

table. Biologists have learned a lot about

anglers were advised to puncture it with a

be caught on flies.

these underappreciated fish since then.

knife. It turns out this maneuver just kills fish.

Long lives and slow reproductive rates

Use of a deepwater release device offers a far

Halibut rank second in popularity only to

make them highly vulnerable to overfishing.

more effective means of salvaging these fish,

salmon among Alaska saltwater anglers.

Furthermore, rockfish lack the means to

and Alaska anglers are now required to carry

The source of their appeal is obvious: they

vent their air bladders, and those brought

one on board their vessels.

are big—often really big—and delicious.

to the surface from depth often arrive with

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Fishing for them, however, even with efficient

bulging eyes and internal organs protruding

Now, a brief summary of Pacific rockfish on

conventional tackle, usually consists of

from their mouths because of barotrauma.

flies: Pelagic rockfish (especially black and

little more than bouncing around at sea for

“Releasing” these fish amounts to little more

dusky) are abundant, easy to catch at fly

hours waiting for a bite followed by mindless

than feeding scavengers.

rod depths, and will strike almost any large,

labor more akin to weighing an anchor than

flashy streamer. Fights are brief but powerful

playing a fish. And with a fly rod? Most of my

Recognizing these facts, Alaska, among other

on light tackle. They are reasonably good to

friends claim it’s ridiculous, and I find that

states, has (belatedly) made a number of

eat, and anglers can retain a few with a clear

opinion hard to dispute. And yet….

regulatory changes to protect its demersal

conscience. Demersal rockfish are rarely

rockfish stocks. Strict limits are in effect

taken on flies because of the depths they

Halibut use their superb camouflage to

(especially for the large, highly prized

inhabit. Although I don’t target them, I catch

ambush their prey—anything from other

yelloweye rockfish); all fish caught must be

a few incidentally while fishing deep for king

groundfish to salmon, octopus, shrimp, and

retained and counted toward that limit; and

salmon or halibut. When I do, I congratulate

crabs—while lying against sandy bottoms

some areas are closed entirely to fishing for

myself for a rare catch, admire the fish briefly,

at depths hard to reach with fly tackle.

these species, including yelloweye, bronze,

and get it back to the depth it came from as

But those who enjoy the challenge of the

quillback, China, and the beautiful vermillion

quickly as possible, using a deepwater release

unconventional should rest assured that it

rockfish.

device when appropriate.

can be done by learning a few tricks.

We have also learned more about the

Flatfish

Target shallow water by fishing near river

decompression failure that kills so many

I’m not referring to the classic vintage plugs

mouths in late summer, when halibut move

demersal rockfish caught on rod and reel.

of yesteryear. Our subject here is the diverse

inshore to feed on dead salmon being swept

The problem appears limited to fish brought

order of marine fishes including halibut,

downstream after spawning. One year, a

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young kid in the coastal village where I was

make less demanding fly rod targets. Several

living at the time caught a 50-pound halibut

species of sole inhabit Alaskan inshore

in 10 feet of water beneath the fish-cleaning

waters, and sometimes shallow bays can be

This scheme is so adaptive that it should come

station at the public dock. (Why didn’t I think

full of them whenever some phase of the

as no surprise that fish other than salmon

of that?) Halibut, like bears, follow the food

salmon life cycle is flushing edibles down

have adopted it. Steelhead are the best-known

source.

the mouth of a nearby river. On lazy summer

example, but Alaskan cutthroats and Dolly

days, I like to let the breeze nudge my skiff

Vardens also out-migrate to salt water. I can’t

Get your fly to the bottom and keep it there

across the bay in front of my house using my

count the number of days they have saved for

as long as possible. Weighted flies and

4-weight to cast bonefish patterns for sole

me when I was stood up by salmon.

fast-sinking shooting heads are essential,

in shallow water. For some they’re saltwater

but understanding ocean currents may be

trash fish—unless you share Julia Child’s taste

The coastal cutthroat is the only one of the

even more important. The faster the water

for sole meunière as enthusiastically as I do.

dozen cutthroat subspecies that returns to the

is moving, the harder it will be to get the fly

return to sheltered waters to spawn.

sea. These beautiful little fish are abundant as

into the “zone” and the less time it will spend

Alaskan sole commonly enter estuaries

far north as Prince William Sound. In contrast

there. I rarely fish for halibut more than an

to feed on eggs tumbling downstream

to salmon and steelhead, they seldom stray far

hour away from slack tide and avoid days

when salmon are spawning. Frequently, I

from their natal streams after out-migrating.

with strong tidal flow and locations with

surprisingly catch some far above the tideline

Saltwater anglers are most likely to find them

terrain features that magnify currents.

on flies meant for silvers. Alaska never runs

near estuaries during the summer, when they

out of surprises.

are feeding on salmon smolt. Although they

I like to fish in 50 to 70 feet of water, casting

rarely exceed 18 inches in length, they strike

“upstream” into whatever current is flowing,

Trout and Char at Sea

letting out enough line as it straightens below

Finally, we have two North Pacific fly rod

light tackle. Like cutthroats everywhere they are

me to get the fly near the bottom (a depth

quarries that won’t make trout purists snort

vulnerable to overfishing, so crimp those barbs

finder will help), and “jigging” the fly as it

in disdain. Salmon species’ anadromous

down and return them to the water safely.

passes. The pattern doesn’t have to resemble

lifestyle makes a lot of sense from a survival

anything in particular, but it should be big

perspective. They get to hatch and enjoy

Dolly Vardens don’t enjoy the cutthroat’s

and bright. (A whole pink salmon is a favorite

their early development in a protected

reputation on the end of a line, but like all

bait among old-time commercial halibut

environment while meeting their sparse

salmonids, they are most vigorous in the salt.

fishermen.) This technique will occasionally

nutritional needs on the meager fare that is

Like coastal cutthroats, they don’t travel far at

produce lingcod as well as halibut.

all that most Alaskan streams can provide.

sea. They feed on smolt even more aggressively

When the time comes to put on pounds,

than cutthroats, often in schools. If you find

Before leaving the flatfish family, I should

they head for fertile ocean waters to gorge on

them working a beach or stream mouth, prepare

mention some of its smaller members that

shrimp, squid, and marine baitfish until they

for action.

flies readily and are wonderful gamefish on

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One spring morning, I awoke early aboard

beach, the light level was still too low to see

By this time the boat was awake, and after

a friend’s boat to prepare for another day of

anything beneath the surface. The identity

watching me catch several more fish my

bowhunting coastal bears. We had enjoyed

of whatever was disturbing the otherwise

companions headed to shore in our second

unusually calm weather, and the surface of

still surface remained a mystery, but I had a

inflatable armed with fly rods, their longbows

the cove where we’d anchored lay smooth

plan to solve it.

temporarily forgotten. Over the previous several days we’d been busy exploring

and calm. As I started to make the first pot of coffee, I noticed something pushing water

None of my gaudy steelhead flies looked

uncharted steelhead streams, busting

back and forth along a nearby beach. Had I

appropriate to the situation, but I found

through a lot of brush without drawing a

been fishing a bonefish flat, I’d have called

an old Crazy Charlie lying in the bottom of

single strike.

this “nervous water.”

one vest pocket, and I’d seen worse smolt imitations. My first cast to the next push of

Now it felt good to be catching fish again,

Although bears were the object of the trip,

water coming down the beach produced an

even if they weren’t representatives of the

I never go anywhere in Alaska without

immediate, aggressive strike. Soon a fat Dolly

region’s glamour species. One must always

a fly rod. While my hunting partners

lay resting at my feet, its vibrant freshwater

be ready to accept what nature offers and be

snoozed away, I grabbed my rod case and

colors replaced by the pure chrome sheen of

grateful, for sometimes a Plan B can prove

vest and slipped over the side into one of

an anadromous fish at sea.

even more gratifying than the Plan A it

our inflatables. By the time I reached the

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replaced.

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Brett James Smith and the Art of Fluidity

By Ryan Sparks

A sense of nostalgia permeates the works of Brett James Smith. Oils swirl across canvas, creating warm, glowing landscapes. Smith brings a mesmerizing softness to his subjects—Western rivers, incoming ducks, majestic elk and moose, and rocketing forms of quail, grouse, and pheasants.

In Back Barn Covey two hunters approach a pair of pointers in a field of gold, green, and umber, their paths melting into a pool at the base of a tree, presumably where a covey waits to spring into the air. Smith looks at the landscape with tenderness, renders it gently. In Streamside in Summer a pair of anglers rest in soft summer grasses: gleaming strokes that flicker before the flowing lines of a stream. Smith welcomes us back to a time when hunting and fishing were part of daily life, conjuring wistful and vividly rendered scenes that take us back to a simpler era.

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Back Barn Covey

Streamside in Summer

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For Smith, art came before the outdoors.

“We had some fish camps we would go to

memories from days spent in the marshes,

Born into an artistic home, Smith’s father

in the warmer months,” Smith remembers.

woods, and bayous of his youth. The rest is

was the art director for a major advertising

“For meals we would bring cooking oil and

history.

agency who also moonlighted as a painter,

potatoes and count on the shrimp, oysters,

often working for three to four months

and fish we caught to eat for the weekend.

“I studied artists like Edward Ripley, Howard

at a time to complete a single painting

These people took pride in their Cajun

Pyle, N. C. Wyeth, Philip Goodwin, and

for covers of early outdoor and western

culture and living off the land. I was so lucky

Robert Peak,” he remembers. “I really liked

magazines. In his teenage years, Smith

to grow up in that culture. I have wonderful

their work, especially how it went beyond

was introduced to the camp culture of

memories of that.”

the figurative part of painting. I was and

southern Louisiana, spending weekends in

still am fascinated by the ability of a

the late ‘60s and early ‘70s at the hunting

In the fall and winter, Smith became a

painting to evoke emotion, to take us back

and fishing camps of his friends’ families.

passionate waterfowl hunter and also began

to a time when hunting and fishing were

It was his experiences at these camps that

hunting quail in Texas with his grandfather

more informal and not commercialized.”

made him fall hard for the outdoors.

where he experienced hunting over dogs for

Far too often, hunters and anglers fail to meditate on the beauty of the natural world to which they are bound.

the first time, continually meeting people

For Smith, working from memory rather

who shared his interest in the outdoors.

than relying on photographs for inspiration is an essential part of the creative process.

“I followed that pattern through life,” he says. “Fishing in the spring and summer,

“I want my work to come from the feeling

hunting in the fall and winter, and then

of a real moment. The qualities of light

starting all over again.”

and the paint strokes and the textures you create with a brush are far more interesting

At the same time, Smith watched his father

and overwhelm your senses more than a

paint, learning many of the techniques he

refined, photographically rendered image. To

still uses today; as he grew older, however,

me that type of painting only satisfies the

he realized a more mercurial approach

exercise of comparing yourself to something.

to painting imparted his work with an

A painting does not explain a photograph.

effortless grace—a characteristic that

That is not what a painting should be—it

defines his work today.

should evoke a mood rather than trying to show an ability to copy something. I don’t

“I think you have to paint quickly,” he says.

want to copy. I want to create. Everything

“Painting fluidly requires speed, but I want

in nature has a fine variety that we almost

things to look effortless, even when they’re

can’t perceive. No two blades of grass are

not. I might have to rework a section of

the same. No two river stones are the

a painting several times. It’s not second-

same. The way you move your hand with a

guessing myself, it’s having the confidence

paintbrush brings that imperceptible variety

that I can make the painting better. It has

through.”

to please me before it will bring emotion to a viewer.”

Of course, to work from the “feeling of a moment,” you first have to experience it,

That realization solidified while Smith was

and Smith spends a good deal of time in the

enrolled in college as a fine arts major.

field for that reason. He is constantly trying

Unhappy with the direction a degree in fine

to bear witness to the views, surfaces, and

arts was leading him, he decided to strike

details that others overlook.

out on his own. He worked as a commercial

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illustrator in New York for nearly ten years

“To be able to paint moving water, for

before turning his attention to fine art.

example, you have to understand how it

When it came to choosing subjects for

moves, how it looks at first light, how it

his work, he was inspired by passionate

looks as a cloud passes overhead, how it

Moose in Moonlight

Summer Bliss

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looks at sunset, how the viscosity of the water changes with temperature. You have to spend time in a stream and study the feel of it. You can’t copy it, or it will look phony.

You’ll never capture the color, texture, and fluidity otherwise.”

Fluidity is a word often invoked by Smith.

His relation to the landscape as a guest within it—overjoyed by his surroundings—is palpable in his handling of the paint. He places a subject in natural and authentic situations and allows the viewer to participate in the experience. His work captures the quiet awe of watching a moose wade across a lake under a moonlit sky (Moose in Moonlight), the feeling of

No Cares

repressed excitement as ducks bank into the decoys (Dawn Hunters), and the warm tranquility of fishing a trout stream on a summer day (Summer Bliss).

“What is important in these outdoor paintings is mood, a feeling of how things were and still can be,” he says. “The idea is to convey the natural ruggedness of the sport without missing the subtle nuances that make the experience personal.”

These days Smith splits his time between Montana and his home state of Louisiana, traveling the country in an Airstream trailer he converted into a mobile studio, hunting and fishing along the way. “I’ve learned from experience,” he laughs. “Always carry a fly rod.”

Smith’s paintings hang in some of the most prestigious collections throughout the country; he has contributed to several books; his work has been recognized by conservation organizations such as Ducks Unlimited, the Ruffed Grouse Society, and the Atlantic Salmon Federation; and he is a constant fixture in many prominent sporting publications. Still, his work speaks for itself, resonating with passion and poignancy. Far too often, hunters and anglers fail to meditate on the beauty of the natural world to which they are bound.

Smith pokes and prods at it with paint, creating glimpses of Eden in his work.

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A Slim Chance

River Men

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OF

SECRET TAPES AND

SOCKEYE LAKES Words by Reed Knappe Photos by Jay Beyer

ALASKA’S BRISTOL BAY

is one of earth’s most magnificent and abundant environments. Home to the greatest annual migration of wild salmon on the planet, it is both a pristine wilderness and the nucleus of a hugely productive economy. In a world where the advance of human needs and economic interests usually comes at nature’s expense, it is the rare exception: a place so rich and so well-preserved that it gives prodigious sustenance to both humans and nature. Incredibly, a monumental development scheme has cast its shadow over this unrivaled national treasure for nearly twenty years, driven by a small cadre of powerful interests whose short-sightedness almost defies comprehension. In the past year, the struggle over the Pebble Mine has reached a dramatic climax, giving renewed urgency to the pursuit of permanent protections for America’s last great wild salmon fishery.

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Like two fangs of the Bering Sea sunk into

distributing the Bering Sea’s primordial

flocking by the hundreds of thousands.

the base of the Alaska Peninsula, Bristol

nutrient wealth across thousands of miles of

Last year’s sockeye run was estimated at

Bay drains a vast hinterland of glittering

mostly uninhabited wilderness. Sockeye are

58 million—one of the highest in recorded

lakes, rivers, and streams woven into a

Bristol Bay’s keystone species, the medium

history—making possible a bumper harvest

circulatory system the size of Indiana. The

of its perpetual enrichment. Their spawning

of nearly 40 million fish. The commercial

annual run of tens of millions of salmon

and dying sustains a sprawling mosaic of

fishery is lauded by conservationists for

includes over half the world’s sockeye and

forest, wetland, and tundra, with champion

its careful management and emphasis

the largest remaining runs of chinook,

trout, caribou, grizzlies, and diverse birds

on ecosystem health, and the consistent

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If developed, Pebble will rank among the world’s largest pit mines, and with epic size comes an exponentially greater likelihood of harm to the surrounding habitat.

returns of recent years bear witness to its

Yup’ik, and Alutiiq peoples survive off the

makes facilitating access a lucrative

model sustainability. A rare success story, it

bounty of land and sea, much as they have

enterprise. Fishing and hunting lodges

is both ecologically sound and economically

for millennia.

offer something like time travel in natural

vital: The annual sockeye harvest supports

history, transporting patrons to a world

some 15,000 jobs and is valued at 1.5 billion

Alongside subsistence and commercial

of unspoiled abundance and stunning

dollars. At the same time, the region also

fisheries, Bristol Bay is one of the

wildness. Alongside monumental salmon

sustains subsistence practices, and some

world’s premier destinations for outdoor

runs, the region’s lakes and streams yield

31 federally recognized tribes of Dena’ina,

recreation, and one whose remoteness

record-breaking rainbow trout, Arctic Char,

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grayling, Dolly Varden, and pike. Hunters find

offers phenomenal autumn fishing for these

by the State of Alaska and leased to Pebble

birds and mammals in numbers that call to

trout and other sport fish.

Limited Partnership (PLP), Pebble probably

mind the teeming fields and forests of the

deserves the title of America’s worst-situated

Pleistocene. With the dizzying variety and

Yet the Iliamna/Kvichak drainage

mineral deposit: It is found precisely at the

abundance of fauna, fishing and hunting

encompasses only half the region’s fabled

apex of the region’s great twin watersheds—

seasons rotate almost year-round, with

fishing waters: On the western drainage lies

the Nushagak/Mulchatna river system to

lodges and outfitters doing a brisk business

the 275-mile Nushagak River, where visitors

the west, and the Lake Iliamna/Kvichak

from season to season.

can pursue what is widely considered

River drainage to the east. Famously,

Alaska’s best sport fishing for chinook.

Pebble’s inauspicious location led Senator

Bristol Bay’s remarkable inland water

Fly anglers find sublime conditions along

Ted Stevens, a frequent advocate of mining

resources make this natural wealth possible,

its fabled tributaries, the Nuyakuk and

interests, to remark that it was “the wrong

channeling the exchange of energy and

Mulchatna, whose feeder streams include

mine in the wrong place.” Over the past 20

organisms between ocean and land. Nine

the Stuyahok, Koktuli and Chilikadrotna.

years, Pebble has become one of America’s

drainage systems link the Bering Sea

The health of this ecosystem, ranging

most familiar environmental flashpoints, and

to an archipelago of crystalline lakes,

across hundreds of miles, hinges on the all-

the ongoing legal battle has made red-and-

where salmon spawn and feed in their

important organic machinery of its colossal

white NO PEBBLE MINE stickers a familiar

multitudes. Queen among these is Lake

salmon runs. When sockeye were overfished

sight at trailheads and boat launches from

Iliamna—Alaska’s largest body of fresh

earlier in the twentieth century, Bristol

coast to coast.

water, spanning a thousand square miles.

Bay’s sport fisheries (especially its legendary

Accessible only by float plane or riverboat,

rainbows) rapidly declined. It is a deceptively

Critically, the Pebble deposit is extremely

this blue eye of the north sustains millions

rich and robust environment, but one that

low-grade: a monstrous subterranean

of salmon alone, forming the nucleus of

is also fragile, as poisoned watersheds and

soup of metals dispersed in a huge ore

Bristol Bay’s great eastern drainage. Below

collapsed fisheries around the world have

body, which includes massive quantities

Lake Iliamna flows the Kvichak River system,

taught us.

of sulphur-bearing minerals and other

which in many stretches boasts rainbow

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toxic and reactive substances. The only

trout averaging 25 inches. With their access

In the heart of Bristol Bay’s inland

economical way to extract this kind of

to the nutrient-rich inland seas of Iliamna

waterways, a mere 15 miles above Lake

deposit is with an enormous open pit mine.

and its neighboring lakes, these fish have

Iliamna, sits one of the world’s most valuable

This technology is not new, and its risks are

evolved a unique life cycle like that of a

mineral deposits. First thoroughly surveyed

well understood: An independent 2012 study

freshwater steelhead, propelling them to

in the early 2000s, the Pebble claim contains

examining 14 of America’s major copper

monstrous sizes. Connecting Lakes Clark

the second largest unexploited copper and

mines found that 100 percent had released

and Six Mile to Iliamna, the Newhalen River

largest gold deposits on the planet. Owned

toxic spills into surrounding watersheds

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and 92 percent evidenced significant

at Cook Inlet, and a 188-mile natural

a best-case scenario for mine development,

seepage from their waste containment

gas pipeline bringing fuel from the Kenai

wherein damage containment functions

systems. There is no plausible scenario

Peninsula. The mine would use more

as intended. More concerning still are the

under which extraction at Pebble would not

energy than all 300,000 inhabitants of

mine’s entirely plausible and even likely

unearth billions of tons of dangerous waste

the city of Anchorage, and more than four

worst-case scenarios.

and radiate pollution across the region,

times as much water–all sucked out of the

endangering the health of its salmon runs

surrounding watersheds.

and thus the entire ecosystem. If developed,

The most alarming of these scenarios revolves around a unique vulnerability of

Pebble will rank among the world’s largest

In the immediate future, the mine would

the site’s proposed tailings dam, designed

pit mines, and with epic size comes an

produce some 10 billion tons of tailings—

to provide storage for 30 billion cubic feet

exponentially greater likelihood of harm to

waste that would grow more toxic over time,

of mining waste. Alaska is America’s most

the surrounding habitat.

with acid leaching caused by exposure to

seismically active, earthquake-prone state.

air and water. But longer-term quantities

The 1964 Alaska quake measured 9.2

Although claims leased by the mining

are tricky to estimate; the deposit’s scale

magnitude on the Richter Scale, and the

partnership encompass some thousand

means it could plausibly be excavated for

state’s coastal regions are shot through

square miles, the main extent of proposed

centuries. Apart from the glaring threats of

with enough slip faults to make periodic

excavation sits on a 417-square-mile claim

acid mine drainage, dewatering, and habitat

violent shake-ups a matter of certainty.

block. If construction of Pebble were to

fragmentation, fugitive dust stirred up by

The earthquake risk to impoundment dams

proceed, it would entail development of

Pebble’s hundreds of bulldozers, blasters,

at Pebble is impossible to mitigate. The

an infrastructure rivalling what followed

crushers, and trucks poses an immediate

Lake Clark strike-slip fault weaves its way

discovery of oil on the North Slope and

threat to surrounding waterways. A recent

underground to within 20 miles of the mine

construction of the trans-Alaska pipeline.

study found that salmon’s reproductive

site, a jagged subterranean time bomb

Structures surrounding the yawning

and navigational functions can be critically

estimated to go off at roughly hundred-

2,000-foot pit would include a 550-foot

disrupted by amazingly small quantities

year intervals. Such an event would shatter

tailings dam, overburden stockpiles, quarry

of copper contamination: a few parts per

Pebble’s containment dam, releasing a

sites, water management ponds, milling

billion, equivalent to just two drops in an

tidal wave of toxic sludge that could flow

and processing plants, water treatment

Olympic-sized pool. If Pebble goes ahead,

as far as the shores of Bristol Bay, wiping

and power plants, and a virtual city of

the EPA forecasts permanent loss of 2,000

out the entire ecosystem in a single blow.

camp and storage facilities. Moreover, the

to 3,000 acres of wetland and 150 to 200

Catastrophic damage wrought by the

infrastructure would stretch far beyond

miles of streams, with significant damage

collapse of far more modest dams at smaller

the mine itself, including an 83-mile road

to secondary impact zones stretching to

mines, like New Guinea’s Ok Tedi copper

along Lake Iliamna, new port facilities

more than twice those figures. And this is

mine (1984), British Columbia’s Mount Polley

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(2014), and recently in Brazil’s Brumadinho

against the EPA. Meanwhile, the clouds

applications to the U.S. Army Corps of

mine (2019) show how permanently

gathering over Pebble triggered a chain of

Engineers (USACE).

destructive dam failures can be.

divestments from the conglomerate. The three largest partners walked: Mitsubishi in

Facing the inevitable public backlash,

Although the deposits in Pebble West were

2011, Anglo-American in 2013, and Rio Tinto

Pruitt’s EPA soon backpedaled, suspending

first explored in the late 1980s, it took

in 2014. In Anglo-American’s case, divesting

withdrawal of the 404(c) Proposed

years for development plans to take shape.

meant abandoning the nearly 600 million

Determination and initiating a new round

A major turning point came in 2005 when

dollars it had invested. This is to say, three

of data collection and public comment.

Northern Dynasty Minerals, a Canadian

of the world’s toughest, richest, and most

Embarrassingly for Pebble, a number of

company that is now the only important

experienced mining interests recognized

high-profile conservatives soon spoke out

stakeholder, discovered the Pebble East

the project as a nonstarter—politically

against the mine, including Nick Ayers,

deposits and acquired 100 percent of the

risky and probably impossible to justify on

Tucker Carlson, and even Donald Trump Jr.

Pebble claims. Extensive test drilling over

either legal or economic grounds. (Since

Despite the groundswell of dissent, in the

the next five years traced the contours

smaller investors First Quantum Minerals

summer of 2019 the USACE’s environmental

of an enormous but highly diffuse ore

and BlackRock left in 2018, only Northern

impact statement (EIS) concluded that the

body. As evidence of Pebble’s great value

Dynasty remains in the PLP.)

mine would not damage the fishery under

mounted, PLP attracted investments from

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“normal conditions,” seeming once again to

some of the world’s most prominent mining

A succession of surveys in recent years has

put Pebble on track for approval. The impact

corporations, soon becoming the largest

shown that Alaskans reject the mine: More

statement was widely derided as a historic

mine conglomerate in the world based on

than 60 percent statewide strongly oppose

low in regulatory diligence; it included no

a yet-undeveloped claim. Opposition to

Pebble, and the figure rises to over 80

consideration of worst-case scenarios and

the project was also quick to develop, and

percent in communities surrounding Bristol

deliberately glossed over some of the mine’s

in 2010 a large coalition of nine Alaskan

Bay. Moving Pebble forward is therefore only

most obvious and probable risks. It was clear

tribes along with conservation and fishery

possible by autocratic fiat, and it has been

that political pressure had rushed through a

organizations petitioned the EPA to issue a

rejected by the very communities whose

rosy and deliberately incomplete assessment.

Clean Water Act (CWA) determination—in

benefit should be the state’s sole economic

bureaucratic jargon, a 404(c)—blocking

consideration. Without strong political allies,

Nonetheless, the EPA general counsel (also a

development of Pebble permanently. For the

Pebble would have been a dead letter by

Trump appointee) directed regional officials

next three years, the EPA carried out the

2015. But in the eleventh hour, when the

to revoke the Proposed Determination and

Bristol Bay Watershed Assessment, which

mine seemed destined to go down in history

begin the permitting process. A key Pebble

by 2014 found ample evidence that the

as merely a terrible idea, the election of

asset throughout the struggle has been

proposed mine would result in “inevitable

Donald Trump, staunch ally of energy and

Alaska Governor Mike Dunleavy. Tom Collier

negative effects,” and issued a Proposed

mineral interests, gave the partnership a

and other Pebble powerbrokers hosted

Determination under the CWA.

second wind. In 2017, Trump-appointed EPA

fundraising events for the governor and

chief Scott Pruitt oversaw withdrawal of

openly supported his candidacy; in return

Unsurprisingly, this setback provoked Pebble

the Proposed Determination, and by the

Dunleavy has remained Pebble’s most

Limited Partnership to file multiple lawsuits

end of the year PLP was submitting permit

steadfast and well-connected champion.

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Leaked emails at the close of 2019 showed

blow to the mine’s aspirations, but

copper is projected to grow by 50 percent

that Dunleavy has repeatedly utilized

it cannot have helped the cause. In

during the next 20 years, ensuring Pebble’s

talking points, ghostwritten letters, and

November, the Army Corps of Engineers

enduring allure to business interests. On

coaching from Pebble’s in-house lobbyists

finally issued a record of decision: Citing

the one hand, the insatiable global appetite

in his efforts to court Trump and other

Pebble Mine as not in the public interest

for copper has multiple drivers, including

powerful figures on behalf of the mine.

and its proposed mitigation measures as

rising demand for consumer electronics,

inadequate, USACE unexpectedly denied

electric vehicles, and renewable energy

In 2020, the battle over Pebble entered

Pebble’s wetland fill permit, putting

infrastructure. On the other hand, some 35

its most intense and spectacular phase

a brake on subsequent approval and

percent of demand is already met through

yet. That March, financial giant Morgan

compliance processes. In the first months

recycling, and this proportion is expected to

Stanley dumped its quarter share of the

of 2021, both PLP and the State of Alaska

grow. The only copper deposit that exceeds

Pebble Limited Partnership’s stock. Their

(essentially, Governor Dunleavy’s office)

Pebble in size, the Kamoa Kakula mine in

financial fortunes wavering after the flight

filed legal challenges to the ruling, and

the Democratic Republic of Congo, is nearing

of major investors, PLP placed faith in its

those appeals are now ongoing.

operational and should be pumping out

political allies and the forthcoming USACE

copper (and tailings) within the year. Copper

decision, which—after the toothless impact

With the momentary defeat of the permits

is an enormously important metal, and

statement—seemed on track to rule in

and election of a new U.S. President (who

humanity will continue mining it to meet its

favor of the mine. In September, shortly

has promised via twitter that Pebble

material needs for the foreseeable future.

before the Army Corps was scheduled to

Mine will not go forward), an emboldened

Fortunately, it is widely distributed around

give its final ruling on the permit, a scandal

opposition is renewing the drive for

the globe, and not all deposits are buried in

broke that laid bare the duplicity and

permanent protections. In the last month of

such hallowed and vulnerable ground. It is

incompetence of Pebble’s leadership. Posing

2020, the United Tribes of Bristol Bay, Bristol

time for Alaskans to shut the door once and

as prospective investors, members of the

Bay Economic Development Corporation,

for all on this nightmare-in-the-making.

Environment Investigation Agency (a UK-

and the Bristol Bay Native Association

based nonprofit) recorded then Pebble CEO

issued a joint call to finally make good on

If the struggle to keep Pebble undeveloped

Tom Collier and current CEO Ron Thiessen

the promise of Clean Water Act protections.

and preserve Bristol Bay fails, the costs

speaking candidly about their plans for the

Since then, more than 200 organizations

will be incalculable. Much of the damage

mine and their confidence in support from

with a combined membership of millions

inflicted on the natural world over the

politicians. The ensuing “Pebble Tapes”

have joined the effort. Scenarios floated

last 200 years was inadvertent, shaped by

paint a stark picture of Northern Dynasty’s

in recent months include the possibility

ignorance of earth’s fragile ecosystems and

cynicism and bad faith. The approval process

of a state-federal land swap, or even an

finite natural resources. No such excuses

was a bait-and-switch, Collier admitted:

exchange of regulatory controls over

exist in Bristol Bay. We know better. And

Though initial permits specified a small

offshore fishing. Likewise, the coalition’s

as polls have repeatedly demonstrated,

excavation on an 80-year plan, expansion

aims have grown beyond the longtime

Alaskans know better, especially those

would be unstoppable once operations

goal of 404(c) protections, and it is now

making their living from the lands and

were underway, growing to hundreds of

seeking congressional action, based on the

waters in the mine’s shadow. We have

square miles operating on a 180- to 200-

Magnuson-Stevens Act, declaring the entire

lost the comforting illusions that earth

year timeframe. Addressing the political

region a national fisheries area.

is inexhaustible and that ecosystems will

turmoil surrounding Pebble, Collier claimed

always bounce back from disruption. If

that Senators Lisa Murkowski and Dan

Recent setbacks for the Pebble Mine

Pebble goes forward, its countless tons of

Sullivan, among lesser public officials, would

notwithstanding, the future of Bristol Bay

acidic rock piled into precarious dams and

express token concern about the mine but

is by no means certain. Governor Dunleavy

seeping waste ponds, it will be a deliberate

ultimately support the project in its critical

will continue pushing the mine forward;

act of destruction. It will also be a refusal

backroom negotiations.

with his power to overturn and circumvent

to acknowledge our reliance on nature,

rulings, he remains a major obstacle to

a declaration that the preservation of

The news was electrifying, setting in

protections. Although bipartisan, multiparty

wildness counts for nothing next to the

motion a grand jury investigation and

opposition to Pebble will doubtless

glittering talismans of jewelry, electronic

inviting prompt and scornful disavowals

continue, formidable challenges persist:

gadgets, and stock portfolios. It will be the

from Murkowski’s and Sullivan’s offices.

the mounting cost and legal complexity

highest expression of human arrogance, a

Both senators have subsequently gone

of the struggle, the opacity of entrenched

rejection of the creation itself.

on record as firmly against Pebble. It is

interests and lobbyists, and issue fatigue

unclear what role exactly the scandal

among supporters. Also relevant is the

might have played in the next hammer

global economic context: Demand for

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“Every child has the right to a first fish. On this particular planet, no man is granted a greater privilege than to be present and to assist in the realization of this moment.”

—Bill Heavy, Should the Tent be Burning Like That?

Lily Chang, three, helps ready the gear as guide Tim Schwarze rigs up. A handful of lollipops and a gracious guide made for a memorable day on the water. Photo: Sammy Chang.

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