Strung Magazine - Spring 2019

time STANDS STILL on Utah’s

PROVO RIVER

but somehow the TROUT refuse to SIT STILL for a second

in this issue: chasing brook trout in LABRADOR finally it’s our spring GEAR GUIDE surf where few dare: LAKE Ontario pilgrimtown turkey hunt now you know: wild beer brewing YOGA for paddlers

last descents: RAFTING CHINA

MARCH/APRIL 2019 DISPLAY UNTIL JUNE 4th.

experience counts for everything Some of the most dedicated anglers we know are women, and T&T Ambassador Abbie Schuster is at the forefront of her generation of pro guides. Whether hosting trips, crushing albies on the Vineyard, or at the oars on a New England tailwater, her experience and insight helps us to approach rod design with a unique perspective.

Abbie’s knowledge, expertise, and understanding are passed to our craftsmen, who strive for perfection and uncompromising performance in every rod we make.

To us, Abbie and her fellow professionals are our unsung heroes. We salute you.

introducing the new award winning zone series, 3 through 10 weight, uncompromising quality. legendary performance.

est

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TH E RO D YO U WI LL E VENTUALLY OWN

www.thomasandthomas.com HANDMADE IN AMERICA

letter from the

EDITOR

For much of the northern hemisphere, spring belongs to water.

Paddlers cautiously rejoice in brimming streams flush with reminders of what lives upstream, out of sight. Anglers are more concerned with what is nurtured therein — finned or otherwise.

It still falls as flakes for skiers and snowboarders searching for the last powder stashes before an anxious sun sends it all flowing downhill. For hunters, rivers and lakes serve as thoroughfares and stopovers for birds returning north, themselves clamorous indicators of the warmth and light arriving gradually each day. Spring’s abundant water provides for each who braves the frequent showers and late-season blizzards.

In this, our second issue, we focus on endeavors where buoyancy is the chief concern. Water is a binding thread, and many of this season’s features examine the relationships we form because of and in spite of it. Our storytellers are anglers, paddlers, climbers, and hunters; they are skiers, surfers, yogis, and beer brewers.

Some weave tales with light and color, others through written word. Après-ski or with your morning coffee, come to our side of the mountain; it belongs to you, too.

Cheers,

Tyler Justice Allen Editor-in-Chief Strung Magazine

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Editor-in-Chief: Tyler Justice Allen

Managing Editors: ARTHUR LUX George V. Roberts

Creative Director: Michael Rea Thomas

Creative Consultant: Shawn Abernathy

Digital Media Design: Michael Duckworth

Publisher: Dr. Joseph Ballarini

Contributors: Joseph Albanese Gabriel Bizeau-Régis Ed Clem Connor Cockrell Joe Doggett John Fedorka Donald Fox Nick Irvine Dr. Lauren Justice Tom Keer Meredith Meeks Kelli Prescott Tom Rosenbauer Brad Trumbo Corey Woolsey

Photographers: Gabriel Bizeau-Régis Ed Clem Clay Corbin Connor Cockrell Joe Doggett John Fedorka Donald Fox Nick Irvine Jeremy Kennedy Moe Lauchert Colin McKeown Meredith Meeks Robin Reeve Tom Rosenbauer Brad Trumbo Corey Woolsey

Cover: Moe Lauchert Page 6: Brad Trumbo TOC, Page 4: Connor Cockrell Strung Magazine is a quarterly outdoor lifestyle publication focused on fly fishing, hunting, adventure sports, and wildland stewardship.

Strung Magazine EAST 2300 Alton Road Miami Beach, FL 33140

STRUNG MAGAZINE WEST 311 Montello Avenue Hood River, OR 97031

Subscription inquiries: (855) 799-3791 or visit www.STRUNGMAG.com Advertising inquiries: (855) 799-3791 or Advertising@STRUNGMAG.com Editorial inquiries: Editor@STRUNGMAG.COM

© 2019 Strung Magazine. All rights reserved.

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NEW

70% slicker and

eight times more durable The Orvis PRO Line Series is the most technologically advanced fly line we’ve ever built with new compound tapers, industry-best AST Plus coating, and two-stage texturing for improved tip floatation and shooting capability. Combined with reformulated tips, distance marking color strategy, enhanced welded loops, and permanent line ID, this is the ultimate combination of superior on-water performance and handling convenience.

New and Advanced Double Textured PRO Lines. [ ALSO AVAILABLE IN SMOOTH ]

AST Plus

The proven slickness additive AST Plus is built into the line jacket, incorporates completely, continuously migrates out for effectiveness over the life of the line, and is 70% slicker and eight times more durable than any other slickness additive available.

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Labrador Humility with Tom Rosenbauer Fishing - On the Line Brook trout have a penchant for shattering the serenity of Labrador’s vascular—and vast— backcountry. Add unparalleled lake trout fishing, and you have an angling destination to be reckoned with.

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Gear Guide Gear Guide - Hard Tack Day-in and day-out, it’s our gear collections that get us through. Our Spring Gear Guide shines a spotlight on the fly rods, fishing accessories, and outdoor essentials that we love this season.

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Snow nor Rain nor Gloom of Night: Surfing Lake Ontario with Gabriel Bizeau-Régis Watersports - Wave Train Nobody ever said that surfing is easy. That’s especially true when it comes to surfing on a Canadian lake in the middle of winter.

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From Raghorns to Riches with Brad Trumbo Hunting - Long Draw For many hunters, a trophy rack is less important than appreciating the inherent value of the animal and its harvest.

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Inland Emperor with Connor Cockrell Fishing - On the Line East Coasters know the striped bass as a blue water hunter and enigma of Atlantic sportfishing.

Landlocked stripers are no different - veritable emperors of their inland empires.

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Yoga for Paddlers with Dr. Lauren Justice Yoga - First Breath Kayakers, rafters, and paddleboarders use a range of muscles that aren’t often utilized in other activities. These accessible poses will help keep you limber and healthy for the upcoming season.

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Ruby River Folly with John Fedorka Fishing - On the Line Coming between anglers and their favorite run is a dangerous game to play, but human behavior is full of surprises.

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Spontaneous Arizona with Nick Irvine and Donald Fox Beer/Spirits - Drink/Drank/Drunk Wild beer lies at the crossroads of art and science.

When historical techniques meet modern ingenuity, great beer happens.

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Turkey Hunting in Pilgrimtown with Tom Keer Hunting - Long Draw “Their charades and raids fell under the cover of darkness. When it was bright they cussed the moon, but like all things their era passed. It’s my turn now, and I hunt gobblers in their hollow below.”

Home Cures: Bacon + Gravlax with Kelli Prescott Food - Rations Some say that bacon is a gateway meat, but cured salmon is just as addictive. Making both at home is simple and offers a near-foolproof way to preserve some of our favorite foods.

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By Any Name: Iceland’s Ace Salmon River with Joe Doggett Destination - Be Here Now The fish are fickle, the flies small. Iceland: Come for the salmon fishing, stay for the jaw-dropping beauty.

Reconciliation with Edward Clem Mountain Sports - Slush Fun(d) Balancing risk and reward is a daily task for mountain athletes. Does the equation change when death rears its ugly head?

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Pay-hay-okee: Grassy Waters with Corey Woosley Fishing - On the Line The Everglades’ maze of brackish waterways is home to myriad species of fish, reptiles, and birds.

Three thousand miles from their native streams, introduced bass and cichlids make enticing targets for the adventurous angler.

A Boy and the Mountain: Growing Up on the World’s Most Unpredictable Peak with Joseph Albanese Climbing - The Run-Out It isn’t the highest or the most dangerous - those titles are undoubtedly Himalayan - but it may be the most unpredictable. Mount Washington: home of the 231-mile-per-hour wind.

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Finding Daqu with Meredith Meeks Watersports - Wave Train China’s rivers are being dammed at an alarming rate. What could a greater focus on wildspace preservation do for the Chinese people? Filmmaker Meredith Meeks took to the Mekong’s mountainous headwaters to find out.

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After two long days of fishing in Labrador I had not hooked a brook trout longer than 10 inches. It was not what I had expected. After 50 years of obsessive fly fishing I should know enough to tamp down my expectations, but I always expect conditions to be better than they are, the fish to be easier, and my skills up to the challenge.

I may never get smart enough.

humility with Tom Rosenbauer

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labradorhumility worm fishing and jigging streamers into pockets in a tiny woodland stream before puberty, and after I got my driver’s license (after failing my first road test when I hit a parked car) I haunted a spring creek jammed with brook trout that fed on midges all day long. Size-24 flies and 7X were standard, so I developed an early respect for brook trout, but that respect faded over the years as I spent more time fishing mountain streams in Vermont, where all you needed was a 7 ½ foot 4X leader and a size-10 Stimulator. But in all the places I chased brook trout a 10-incher was a monster and the 14-inch fish I caught on the Battenkill during a late May spinner fall many years ago was my personal best.

myself standing on a nice level gravelly shoreline of a wide river and casting for giant brookies in gentle riffles. If nymphs and dries didn’t work, I’d try streamers and mice. Barring that I would put my newfound Euro nymphing skills into practice.

No problem. I’d figure it out.

I jumped at the chance to spend a week at Three Rivers Camp in remote Labrador. I was offered a job to co-host an episode of The New Fly Fisher TV show by my friend Colin McKeown. I had met the owner of the camp, Robin Reeve, at sports shows and I trusted and respected him as a no-bullshit kind of guy who truly cares about the resource, and his camp is 100% catch-and-release for brook trout. When we arrived, he warned us we needed to be at the top of our game because the fishing had been tougher than usual and the big brook trout had been especially snotty for the past few weeks. No problem, I thought, I have all these tricks to pull out of my quiver.

It was an attractive little river, but it did not treat me well. The first thing Brady did as we approached each section of the river was to climb on top of the tallest boulder and scan the water for fish. I don’t like to second guess experienced guides, but if I were fishing by myself the last thing I would want to do would be to show myself to every trout within 50 yards, but Brady had been on this river with his grandfather the day before and they’d caught a number of large brook trout on streamers and mice, so who was I to argue with his approach? I tried dry flies, dries with a nymph dropper, streamers, mice, and finally went to nymphs with an indicator and did a fair amount of fly switching, something I seldom resort to. I did catch a few brook trout but nothing bigger than I could catch on my lunch hour at home five minutes from my office.

I started o u t

Despite a very long history with brook trout I had never caught a wild brookie over 14 inches long.

On the first day, a young Newfoundland native named Brady took us to a river a short boat ride down the lake that Three Rivers Camp is perched on. In my pre-trip imaginings, I saw

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Instead, we were faced with a medium-sized river pocked with boulders that ranged from bocce ball-sized to ones that you needed to climb over using both hands. Deep water right up to the shoreline and little room for a back cast. Black flies and mosquitoes that treated us like walking blood banks. Cold front approaching with a dropping barometer and strong northwest wind.

Two long days of fishing in Labrador had not produced my trout of a lifetime. As most of us do, I started to doubt my ability to read water, to adapt to conditions, to figure out the puzzle. What right do I have to write books or host TV shows when I can’t even catch a decent brook trout in the heart of unspoiled, trophy brook trout habitat? Those thoughts conflicted with childlike anticipation on our third day as we flew out to a remote river that does not get as much pressure as the rivers within a boat ride of Three Rivers. Guests at Three Rivers are treated to two fly-out days per week (weather permitting) to get access to these hidden locations, even more remote than the main camp itself. As the float plane circled after a short flight, Robin, who was sitting next to me in the back of the plane, removed the headphones from my ears and whispered: “I shouldn’t tell you this. I really shouldn’t. But there may be times today when you’ll catch a big trout on every cast.” Yeah, I thought.

Sure. Maybe he is a bullshitter after all.

After hopping out of the plane at the lake outlet that began the short river, I was presented with the kind of stream I saw in my dreams. Wide banks with nice expanses of gravel riffles interspersed with some large cobbles, easy wading, and wide enough to get you away from the hordes of mosquitoes and black flies along the bank but not so wide that you couldn’t reach the far side with a long cast and careful wading. I couldn’t wait and started casting into the first riffle I could reach, a gentle flow with a big foam eddy that just screamed trout to me. I tossed a mouse pattern into the foam and was rewarded with a

huge boil and instant connection. The connection, however, was short-lived as a large pike took the fly and cut me off. “I’d stick to the faster flows to avoid those guys,” Robin yelled to me.

If I had waited for advice instead of wandering off immediately like a rabid dog, I might not have made that mistake.

I moved down into a riffle right in the middle of the main flow of the river, with a nice long tongue of heavier flow in its center. I made a quick cast quartering downstream just to get the line out of the guides and before I had a chance to strip the fly it was pounded by a fish. This time it was a brook trout of about 3 pounds, brilliant in pre-spawn colors and after a short tussle it was in the net and posing for pictures. The largest brook trout of my life. On my next cast, I was able to get one strip before it, too, was crushed by a second brookie, this one about a pound larger. My life record had been shattered in the space of about 15 seconds. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the cameraman, Jeremy Kennedy, wading out to me, motioning me to hold up. Damn, I thought. Now I have to go to work. I wanted to put another cast out there right now. Jeremy and I have worked together for years, and I knew the drill. He’d make me stop while he got the camera set up, then he’d need to focus on a point where the trout were taking the fly, then I’d catch a fish but would have to wait until the slow-motion file buffered before I caught another one. But I was getting greedy.

It was worth the wait, because Jeremy got some world-class slow-motion telephoto shots of giant brook trout

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I was so greedy that I was still casting to fish when the floatplane propeller started turning.

smashing mouse patterns. It got so predictable that not only could I tell him where to focus to get the moment of impact, I learned to speed up the fly so the fish made even more spectacular grabs. It really didn’t matter what you did. Just get the fly into the main current, let it swing into the side seam, and the trout would cooperate. And after I don’t know how many fish on Joe Cermele’s Master Splinter Mouse pattern, I switched to a white Zonker streamer and caught even more trout, those that were reluctant to come to the surface.

Both Colin McKeown and I repeated the same drill down through a series of riffles, hoping to eventually reach the place where the river entered another lake but never made it. By the time we had to return to camp we had not made much downstream progress. But I was so greedy that I was still casting to fish when the floatplane propeller started turning.

I won’t say they dragged me to the plane, but they could have left me with a couple granola bars and a bottle of water and picked me up the next day. I didn’t even think about the bugs.

in front of his lens. I forgot to put repellent on one of my ear lobes and that night it looked like a blood-encrusted grape. And two months later I was fishing in Montana and when I opened my bottle of dry-fly gel it was clogged with a mass of black fly bodies preserved in silicone. The brook trout of a lifetime does not come without a blood sacrifice.

During the week, I gradually learned to eliminate water I would normally fish for trout. Classic side seams and back eddies proved to be too slow for these fish, and when I bumbled a streamer or a mouse fly into water that was too slow it would often be pounded by a waiting pike, with a reasonable chance of a severed tippet.

The large brook trout invariably hold in the heaviest current, probably to stay out of reach of the pike. Even though the water looked too severe for trout to hold, I realized that the rivers that hold these large brook trout are low-gradient flows between lakes, and what looked like extreme current was probably just right. If I looked for water that I would normally think of as steelhead or large rainbow trout water I had a better chance of finding trout.

But did I mention the bugs? I’ve lived all my life in buggy locations and honestly they don’t bother me I also had to stop thinking of these much and I seldom put on insect fish as the same brook trout I had repellent. But Labrador black flies always chased. Instead of insectivores and mosquitoes are really special. I that picked at mayflies and terrestridon’t know how the hordes survive, als all day long with eager abandon, because you see very few large mamI learned I needed to treat them as mals (the caribou migration used to predators. More like brown trout. pass through here, but their herd has Moody critters with big teeth that disappeared) and not an abundance of laid in ambush for a hapless mouse birds. But on a windless day, a human or baitfish to bumble along. But still pumping out CO2 and sweat must with a perplexing tendency to inhale ring the dinner bell from miles away. a dry fly for no reason. One day Colin One day we pulled into the mouth of and Brady and I were fishing the a small stream that fed into a lake and mouth of a short, broad river they call decided to explore it. The wind had Vezina. We had picked up a couple dropped and I have no way of describ- fish on streamers and had a few boil ing the mass of insects that descended at mouse patterns but it was a slow on us other than to say that Jeremy day. We didn’t see many insects and could not even shoot any scenes saw one or two random rises. Brady because of the entomological curtain kept trying to talk me into fishing

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Who will stand up for these bodies of water

when development looms on the horizon?

just a standard dry fly, but we hadn’t seen a rise in hours. Finally, I suppose to satisfy him that it was pointless, I tied on a size-14 caddis emerger as we’d seen a few caddisflies in the air.

After about a dozen casts I pitched it above a large midstream rock and a big set of jaws inhaled it. What made it even more surprising was that we had pounded that rock with streamers and mice in a couple of other rotations through the pool.

Later I learned that many of the very large brook trout, the ones over eight pounds, are taken on standard dead-drifted dry flies. Flies like a size 14 Parachute Adams are often the fly that fools the very largest trout. Not mice patterns or streamers. Figure that one out. They do have a large mayfly that is Green Drake size, maybe a small Hex (I did not see any when I was there in August) that large brookies feed on greedily when it is on the water, and fish may be looking for that search image throughout their short season. But we did see sparse hatches of size-18 Olives and large brook trout are routinely caught on smaller dries as well.

Although they talk about the rivers in this area as being “rich” the food supply here is not Henry’s Fork or Bighorn rich. The insect prey available to these trout is rich by northern latitude standards, though. Although the lakes are dystrophic their slower waters concentrate nutrients to some extent, and the low gradient of the short rivers that run between the lakes is gentle and stable enough to support abundant aquatic vegetation, which supports a decent population of mayflies, caddisflies, damselflies, and midges. But you can tell by look-

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ing at the bigger trout here they are not just insectivores—they are carnivores. I have never seen teeth like that in the mouth of a brook trout, and the way they attacked and tore up foam Gurglers shows the voracious appetite of these fish for larger prey.

There is no single reason brook trout in northeastern and central Canada get so large. They supposedly have different genetics and have evolved to somehow exploit this far northern niche. They grow to be up to 10 years old, as opposed to the four or five years of southern brook trout. Because they inhabit waters filled with pike, there is likely some genetic pressure to evolve to a size that discourages pike—although not all pike because we saw some large brookies with pike dental imprints on them. A biologist also once told me a theory that if a fish that can maximize its caloric intake to a very short period each season and then coast for the rest of the year, expending little energy, it can to grow larger than fish in other regions where fish feed throughout the year but without pulses of bounty. The Labrador brookies enter the short rivers between lakes when spring insect hatches begin in early summer, feed heavily for two months, spawn in early fall, and then drop back into the lakes where they loaf for most of the year. When they move into the lakes, they must have a way of avoiding heavy predation by pike, as I can imagine that pike wait in ambush for the brook trout prior to winter.

On our last day, we were to fly out again, either to another remote river or perhaps a longer jaunt to search for Arctic char in a northern river. How-

ever, the day progressed into a very low ceiling with drizzling rain and there was no way Three Rivers’ very cautious floatplane pilot was going to attempt any fly-outs. Colin and I decided to explore the lake for lake trout while my cabin-mate John Gierach went out in search of a trophy pike. I’ve never been a big fan of lake trout. They might grow large but they always seem mildly flabby and those I had caught, on sinking lines in deep water, had never raised my heartbeat much. As we drove down the lake I thought I saw the sign of a small stream entering the lake at a place where Brady, our guide, had never fished before, and as I peered at the shoreline through the raindrops I saw a big swirl. We coasted into the cove and soon Colin and I were into lake trout on what seemed like every other cast. Apparently, the trout were staging around the stream mouth prior to their fall spawning, or maybe the low light emboldened them into entering shallow water in search of baitfish.

The fish struck hard and fought better than any lake trout I had ever caught before, and both of us got greedy.

We had seen young Brady taking some good-natured teasing from the other guides so we decided to count fish and lend some notches to Brady’s belt with the crew. We were going to stop at 10 fish between us, then 15, then 20. We were finally pushing our time limit and the camp would be sending a search party when we landed number 25. Screams and fist-pumps all around. We’d turned what started out to be a washout of a day into a celebration. That night at dinner all the guides were interrogating Brady for his new secret spot but he refused to tell them. Until Robin

broke in and asked Brady if he knew where his paycheck came from.

Flying into Three Rivers Lodge from the seaplane base in Labrador City, all the talk about how remote Labrador is comes into clarity. On the 150-mile route we passed exactly one lonely power line. No roads. No cabins. No other aircraft and no boats on the mostly flat green sponge punctuated by the occasional rounded hills. It’s difficult to process the amount of water spilled onto the land, and it does not seem possible to find such a vast amount of liquid so far from the ocean. It’s more remote than anything I’ve seen in Alaska. You’re impressed by two conflicting emotions. First, on an earth that will soon be fighting over water, concern about how man will eventually try to funnel this water to growing cities. Quebec has already tamed massive and remote rivers in its wilderness for hydropower and it won’t be long before Labrador holds the same appeal. And second, with the tens of thousands of lakes we flew over, how many bodies of water underneath our wings hold populations of trout never sullied by a fishing rod, and how exciting it would be to explore them as Lee Wulff did in the middle of the 20th century. But as I learned later from Robin, most of these lakes are too shallow to hold trout and freeze solid over the winter. Only the deeper lakes formed by faults in the bedrock, the ones punctuated by short and powerful rivers, hold the trophy brook trout. Some of the larger lakes may hold pike, but most are merely breeding grounds for mosquitoes. Who will stand up for these bodies of water when development looms on the horizon?

If you want to go: orvis.com/p/three-rivers-lodge-nl/2jl8

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Single Hand Fishing

ECHO River Glass What We Love: Tippet protection, translucent colorway, doubletaper handle Fiberglass rods have made a resurgence over the past few years, and for good reason. The slower actions and fuller flex provided by fiberglass construction puts an element of “soul” back into fly fishing. Fastaction graphite rods have their place, but there is something very special about slowing things down on the water. ECHO’s new River Glass series is available in several lengths for most weight ratings, allowing to

angler to choose which length fits their fishing situation best. The S2 fiberglass construction is significantly lighter than the E-glass construction found in older fiberglass rods and is more responsive than other modern fiberglass rods that we’ve tested. The translucent colorway is a definite head-turner and the double-taper handle fits both thumb-on-top and extended-finger grips. Tim Rajeff and the ECHO design team have worked with fiberglass for years and know what it takes to create a high-performing ‘glass rod at a crazy price.

Warranty: Lifetime to original owner.

Price: $249.99

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the best gear to help make the most of your life at the treeline

Decade 3/5 Reel (USA Made) (Oregon) What We Love: Oregon construction, bamboo face, click-and-pawl simplicity Decade is a newer company in the reel scene and has made a splash with their closed-face, bamboo and anodized aluminum trout reels. We’ve been fans of closed-face reels for a long time, and Decade’s timeless take on the style is sure to catch everyone’s eye. The bamboo face and spool inserts are unique and stood up to our repeated dunks in icy rivers

without being worse for wear. The click-and-pawl drag design is nearly bomb-proof and is easily converted from left to right-hand retrieve.

Available in only one size, 3/5, the reel is the perfect match for a light 5-weight rod or a heavier fiberglass 3- or 4-weight. The arbor isn’t huge, but fits with the classic design and intended purpose. It’s just what the doctor ordered for a spring day chasing feisty native fish.

Warranty: Lifetime.

Price: $375.00

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Nautilus X-Series Reel (USA Made) (Florida) What We Love: Powerful drag system, drag design, frame strength Synergy of form and function is the ultimate goal in product design, and it’s no different with fly fishing equipment. Nautilus’ X-Frame reel incorporates a fully-crimped carbon/ Teflon drag system (read: as sealed as you can possibly get) that provides smooth lockdown power. Palming a hot fish is one of the unparalleled pleasures of fly fishing, and the X-Se-

ries frame design leaves the majority of the spool exposed for your palming pleasure while protecting the reel’s bottom where most impacts occur.

Easily one of the most recognizable reels on the market, the distinctive X-shaped beams refuse to warp under the strain of BC steelhead and Abaco bonefish. Available in sizes 3/4 to 8/9, there’s bound to be an X-Series that fits your application. From design to aesthetics, it doesn’t get much better.

Warranty: Lifetime to original owner.

Price (depending on size): $275.00-$495.00

Airflo Shovelhead What We Love: Turnover capability, fast sink rate, polyurethane construction Casting large, wind-resistant flies effectively is an art unto itself. The Airflo Shovelhead fly line gives you a leg up when fish are eating the big stuff. Whereas a traditional taper features a level belly that tapers to a thinner tip and rear portion, the Shovelhead adds a thicker tip portion to the line’s

front end, allowing casters to fish double-articulated whatevers with ease. Designed by streamer wizard Kelly Galloup, the integrated sink-tip line gets down quickly to where fish are feeding. The low-stretch Power Core ensures positive hook-ups and reduces the number of missed fish.

Available in sizes 7/8 (280 grain) and 8/9 (330 grain). From the Missouri to the Limay and everywhere in between, the Shovelhead is the perfect tool for anglers who live and die by the streamer. Warranty: Limited Price: $99.99

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Thomas and Thomas Zone (USA Made) (Massachusetts) What We Love: Versatile action, natural carbon finish, high-quality cork handle It isn’t often that you find an American-made fly rod under $500 that performs this well. Thomas and Thomas’ new Zone series is the perfect option for anglers looking for a quick-but-not-too-quick action— remember that “super fast” doesn’t always mean “better”—and solid power levels to stick the monsters that lie beneath. Freshwater ver-sions are available in 3- through 7-weight and

have all of the features you come to expect from a T&T rod, including titanium stripping guides and 100% hand-rolled construction. Often overlooked at the sub-$500 price point, the Zone features a beautiful cork half-Wells grip with minimal filler—a big plus when it comes to longevity.

The natural finish carbon blank (the carbon wraps can be felt, offering a ridged appearance) keeps things unique and stands out next your buddy’s single-handers. Warranty: Lifetime to the original owner.

Price: $495.00

Orvis Helios 3F (USA Made) (Vermont) What We Love: Accuracy, swing weight, stealthy colorway Technical fisheries demand on-a-dime accuracy to get the “eat,” and the Orvis Helios 3F is as accurate as they come. The H3F isn’t just a one-trick pony, though - besides being the ideal dry fly stick, the rod’s fast action does well with dropper rigs and small streamers. Light in the hand and darn attractive to boot, you won’t be able to find a more well-rounded rod on the market. Titanium stripping guides resist corrosion from the

rigors of life on the water, as does the anodized aluminum reel seat.

Most real fishing is done at modest distances—there aren’t too many fish caught at 90 feet—and the H3F is designed for exactly that. Available in 3- through 8-weight, there is a model to fit your fishing needs. Drop that size-18 mayfly where it needs to be every time with the H3F. Warranty: 25 years to the original owner.

Price (depending on size): $849/$898

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Spey Fishing

Sage Spey Reel What We Love: Drag adjustability, line capacity, classic aesthetics Classic good looks and incredible adjustability make the Sage Spey Reel a great choice for the discerning Spey angler. Whether you’re in it for the old-school round porting or smoothas-silk startup inertia, the Spey is the perfect go-to for longer Spey rods. In a fly fishing world where low weight is all the rage, the Spey’s bulk is a breath of fresh air. The drag knob’s

numbered and detented settings make drag adjustments a breeze and ensure that you’re ready for whatever swims your way. The large arbor picks up line quickly while full line guards ensure that your running line doesn’t slip between the frame and spool throughout the cast. Available in Spey sizes 6/8 and 7/9. If you’re looking for a little bit of tradition but prefer the security of a disk drag, the Spey Reel is your huckleberry.

Warranty: Lifetime to the original owner.

Price (depending on size): $475-$500

Thomas and Thomas DNA Spey (USA Made) (Massachusetts) What We Love: Lifting power, dry line accuracy, size options Versatility: it’s the name of the game in fly fishing, regardless if the casting is done with one hand or two. The Thomas and Thomas DNA Spey series blew us away with how well it performed any task we threw at it. Lift a multi-density Skagit head looped to a mile of T-14? No problem. Toss laser loops with a dry line snake roll? Done.

Overhead cast to sea-run bull trout?

All day long. We all dream of having

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a quiver of rods to choose from, but the DNA Spey allows anglers to pare down their stable to a few rods and still get the job done in style. The multi-modulus construction provides an action that fits a variety of casting strokes and styles to benefit a wide range of fishing situations. Size options range from an 11’6” 7-weight to a 15’0” 10-weight. Summer steel to steppe-bound taimen, the DNA Spey has you covered. Warranty: Lifetime to original owner.

Price (depending on size): $995.00-$1,095.00

Orvis Clearwater Spey (updated) What We Love: Slimmer-diameter handle, crisp action, price point The Orvis designers have outdone themselves with the updated Clearwater Spey series. Designed in Vermont, the rods are everything you could ever want from a Spey rod at the sub-$500 price point. The balanced action and power levels can be well-utilized by punchy casters and smooth operators just the same.

Handle size is rarely a consideration for anglers, but it makes a huge difference in casting comfort when spending all day on the water. The

Clearwater’s handle is slimmer than most, allowing anglers with smaller hands to fish effectively day-in and day-out; conversely, our larger-handed testers had no complaints about the handle size. Size options include an 11’4” 3-weight trout Spey model all the way up to a 15’0” 10-weight for chasing the largest anadromous fish. Beginners and experts can agree: The updated Clearwater Spey series is one hell of a stick for all types of two-handed fishing.

Warranty: 25 years to the original owner. Available Spring 2019.

Price: Up to $398.00

RIO InTouch Scandi 3D Shooting Head (USA Made)(Washington) What We Love: Sink rate options, “Easy ID” size printing , aerodynamics Scandinavian-style lines are far more versatile than many people realize, especially when constructed in multiple densities. The idea is nothing new — triple-density shooting heads have been coming out of Nordic factories for years - but rarely did they ever make it to US retailers in quantity.

Luckily for us, Rio has brought the technology stateside. The Rio InTouch Scandi 3D is available in a variety of

densities, from Floating/Hover/Intermediate to Intermediate/Sink 3/Sink 5, offering several options for anglers looking to swing through a multitude of depths and current velocities. Anglers shy about touch-and-go casting should fear not: Even without a sink tip, the head’s sinking portions can be employed for sustained-anchor casting. Relative to Skagit heads, the InTouch Scandi 3D is more delicate and produces less surface crash — a definite plus for anglers searching for nervous fish.

Price: $59.99

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ECHO Bravo Reel What We Love: Tool-free servicing, retrieve rate, price point Let’s face it, even “fully sealed” drag systems can leak, and usually do so at the worst time imaginable. Having your reel’s drag fail while you’re battling a hot fish is grounds for a streamside tantrum. The crafty folks at ECHO devised a clever workaround: Create a drag system that is fully serviceable without tools. We spent a week camping and fishing icy,

silt-laden water and were able to disassemble the Bravo’s drag system using an nickel for a quick bath before bed. The carbon disk drag has serious stopping power and the all-aluminum construction stands up to the beatings that only a dirtbag angler can offer. Available in sizes 7/9 through 10/12 (single-hand sizes; the 8/10 is perfect for a 13-foot, 7-Weight Spey). Value and ingenuity - it’s what ECHO does best. Warranty: 12-month limited to original owner.

Price: $139.99

III

Fishing Accessories

Simms G3 Guide River Camo Stockingfoot Waders (USA Made) (Montana) What We Love: Colorway, fit, hand warmer pocket Simms waders are known for holding up in the most adverse conditions, from crawling through thick streamside briars to sliding down talusstrewn banks. The G3 River Camo Guide Wader does something that no other wader has tried to do before: keep you invisible to wary fish. The Veil Camo pattern distorts movement to nearby fish, thereby making a close approach more feasible before spooking your target (it also looks

pretty slick). The suspender system allows them to be worn waist-high, perfect for warm days and shallow wading. Relative to Simms’ older styles, the fit is slightly slimmer but isn’t restrictive. The hand-warmer pocket is perfect for keeping your off-hand toasty while swinging flies and the zip-off, flip-out tippet pocket is ideal for keeping your most-used spools close at hand. If you’re going to buy one pair of waders to last, the G3 Guide River Camo Waders are your ticket for worry-free, leak-free days on the water.

Price: $599.95

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Fishpond Nomad El Jefe Net What We Love: Hoop size, buoyancy, weight For most of us, hunting big fish without a net is just asking for a broken leader and a broken heart. Fishpond’s Nomad El Jefe Net has the ideal blend of reach, hoop size, and light weight to make it the perfect onwater companion. The net floats high unlike some metal-framed models on the market, a definite boon to those who can’t afford to buy a new net every season. Constructed with a fiberglass and carbon fiber blend, the net is as tough as it is useful. With a

large hoop size, it’s capable of easily holding anadromous fish but isn’t unwieldy when tucked into a wader belt.

The handle is in the same “Goldilocks” range, not too long and not too short.

Hand nets are great for smaller fish and smaller rods, but having a longer handle is necessary for landing fish from a boat or self-netting with a Spey rod. The replaceable rubber net helps keep fish slime where it belongs, and the mesh size is perfect for keeping fins and gills from getting damaged. Landing more hooked fish it’s more than just a novel concept.

Price: $199.95

Loon Nip n’ Sip What We Love: Beer + Fishing, replaceable blades, hinged construction What goes better together than beer and fishing? Not a whole lot. The folks over at Loon Outdoors obviously agree; the Oregon-based brand has produced one of the more versatile fishing tools we’ve seen: the Nip N’ Sip 2.0 nipper/bottle opener combina-

tion. By pairing stainless steel nippers (with replaceable blades) with a solid bottle opener, Loon has ensured that you can stay on the water for hours without constantly borrowing your buddy’s lighter. Equipped with a hook eye-cleaning needle and a braided nylon lanyard, the Nip N’ Sip 2.0 is ready to help you start the spring off right: with neatly-tied knots and a tasty beverage.

Price: $34.95

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IV

Outdoor Essentials

Midland Micromobile MXT115 What We Love: Long range, USB charging port, NOAA weather Communication is key, especially when you’re out in the wild. Whether you’re scouting for elk or just trying to decide where to camp for the night, the Midland Micromobile MXT115 helps you stay in touch. The GMRS two-way radio features 15 watts of power, allowing for 50 miles

of line-of-sight range. In “real” situations, we found that we still had nearly 10 miles of range, even with ridges and trees between ourselves and the other radio. The Micromobile mounts in your vehicle or ATV, utilizing a simple magnetic antenna to boost the radio’s range. Our favorite features are the USB-A charging port and NOAA weather scan - both indispensable when you’re far from home. Fifteen high-power channels and 142 privacy codes make sure that an open channel is available when you need it most.

Price: $149.99

Red Clouds Collective Waxed Canvas Work Pant (USA Made) (California) What We Love: Refined fit, super-tough construction, novel pocket design Portland-based Red Clouds Collective has been producing handmade workwear for the better part of a decade and has earned a cult following in the motorcycle and outdoor worlds. Their Waxed Canvas Work Pants are everything you wish double-knee work pants were—slim (not skinny), fitting, triple stitched, and waxed for weather resistance. The pants

feature small slots for a pocket knife and lighter within the front slash pockets, keeping the main pockets free for loose change and whatever else you can stuff in there.

The pants are available in both men’s and women’s cuts to fit the majority of people out there. We wore the pants through numerous 30-plusmile hikes in search of pheasant and they held up admirably while battling through thickets of sage and juniper.

In the garage, in the field, or at the bar­—the Red Clouds Waxed Canvas Work Pants are ready.

Price: $299.99

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Filson x Mossy Oak® Camo Small Tin Cloth Field Duffle Bag (USA Made) (Washington) What We Love: Tin Cloth toughness, pocket design, Mossy Oak® pattern

is that mythical creature. The Tin Cloth construction is water-resistant —it kept our gear dry during PNW Finding an uncluttered, well-sized downpours—and stands up admirably overnight bag is harder than it sounds. to the rigors of upland hunting. The If that same bag is also super func31 liter size is perfect for a change tional in the field and stands up to of clothes and overnight necessities, daily abuse, you’ve found yourself while the outer pockets fit enough something of a unicorn. The Filson shotgun shells for a weekend of bird x Mossy Oak® Camo Small Tin Cloth chasing. As with all things Filson, it’s Field Duffle (say that three times fast) built for years of use. If you need one small bag that can do it all, this is it.

Price: $150.00

Anchor Axe Co. 1844 Felling Axe and Hatchet (USA Made)(Missouri) What We Love: Refurbished head, handmade handle, color options

hand, features a 1.25-pound head, great for splitting kindling and small de-limbing jobs. We’re huge fans of Henry Ford once said, “Chop your making the old new again, especially own wood and it will warm you twice.” when the end product is better than Anchor Axe Company’s 1844 Series anything made today. Anchor speincludes both felling axes and hatchcializes in refurbished vintage axe ets, a boon for those who know the heads mated with beautifully paintvalue of well-cut wood. The 1844 ed, hand-shaped handles. The axes’ Felling Axe comes equipped with a scalpel-sharp heads are each angled 3.5-pound head, perfect for cutting appropriately, helping you make quick downed logs into manageable piecwork of the job at hand. Beautiful, es or splitting the night’s firewood. useful, and made to last - it’s all you The 1844 Hatchet, on the other can ask for in an outdoor tool.

Price: $165.00 (Felling Axe) $140.00 (Hatchet)

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Snow nor Rain nor Gloom of Night Surfing Lake Ontario Lake Ontario.

A lake. In Canada.

Where people surf.

In the Winter.

Photos by Gabriel Bizeau-Régis

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Five millimeters of neoprene is often all that separates bare skin from water that looks more Antarctic than idyllic. Sound masochistic? For a stout few, the lake’s north shore is a surfing Valhalla replete with point breaks and opportunities for 4-meter swells.

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Here, icicles form on exposed facial hair and a flushing wetsuit is grounds for hypothermia; beating a quicklyclosing set might require a headlong plunge from the end of a glazed-over pier. Conditions are favorable between October and April, with winter storms

providing the batteries for some incredible wind-driven waves. While wind chop can kill a surf session in most other locales, Lake Ontario thrives on gusts that can whip up double overhead swells and barrels that a brewer would be proud of.

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Perched on Lake Ontario’s north shore, Toronto is the typical jump off for visitors coming from warmer climes and serves as home base for much of the lake’s burgeoning surf scene. In town, spots like Woodbine Beach and Scarborough Bluffs offer waves that could easily be confused with their

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marine brethren; names like “Little Mavericks” make for natural comparison.

Big-city life not your style? Solitude speaks volumes, and it can be found in droves by those with access to a car and a solid pair of booties. Lesser-known breaks to the north and east see fewer people than Toronto’s beaches, though

opportunities still lurk around nearly every point. Farther west, Hamilton’s rocky shores get a proper lineup when the waves are breaking, with spots like Van Wagner’s Beach seeing significant traffic from locals and the occasional visiting kook. It wouldn’t be urban surfing without at least one kook in the mix.

Snow nor rain nor gloom of night nothing can keep surfers from enjoying Lake Ontario’s chilly breaks. Pack your winter suit (the one without the holes), a toque or two, and get it while the getting’s good. We’ll see you there.

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My heart sank. It was the last morning of the hunt, and the third report of Larry’s rifle sent the herd into high gear in retreat to the next basin. I was sure I heard the tell-tale “whap” of a bullet hit home at least twice, but the bull never flinched or missed a step. He wasn’t huge, a fivepoint, but he was the biggest bull in the herd since the other tag holder in camp secured the respectable sixpoint opening morning. I reflected on the past week, sort of an out-ofbody experience, as the herd filed through the distant saddle.

with Brad Trumbo Nine days prior, we made camp at around 7,500 feet elevation. The spiny crags of Mount Borah loomed to the southeast. It was gorgeous, 70 degrees, as the evening sun cast a soft, pink glow atop the distant, snow-capped peaks. Pronghorn pranced about the sagebrush valley and a few sage grouse peeked awkwardly through the brush.

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we sipped some hot coffee from the percolator, saddled up the ATVs, and hit the bone-jarring, boulder-strewn path.

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Larry Holecek was the holder of an our ascent up a low draw and dropped Idaho draw tag for Unit 37 in the Big into the bowels of a canyon at the Lost Wilderness. He and his son, Dean, base of what appeared to be textbook scouted the area earlier in the month, bighorn sheep terrain. reporting back that the terrain was gentle and the elk were low. It would We followed the canyon to the top be a hunt in country similar to that using melty elk tracks in old snow as of southeast Washington where Dean a guide. Climbing up to about 9,300 and I live. Foolishly, I believed him. feet broke our lungs into the thin Poring over maps of three different air, and we found ourselves in a large canyons gave us intimate knowledge meadow, gawking wild-eyed at the of the focal area, among the larger lay breathtaking views of large, jagged of the Pahsimeroi drainage in the days peaks and rugged saddles that gave leading up the trip. way to the sagebrush mountains and valley below. Mountain mahogany and The day dawned serenely; our first alpine-stunted pines were dispersed morning in camp and the first of a among the landscape, petering out few days of scouting before the hunt about 2 miles from the high peaks opened. Dean prepared a venison where every drop of precipitation is sausage and egg scramble, we sipped squeezed from the arid atmosphere. some hot coffee from the percolator, saddled up the ATVs, and hit the We spotted a few cows and calves in bone-jarring, boulder-strewn path. At the meadow, but no bulls, and no elk road’s end, we dismounted and began the remainder of the day. The second

afternoon we spotted a herd 5 miles off in the high desert sagebrush below the shadows of two peaks dividing adjacent drainages. The elk had not only left the lowlands, they had left the timber as well. They were bedded in such a place that getting closer than about 600 yards would have been impossible. The terrain was so steep and talus-ridden that we may not have been able to traverse it, much less get a stable rest for a shot. Nevertheless, we put the herd to bed and planned for the following morning.

Opening morning, the three of us rolled out of the tent into a fresh blanket of snow; a stark contrast to the summer weather we arrived in.

Traveling back to where we glassed the elk the evening before, we were delighted to find not another soul willing to compete with us. We parked the truck, crossed the creek,

and crawled and clawed our way through thick creekside brush, gaining a collar full of snow to show for it. Emerging on the other side of the tangle, we felt as though we’d hit the lottery. A couple of cow elk fed on the distant slope, and we were certain the herd was tucked away just inside of a small, timbered draw.

Our ascent was slow and deliberate.

We glassed the area with immense anticipation, spending the better part of the day hiking to the mountain’s false peak. The terrain was painfully steep and our lazy, lowland bodies were worn by the time we reached a rock outcropping that was still easily a half mile from where the elk had been the evening before. Easing around the gendarme, we laid eyes on a large cirque with a pond in the middle. We had hoped to find the herd on the backside, but instead found

Emerging on the other side of the tangle, we felt as though we’D hit the lottery.

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three trophy pronghorn bedded about 100 yards below overlooking the vast, empty bowl. Taking stock of the situation we realized we were too long into the day to try another drainage, so we sat back and took in the scene as the antelope fled to higher ground.

Back in camp, we cooked and ate around the fire, waiting for the other team in camp to return. Just before dark, the old, black, battered Jeep Cherokee screamed up the dirt trail with a respectable six-point bull rack strapped to the top like a masthead.

We revelled in the tale of the moment, jealous of their experience among dozens of vocal, sparring bulls. He made a beautiful shot at 360 yards and watched as the bull tipped over in his tracks. They watched the herd split, half of which peeled off into a nearby drainage while the remainder moved out of our hunting unit. It goes without saying that Dean, Larry, and I were stoked for the return of daylight. We turned in early, eager to hunt yet too wired to sleep.

The next morning dawned much like the day before but we didn’t have a plan to speak of. We decided to head into an adjacent canyon and glass our way up through the foothills. It’s interesting looking for elk in thick, high sage, particularly when trying to spot them on the move. The naked eye registers something amiss, and as you focus your optics the odd dark shapes that look like dead sagebrush turn out to be the protruding heads of a bedded elk herd.

We spotted the herd relatively quickly where our successful campmates said they would be. The herd bull (a marginal five-point) was off, nearly alone, to the left of the larger herd with a number of three- and four-point raghorns scattered about. There was only one approach up a narrow draw that would put just enough terrain between us to close the gap. Dean led

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the charge as we scrambled up the ravine, and took the rear to lend Larry some moral support for the second grueling morning hike.

Cresting the top of the draw, we found another peak between us and the elk, and set our heads for another hour’s ascent. Upon finally reaching the rocky peak, I fell back while Dean surveyed the scene. The elk lay just where we left them, but as luck would have it, our range finders wouldn’t cooperate and there were simply no alternatives to cut the distance.

Larry chugged up to meet us and we hashed out the situation. A confident marksman with a traditional scope, Larry had been practicing out to 500 yards. If we could get a range in that ballpark, he was sure that he could send 168 grains home. Belly-crawling onto the rocks, Larry set a solid, prone rest while I fumbled with the range finder. At long last, my range finder reported 537 yards to a small rock spine above the herd. Larry was ready.

The bull was laying a bit behind the spine as the ridgecrest angled slightly away from us, so we estimated him to be at about 550 yards. We had time. The elk were holed up for the day and we were perfectly concealed.

I mentioned to Larry that we should just wait them out, holding tight for the bull to stand up to feed or pursue a cow. Meanwhile, I went back to trying to get a more exact range on the bull. Peering through the viewfinder, a poof of snow erupted just below the lying bull followed by the report of Larry’s rifle.

The elk jumped up and created a jumble, with the five-point putting several cows between us. They swiftly vacated several miles further into the drainage and we were left discussing the situation. Two inches low on a lying bull caused a miss that would

have otherwise hit home if that bull were on his feet. Larry was confident, but patience is critical. It was about 1:00 P.M. when we came off the mountain.

The next few days were a miserable blur. Snow and fog set in like a wet wool blanket. Conditions limited visibility to a mere 40 yards at times and mucked up travel on the narrow, greasy, backcountry trails. Heavy snow crumpled our gear tents and swallowed our sleeping tent. Most other camps in the area pulled out, and of the few lunatics left, we were about the only folks with the poor sense to venture out of camp. Needless to say, we didn’t spot a single elk.

By the eighth day, the weather had finally cleared and animals spewed out of the woodwork.

By the eighth day, the weather had finally cleared and animals spewed out of the woodwork. We spent the morning chasing a respectable bull spotted out of camp, trudging on hands and knees through thick, snowy mahogany, and fighting off a gaggle of mule deer bucks that had been mysteriously absent in days prior.

We finished the day by spotting the same herd with the five-point bull that Larry missed on Monday. They were near the same peak, but on our side of the mountain. We glassed them until darkness swallowed us and shadows danced in the campfire’s glow. Tomorrow morning we would make it happen.

The ninth and final day of the hunt dawned clear and warm. The cold and snow had passed, and a balmy, sunny day bloomed, casting rich auburn glows on the high peaks.

Dean and I glassed the ridges where the elk had been the previous night as we sipped hot coffee. We calmly conversed, sipping and glassing, both teetering on the brink of sleep-deprived collapse and the anticipation of spotting the herd.

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Momentarily, while scouring the western aspects, elk began to appear from a draw near where we had left them 12 hours prior. We watched the bulk of the herd climb up and over a saddle between peaks and drop into the next drainage. We knew where they were headed and that they would be feeding and looking to bed for the morning.

A mad dash of throwing gear into the truck and a 30-minute kidney-pounding ride put us in the adjacent drainage where we spotted the herd, and directly on the backside of the mountain where they had crossed through the saddle. We eagerly approached from a few miles below but, at this point in the week, the elk were having none of us. Even from several miles off, the herd jumped

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and moved back into a small saddle, putting a low peak directly between us. The five-point stood with a couple of cows, watching as we backtracked out of sight.

Unsure if we bumped the elk out of the area, we decided to ascend one draw behind them and strategize en route. If the elk had left, we would pick up their tracks and follow them to see what we had to work with. Our ascent, like every other, was painfully steep and slow. Although accustomed to the daily climbs, a lack of sleep had us weary. We kept a pace just aggressive enough to move efficiently, but without wearing Larry out to maintain his shooting ability if needed.

the mountainside to get a look at where the elk had been. We spotted a few cows calm and bedded not far from where we spooked them. Although we were unsure of how many elk stuck around and how big the bulls were, we were sure there were bulls to be had. It was all the motivation we needed.

Easing back into concealment, we gave Larry a nod and two thumbs up, lighting a fire under the ole boy that erased the week’s worth of drudgery.

There was a divot in the mountainside at the top of the draw, scrambled to it, then eased through and over the top.

Dean moved quickly ahead to spot the elk alone, unwilling to risk betraying movement if we happenned to be Upon covering about a mile and a half, right on top of them.

Dean and I decided to slip up around

Dean crested the ridge, then abruptly dropped to his knees as if he had tripped. He crawled forward, glassed, then motioned back to Larry and me with silent urgency. On hands and knees, we crawled, peeked over the top, and spied 40 head bedded in a saddle 400 yards below.

We helped Larry settle and noticed the five-point was up and clear. Since Dean and I were “guiding” the hunt, we made the poor assumption that we were all looking at the same bull.

Dean announced “He’s open. Shoot!”.

On command, Larry squeezed off the first round that audibly hit home. The five-point didn’t so much as twitch.

Shedding our packs, we slithered like With optics trained on the bull, snakes through the snow up to a small Dean and I simultaneously ordered pile of red volcanic rock. Sizing up “Hit him again!” Once again, Larry the herd, it was clear the five-point squeezed off a round that audibly hit Larry missed on Monday was still home. Now the herd began making the biggest bull, but he was bedded tracks with the five-point, showing among many cows. A younger ragno sign of a hit, bringing up the rear. horn was open and Larry commented that “a raghorn is a raghorn, it doesn’t “Shoot again, he’s getting away!” Dean matter which one is bigger.” We shouted in panic. He and I were both agreed, but that didn’t stop Dean and silently befuddled at how the bull me from assuming we would hold out could soak up two rounds from a for the bigger bull. .300 Winchester magnum without so

much as a flinch and still escape at an alarming pace. It was agonizing to say the least. Contemplating the week as the herd fled somehow eased the pain of striking out on our final opportunity. Somehow, the joke was on Dean and I. Larry replied, “Getting away?!

Hell, he’s down!”

With a swift glance back, I glimpsed an elk tumble down the far side of the saddle and remain motionless. Instinctually, I had optics on the fallen animal before the reality took hold that Larry had killed a different elk, one I never saw. I couldn’t tell it was a bull with the naked eye, and wasn’t even sure with the optics.

Dean and I shared a confused glance, uneasy that Larry may have incidentally killed a cow.

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“Is that a bull?” I asked.

“Hell yeah! It’s that little rag-horn we spotted in the open right off the bat.

What elk did you think I was shooting at?”

“I thought you were shooting at that big five-point,” I countered.

“Hell, I never even saw him!” Larry said. “I knew I hit that bull on the first shot, but you guys keep yelling to shoot again. I assumed you were seeing something I wasn’t.” Technically, we were seeing something Larry wasn’t.

Ecstatic and exhausted, our knees buckled as we gasped for breath through overwhelming laughter, indulging in the bittersweet moment of hard-earned success before the gravity of the situation took hold: We had just taken the life of one of the most beautiful animals to roam the face of North America. As we came

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down from the high of pulling off a successful final hunt, we somberly gathered our gear and trekked across the snowy saddle in silence.

Approaching the bull, I was awestruck by the sleek, tobacco-colored coat and how the modest, raghorn rack was just as magnificent as any worn by a “trophy” bull. The scene was surreal as we drank in every bit of detail of the landscape; from the milky green tinge and piquant aroma of the sagebrush, to the pure-white snow on the high peaks contrasted against the crisp brown of the late summer dryland below, we relished the moment we had created.

We set up a brief photo shoot before putting blade to hide as a reminder of the beauty of the animal, the life it gave, the incredible landscape, and what we had earned. Just as quickly as the harvest played out, a sense of urgency set in and the work began.

Twilight still lingered as we returned to camp, so we prepared for a hasty

retreat home at first light. We revelled in the imperfect, miraculous ending to a tough hunt thankful for the experience, comradery, and the bounty of the harvest. Our bull wouldn’t make the record books, but inches of antler is an inadequate measure of success and unacceptable justification for taking a life. The nourishment our families would receive from such a fine, young specimen exemplifies the purpose of the hunt; the trophy of Mother Nature’s rich, organic protein, and time spent in the wilderness among friends.

But the mountain always attempts to settle the score. As the sun sank into the western horizon, the wind kicked up and nearly destroyed our camp overnight. None of us was afforded the sweet rest we had earned. Nevertheless, the sleepless nights, wild weather patterns, and arduous hikes were a far smaller price to pay than what the wilderness gave. We were leaving the wilderness as rich men.

TYLER ROEMER

When we buy a river, it belongs to everyone.

Western Rivers Conservancy buys and protects land along the West’s greatest rivers. We do it for the sake of fish, for the benefit of wildlife and to improve access to our most treasured waters and the wildlands around them. Most of all, we do it for the river.

We count on support from people like you, those who know the value of clean, cold water, healthy rivers and public access. Contribute today at westernrivers.org.

with Connor Cockrell Morone saxatilis is a juggernaut, ranking as the preferred consumer of baitfish patterns from New Jersey to Arkansas.

Typically anadromous, the lakebound stripers found across the southern United States run up tributary systems to spawn — remnant behavior deeply ingrained in their DNA. They’re rarely successful because striper eggs need significant turbulence to stay off the river bottom which lake headwaters normally can’t produce. Whereas black bass, white bass, and salmonid eggs hatch on river and lake bottoms, striped bass hatch in open water several days after fertilization.

The first “landlocked” anadromous stripers were found in the Santee Cooper Lakes in South Carolina.

Historically, stripers would run out of the Atlantic and into the Santee and Cooper Rivers to spawn but became trapped inland when the Pinopolis dam was built in 1941, thereby forming lakes Marion and Moultrie. The state natural resources department began stocking stripers once they realized they could help sustain wild populations by artificially inseminating females’ eggs in a large tank with male sperm. The program continued to grow over the following years; any lakedwelling striper in the United States today most likely originated in South Carolina.

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Stripers were introduced in lakes around the country primarily as a control mechanism for shad populations. Shad consume the eggs of attractive—and lucrative— gamefish species, making them an enemy of well-intentioned anglers and fisheries managers. Because of the striper’s preference for these small swimmers, anglers typically throw lures and flies that resemble the lake’s typical size and color of forage fish.

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Striper fishing is a unique game when specifically targeting them, but black bass fishermen often catch them when casting topwater lures early in the morning or fishing from rocky banks and points throughout the day. Stripers may eat a trout angler’s big streamer in high water, eliciting either elation or consternation depending on the person.

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Due to their iteroparous life histories, stripers—like steelhead—are able to spawn multiple times before dying, providing enhanced angling opportunities each time they run upriver. In the fall, stripers follow the shad migration into creek channels and attempt to ascend larger tributaries to spawn in the spring. These two periods are the

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best opportunities to find and land these feisty transplants. The rest of the time, generally, they hang around in deeper water underneath large schools of shad, searching for cold water and making angling considerably more difficult. Nobody said it would be easy, but the payoff can be huge.

Anglers are always looking for the next big chase, the next surge of adrenaline as the line goes tight and the reel starts to scream. Inland striper fishing is here for you. If you’re north, head south. If you’re south, head to the lake. The inland emperor is waiting.

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Yoga with Lauren Justice, Ph.D, RYT-500 Whether you are cultivating balance to smoothly glide over the ever-present eddy or core strength to hit the perfect roll in your kayak, yoga has a lot to offer paddlers.

Learning to read the water is similar to understanding the subtleties of your body. As you get in tune with your own rhythm, syncing breath with movement, you appreciate a deeper connection with the next river you ride. Try this sequence to lengthen your side body, strengthen your core, and keep your upper back and shoulders limber.

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Breathing practice: Syncing Breath with Lifted Arms: This practice lays the foundation for what is commonly termed as “flow yoga.� Once you find a comfortable seat (on a chair or on the floor), practice belly breathing by inviting a slow inhale and exhale down into your belly and side ribs. Continue this breath and add upward movement of your arms (palms face up) as you inhale. Then reverse your palms and draw your arms back down on your exhale. As you practice this, try to fill your lungs at the same rate that you move your arms up so when your arms are fully lifted, your lungs are full, and when your arms are down, your lungs are empty.

As you practice this, you will learn how to allow your breath to be your guide so that the beginning and end of your breath initiates your next movement. With this foundation you will be set to explore other expressions of flow in your yoga practice. You may even develop a better sense of flow while on the water.

Cat-Cow: This pairing of shapes is a great way to warm up because it brings movement to your entire spine. From table top position (with hands and knees on the ground, shoulder-width apart), practice that same flowing breath with movement as you inhale and drop your belly, lifting your head and tail bone; then exhale, relaxing your head and neck down as you press into your hands to lift up in that space between your shoulder blades. For most paddlers, this area is both a source of strength and tension, so this simple movement may increase flexibility in an area of our bodies that is often too tight.

for paddlers

Modified Sun Salutation: Gate Pose: This pose is excellent for lengthening your side body and keeping your hip flexors long and limber. Start on your knees (with a blanket under your knees for some padding), and extend your right leg perpendicular to your body with toes pointing forward so that you can ground the outside of this foot while lifting your inner arch. Gently glide your right hand down your thigh to rest here (not on your knee joint), and lift your left arm up and over to stretch your left side body. While here, keep your chest rotated up and your hips moving forward rather than back in space. You can hold here for a few breaths or you can lift up through your left arm and place that left hand down, a foot or so from your left knee, and lift your right arm up and over to stretch your right side body. Again, keep your chest lifted and your hips forward. You may add a flow sequence by syncing your breath with these movements from one side to the other. Repeat with your right knee down and your left leg extended out.

Sun salutations are a common, yet typically misunderstood, part of Western yoga practices. Incorrect alignment in chaturanga, often referred to as “the yoga push-up,� may aggravate or increase the likelihood of a shoulder injury. To protect those important joints, start with this modified version of a sun salutation sequence:

part I Extended Mountain Pose: Beginning with feet shoulder-width apart and hands at your side, take a deep breath in and press down into your feet as you lift your arms, eyes, and chest up.

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Forward Fold: As you exhale, allow your breath to guide you as you lower down by hinging at your hips and keeping a long, flat back (eyes down so the back of your neck is long).

Monkey Pose: From this forward fold, inhale while rising halfway, placing your hands on blocks while your eyes remain down toward the floor to keep your back flat. In this shape, bring a slight engagement into your lower abdominal muscles and lengthen from your tailbone through the crown of your head. Exhale back down to your forward fold. Part One of the sequence may act as a standalone flow (by lifting back up to standing and starting again), if part two aggravates any injury.

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PART II Low Lunge with Blocks: From your forward fold, keep your hands on blocks as you step your left foot back and draw your right leg into a 90 degree angle, with your knee stacked above your ankle and your toes pointing forward. Find your core engagement by pressing down into your feet and imagining that you are trying to scissor your legs toward one another without actually moving them (this attention to your muscles should turn them on without movement). As your core turns on, draw your shoulder blades together and reach your chest forward. Hands may lift or stay on your blocks. If you lift your hands, you could lengthen your side body here by placing your right hand on your thigh or hip and lifting your left arm up and over to the right, paying close attention to keep your left leg straight and strong.

Downward-Facing Dog: Once you complete your lunge, step your right foot back next to your left (shoulderwidth apart) and place your hands down on your mat to come into downward facing dog. In “down dog,” concentrate on pressing down into your hands with fingers spread wide to grip the floor, letting your chest sink as your tailbone lifts. Take a bend in your knees if any low back or hamstring pain is present. To modify for injury or discomfort, you could bring your knees down and move back into a child’s pose.

Child’s Pose: Move into this pose from table top position (hands underneath shoulders, knees underneath hips).

Walk your hands forward and sit your hips back so they rest on your calves or a blanket. Knees can be together or open depending on what feels most comfortable (explore each version).

Once here, continue to draw your hips down and backward as you walk your hands forward to maximize this back stretch. Let your head rest on the floor or a block.

Plank Pose: After you complete one full breath in child’s pose or down dog, move into plank pose by placing your shoulders directly above your wrists (not forward of them) and your hips in line with your shoulders. Plank is an excellent strength-building pose for your abdominals, back, and arms but requires a steady breath. If you lose your breath, bring your knees down to continue exploring the shape with less intensity. You may hold plank or begin to lower down to the floor.

As you lower, keep your elbows in by your ribs, drop your knees down, and use the strength of your shoulders drawing together to keep your chest open.

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Cobra Pose: Once you arrive on the floor, flip your feet so the tops of your feet can press down into the floor. Press your hips down to lengthen your low back. Lift your chest a few inches off the floor using the strength of your shoulders squeezing together to help you lift.

You can also practice floating your hands an inch or so off the floor to explore how to use your back muscles rather than your hands for that lift.

Once you complete your inhale here, lower back down as you exhale.

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To Complete the Sequence: Once here press back up into plank pose and either move back into down dog or child’s pose for a full round of breath. To complete this sequence, step forward with your left leg on your exhale to come back into a low lunge for your inhale. On your next exhale, step forward into your forward fold, inhale and lift halfway up (still using your blocks for support) and lower back down as you exhale into your forward fold. Next, root down into your feet to rise up into your standing mountain pose, hands meeting either at heart center or above your head. With that, you have completed your first sun salutation.

You may choose to practice a few more times, refining how you let your breath guide your transition into each pose.

Boat Pose: Aptly named for paddlers, this pose cultivates a strong and grounded sense of your core muscles.

Starting from a sitting position with your legs extended forward, practice leaning back with a long flat back and an open chest to lift your legs. Legs can be bent or straight depending on preference. You may choose to use your hands behind your knees as support while learning how to keep a straight back through engaging your core. For additional core awareness, you could place a block to squeeze between your thighs. Once you feel able to keep your chest lifted with a flat back, you could explore straightening your legs; however, notice if you lose your breath here and remember that if you lose your breath, you have lost the purpose of the pose. While shaking may be natural and welcome, straining to the point of not breathing won’t help you on the mat or on the water. Breath reminds us how to cultivate ease and flow even in the face of challenge.

When you come out of the pose, place your feet down and wide on your mat so you can then sway your knees from side to side and release tension in your back.

Fish Pose: Come down on your mat to lay flat on your back. Tuck your tailbone so your low back lengthens.

Begin to balloon your ribs and lungs up, and support this action by propping up on your elbows; hands can tuck under your rear. Point out and down with your toes and let the crown of your head rest on a block or the floor. If this shape causes any pain or tension in your cervical spine, choose bridge pose as an alternative chest opener (See Volume I Issue I, “Yoga for Fly Anglers�). Take three to five long and slow breaths here.

Guided meditation of a river: It is recommended that every practice end with at least five minutes of final meditation to relax and restore after stretching. In this meditation, you may start to bring your practice of mindful awareness to your next trip on the river by imagining what it is like to be there. What would you hear, see, smell, taste, and feel? How would you feel on the water? When our minds are overrun by thoughts, you might visualize the flow of a river, each thought like a leaf or fish, that just glides down the river with you, not controlling, just flowing.

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by John Fedorka

My father haS been fishing Southwest Montana since the early 1980s. After a few years of college in my home state of Pennsylvania, he informed me that I belong in Montana. I agreed. One of the first places we would fish was the Ruby River, located in the Gravelly and Ruby Mountains, where the small tailwater runs predominantly through private land. Although there are public access points managed by Montana Fish, Wildlife and Parks, it is the source of continuing and often-heated debate between working-class fishermen and wealthy landowners.

We access the river at the dam. There is a right-of-way through private land and the landowner is known to local anglers as a stick-in-the-mud. Dad told of the time the man came out of his house and complained that he had no right to be passing over the man’s

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property, right-of-way or no. Dad didn’t feel threatened; it was more of an inconvenience. It’s easy to understand the man’s side, but Montana’s enlightened stream-access laws allow anglers to fish as far up- or downstream they please as long as they enter at a public access point.

Dad also shared stories other fishermen relayed about the landowner; tales of them being run off the river by a shotgun-toting old man hot on their heels, firing as he ran. It was never clear if the shots were fired at them or just warning blasts into the air. Fishermen are known to tell tales like the 32-incher Fish and Game allegedly electroshocked below the damn last October, or Sasquatch sightings up in Hyalite Canyon.

Regardless, it was a local truism that the man was not happy about anglers crossing his land. Each time I fished

here, I wondered what the odds were for a buckshot surprise.

A few years passed. The Ruby River became a regular friend of mine, and I managed to avoid getting shot at the dam access. It was around Mother’s Day, and the kind of day where everyone is happy to wear shorts, t-shirts and flip-flops after the long winter. I heard that the Madison and Yellowstone Rivers were alive with sky-darkening caddis hatches, and it was likely the same on the Ruby. I had just gotten off the phone with Dad; he was asking about the Ruby because we fished it the same time last year. He depends on my stories to get him through the grueling work week, living vicariously through me as many loving fathers do.

Weather like this demanded that I join in the fun, but my Dodge Durango was in the shop. Everyone else was busy, and I was without a ride. I called my younger sister and pleaded with her to let me borrow her Mitsubishi sedan. Luckily, she understood the plight of not being able to fish and gladly lent me her car. I thanked her and soon was on my way to visit my favorite haunt.

On my way, I stopped in at the Madison River Fishing Company. I picked up a few knick-knacks for tying flies and chatted with the guides before getting back on the road. Arriving at the river, I couldn’t get out of the car and onto the water quick enough. I zoomed into a sloped parking spot, killed the engine, pulled up the emergency brake, and climbed out of the car. Before I knew it, my sister’s Mit-

subishi had rolled down the hill and came to rest in a sizeable ditch at the bottom. It was nearly high-centered with the front bumper wedged over a boulder that was used as a property boundary line. Or, more likely, to keep cars from rolling further.

I couldn’t believe what had happened.

There were a few moments where I experienced the full spectrum of negative human emotion, and all at the same time. The frustration subsided, I resigned myself to acceptance and attempted to troubleshoot my dilemma.

I thought about heading to the water and figuring it out later, but I knew that would crush any measure of peace I gained on the river. I peered at my phone, but the service was poor at best. I tried to call my friend Dudley, but the single bar of cell service was of little utility.

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I looked to my right at the house where the legendary shotgun-toting, fisherman-hating man resided. An old two-story white clapboard that was probably a generation younger than the original homesteads, it appeared to be cared for, though the white paint was beginning to blend in with the dusty landscape of the Ruby Valley.

The windows were open and I could hear the metallic pitter-patter of an old-fashioned typewriter. Who uses a typewriter these days? The sound took me to dark thoughts of Alfred Hitchcock movies while I’m debating on

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whether to ask a pissed-off Norman Bates for assistance getting out of a ditch on his land. What else can I do?

go fishing I forgot to put my sister’s car in gear, allowing it to roll into the ditch. “We’ve all been there before,” he kindly lied. I stared at my feet as I walked to the house as the typeI took off my cap and scratched my writer grew louder and louder. I head, muttering, “Yeah, I don’t know knocked on the door, and the typewhat I was thinking. I guess I wasn’t.” writer stopped with a “ding!” Creaky My legendary shotgun-toting friend footfalls graduated down the stairs consoled me, looking out at the car. to the front door. My heart was “We’ll have that baby out in a jiffy.” pounding as I imagined the feeling of being blown apart by buckshot.

He asked me to give him a minute to get his boots on, and I waited on “Hello there, young man,” said the the porch patiently. He was back in older gentlemen. His warm smile no time, smiling, holding up a pair surprised me, but put me at ease. I of keys and jingling them. He pulled explained how in my excitement to around in a Chevy pickup that was

about as old as the house but in 20 bucks in my wallet, but he resistbetter shape. I began my way back to ed with warm laughter, telling me the car as he zipped around, backthat it is no big deal. He simply said, ing up to the Mitsubishi in a single “Make sure you do the same.” try like he was born to it. After a quick inspection, he pulled out a tow I thanked him again and went down rope from the back of the truck and to the water to fish, despite my raw hooked everything up, reassuring me nerves. Fish were landed and missed. not to worry. Before I knew it, the I relaxed, but I don’t remember much car was back on flat ground. about the day’s fishing, just getting stuck in that ditch and my “notoriI quickly pulled the emergency brake ous” friend’s help. I remember his and put the car in gear, then started words and make sure to do the same; profusely thanking my new friend. I the best I can, anyhow. pleaded with him to let me buy him lunch, but he refused my best sales pitch. I tried to give him the only

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Spontaneous Arizona Wild beer brewing is firmly at the nexus of science and art.

with Nick Irvine and Donald Fox Some beer is wilder than others.

Spontaneously fermented beer, or beer allowed to accrue microorganisms from the surrounding air, relies on nature’s good will to induce fermentation. Modern brewing techniques require the addition of specialty yeast strains through a controlled process to convert the beer’s starches to ethanol alcohol; this is where most pale ales, lagers, and stouts come from. Contemporary processes have their benefits for mass-produced beers, but they also remove Mother Nature’s agency in creating a product that truly is a culmination of brewing skill and the surrounding earth. To wax poetic, wild beer brewing is firmly at the nexus of science and art. The old ways have not been lost, however. In fact, they’re thriving in the American Southwest.

This is the story of the intricate ties between people, their environment, and their craft. In February 2018, a handful of breweries throughout Arizona gathered for celebratory collaboration brewing projects. These breweries, in particular, shared the kinship of being relatively new on the scene, with most opening within the last four to five years. As a member of this ragtag group, we wanted to do something special together, something that had never been done in the 48th state. Something to showcase the love of not only craft beer, but the beautifully diverse state of Arizona. The goal was to devise a beer completely unique to our region as an ode to the Belgian brewers before us.

Lacking any dirth of grain and hops in our arid state, the decision was made to grasp the land’s terrior by harnessing the yeast and bacteria residing in and on the local landscape. We were going to brew a spontaneously fermented, or wild, “coolship” beer utilizing historical techniques.

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B e e r of Ag e s Beginning around the 18th century, brewers near Brussels, Belgium would place boiled, unfermented beer into shallow, open vessels known as coolships. As the story goes, before refrigeration was available to cool down this liquid “wort” made from malted grains, brewers had to wait for it to naturally cool. This method allowed the wort to cool overnight in the crisp, evening air. It also created a place for the billions of microorganisms living in the old brewery buildings and drifting in through open windows to find a warm home conducive to their well-being. With the addition of these microorganisms, fermentation would occur, thereby creating the beverage known as lambic beer.

Much like champagne, a beer can only be called a lambic if it is produced in breweries residing in this specific region. Cantillon, Lindemans, Boon, and 3 Fonteinen are notable examples that produce world-famous lambic.

The Brussels air contains a certain blend of microorganisms that contribute a unique character to the wild ales brewed there that can’t be found anywhere else. For us, thousands of miles from Brussels’ green lowlands, these fermenting organisms would come courtesy of brewing camps nestled among the Northern Arizona pines.

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C h e m i s t ry, B i olo gy & W o r ld - C l a ss D r i n k i n g Microorganisms - namely bacteria and wild yeasts - are responsible for the production of not only the alcohol in beer, but the multitude of flavors in the final product. They are everywhere. They are on plants, animals, in the soil, and all over our bodies.

Of the billions of single-celled life forms, four of these catch brewers’ attention the most: Saccharomyces, Brettanomyces, Lactobacillus, and Pediococcus. The first two are yeasts and will provide a bulk of the fermentation and some potentially funky and fruity flavor molecules called esters and phenols. If you get an active Brettanomyces culture in the mix, you may pick up earthy nuances that some describe as being reminiscent of a barnyard; some Brettanomyces strains also present as bright tropical fruits. Lactobacillus, and in a lesser sense Pediococcus, provides the bulk of the acidity characteristic in the tart and sour profiles of many classic lambic beers. Identifying these organisms can be a tricky endeavor. One of the most widely-used, albeit imprecise, methods brewers use is their sensory observations to narrow down which organisms are contributing to the beverage; aromas and flavors give clues as to who is involved. A more accurate technique is to take a sample from a surface near where fermentation will be induced and place it on a nutrient petri dish, allowing the collected cultures to grow.

Microscopy can then allow for identification of the present microbes based either on cell shape or which chemical additive creates a reaction.

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C oolsh i p C a mp o r B r e w e r s Go n e W i ld Northern Arizona is a vast and diverse land. The region includes multiple ecosystems from semi-arid Sonoran desert to alpine tundra above 12,000 feet. Each of our coolship camp locations was chosen based on evening temperatures and picturesque beauty. Not only did this create an atmosphere appealing to the brewers’ eye, but also allowed for only the choicest of yeast and bacteria to be involved. From start to finish, this was the process: 1. Brew ten barrels (about 420 gallons) of wort at Grand Canyon Brewing Company 2. Transfer hot wort to a plastic cube tote for transport 3. Transport wort roughly 50 miles to the selected camp 4. Set up 12 West Brewing’s stainless coolship, confirming that it is as level as possible 5. Transfer wort from tote to the coolship using gravity-fed brewers’ hoses 6. A llow wort to rest 16 hours, acquiring microorganisms as it cools 7. Return cooled wort to tote using a small pump and hoses 8. Transport tote to Dark Sky Brewing’s storage facility 9. T ransfer newly-inoculated beer to barrels for aging

The coolship made its way down Forest Service roads, the wort bounced and jostled in its big white tote, and the rest was determined by nature.

The breweries involved in the camps are as unique as the landscape, each known for producing their own adventurous takes on craft ale and lager. It is always amazing to see the relationships that can grow and flourish, even across the hundreds of miles that separate many of the breweries. These relationships are paramount to success in this type of project and we gathered resources from all involved. From the custom stainless coolship provided by 12 West Brewing, to the traditional wort brewed by Grand Canyon Brewing, and the oak barrels provided by Dark Sky Brewing, each brewer and brewery helped make this a project of true collaboration.

As the sun set along the ridges and mountains of the Mogollon Rim, 30 friends with a penchant for beer making sat around sharing stories of past brewdays, current projects and future collaboration ideas. At one point the fire fell silent as we watched the steam rise from the coolship, imagining all of the possibilities that lie with this one-of-a-kind endeavor. We don’t see ourselves as competitors, but as on this great journey together, helping each other to rise the tide that raises all ships.

When the mystique and beauty of the surrounding environment meets with ingenuity and creative drive, great things can occur. Only in the wild can science and nature combine to create connections and a product full of pride and wonder.

lambics, the former being aged for one year and the latter between two and three years. The brewers and a few specially-assigned tasters will try out various ratios of different batches to select the most appropriate blend. Only when satisfied will the beer be bottled and conditioned until fermentation has completed and the beer is carbonated. Some of the barrels could be “dumpers” destined for the brewery floor drain, but some may contain liquid gold. It’s all part of the process, and why some beer is wilder, and tastier, than others.

The next time you’re in the Southwest, give some love to the intrepid breweries that were a part of this coolship camp endeavor: 1 2 W est B rewing C o.

B eer R esearch I nstitute Dark S k y B rewing C o.

D ragoon B rewing C o.

G oldwater B rewing C o.

G rand C an y on B rewing C o.

H elton B rewing C o.

Wanderlust B rewing C o.

We are in the process of aging the second batch in the series, allowing us to partake in another classic lambic tradition: blending. Our selected lambic style, gueuze, requires the blending of “young” and “old”

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WITH Tom Keer The only time I ever walk down the old, sandy, fire road is during turkey season.

The last time it was open to the public was decades ago and it was supposed to be used only by the fire brigade and in emergencies. That path allowed pump trucks to access a maze of other sandy roads and navigate the forest so as to extinguish the occasional wildfires. During the Summer of Love, no one smelled the pine. Wood smoke from bonfires of communal camping filled the air as did the distinct pungency of smoldering Mary Jane. When the excited sounds of orgies were added to the mix, Johnny Law shut it down. It was big news that a police squad sealed off the path’s entrance with twisted wire cables and shackles. That was a long time ago, and these days both are so rusty that one sharp yank would break them in half. An open entrance would allow me to drive, but I’d still walk. It’s far more interesting that way, particularly at night.

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I vowed one day to hunt turkey in this Cape Cod pine barren with a blunderbuss, and hopefully there still is timE.

Tall stands of pine line both sides of the road. Some are pitch pines used by early Pilgrim settlers to waterproof boat strakes. Their neighbors, enormous, straight-enough white pines, were used as masts. This particular stand has been unmolested for nearly a century, and that time allowed them to grow. They’re so tall and wide that their limbs interlock and block all light from my path. Even a full moon stroll requires a flashlight, but there is one intriguing detail: It’s silent, deathly silent. No noise or sound carries a lick, no matter if it’s a calm day or during a honking Nor’easter. It’s eerie for the first five minutes but after time spent in solitude it’s difficult to return to reality.

The fire road splits a ways up, and I take the path that veers to the east.

If I were to continue walking straight for a mile or so I’d eventually swim with striped bass. The closer I get to the beach the looser the terrain, and the smells change, too. On an Easterly, the wind blows across the frigid ocean and is bone chilling. With it comes the pungency of salt air. A directional change to the Sou’west brings more pine and less brine. I vowed one day to hunt turkey in this Cape Cod pine barren with a blunderbuss, and hopefully there still is time.

My chosen path runs parallel to the dunes, and it takes me to the hollow below the local high point. On dark nights, land pirates called Mooncussers walked throughout these dunes. They carried lanterns and pretended to be lighthouses, luring unsuspecting captains to run their vessels aground. Folks in North Carolina know what I’m talking about; their land pirates put light fixtures on an old horses’ head. Nags Head, Mooncussers, they’re the same thing.

Their charades and raids fell under the cover of darkness. When it was bright they cussed the moon, but like

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all things their era passed. It’s my turn now, and I hunt gobblers in their hollow below.

Many years earlier I fished for striped bass on the beach out front. Every now and then I could have sworn I heard bobwhite whistling. After hammering enough fish to be happy, I set forth to explore the pine barren and search for the collection responsible for the late afternoon covey calls. It took a while, but I found them in a hollow full of broomstraw, ragweed, and lespedza. Oaks and pines stood so perfectly erect throughout that I could have sworn I was in South Georgia’s Red Hills. That fall I returned to cut loose my setters, and, boy, did we have a big time. Things are very different now as the forests grew up, the grasses died off, and the quail disappeared. All that runs the bottom’s glacial kettle pond and the coast are low-basket swamp bucks and eastern wild turkey.

I think about different setups every year, yet always arrive at the same place. You can find me, if you can find the hollow, sitting against the big old pine in the middle. Decades of fallen pine needles provide comfort that rivals my bed, I’m out of the direct wind and sun, and have a solid view of the birds’ entrances and exits.

Veteran turkey hunters would call me a fool for hunting down low. Turkey 101 says that it’s easier to call a bird uphill than to try and coax him down, but that truth doesn’t hold water here. Gobblers and hens roost on the hillside that descends to where the Mooncussers walked. After flying down, the hens head to the hollow to breed and pick bugs. If you’re at the top, you’ll hear sexy yelps, purrs and clucks, and the gobblers hear ‘em, too. They get all hot and bothered, and dump out of the trees to storm the hollow below.

These eastern birds behave this way because of the light hunting pressure they receive. There isn’t much spring traffic here in Tourist Town. Summer folks split in the fall for skiing sorties in the western mountains or sailing junkets in the Caribbean. No one putts on the brown greens of the golf courses. Heck, even hotels and restaurants are closed. It will be months before anyone orders a soft serve twist.

I wished I had a country store hang-out where all turkey hunters gathered to swap stories.

that it it was a stampede. Two jakes thought they were smarter than the three bosses, and they flew down to my deke. By the time the dominant gobblers arrived there were feathers flying like snow. Birds reared up, talons raked everywhere, and feathers flew sky high. One cool customer, the biggest one of the bunch, walked right up in full display, drumming and spitting. The others continued to scuffle so much that, if it went on for much longer, they’d be bald.

On last year’s opening day, a number of them thundered across the top of the bowl. I’d normally talk back pretty quickly, but this time I decided to wait until after the false dawn. The light would be stronger, the temperature swing would be complete, and those boys would be hot. I waited for an hour, and there wasn’t a single yelp to be heard.

No one heard the shot. No one heard the wings beating on the pine needles. No one heard them stop. No one saw the other birds fly up the ridge and beat feet away. There was no wind, there was no sound, just me sitting against the pine staring at my bird and wondering, all the while, what just happened?

I felt the rising sun’s heat long before I could see it, and pitched out a soft yelp. The woods lit up immediately, and I dished out another. I figured I would hammer these birds and force them to either commit and come in or I’d leave and go fishing. Gobbles came from all sides, and I yelped and yelped and yelped. These fellas were all out of sorts so I laid it on thick one last time. I delivered my piece de resistance with a yelp-purr combo that raised to a crescendo. Then I shut up and sat back.

By now it was light out. I walked to my bird, picked him up, and hung him over my shoulder. He felt like a good one, and I enjoyed his weight as I walked out of the hollow to the sand, to the fork, and then through the pines. I wished I had a country store hang-out where all turkey hunters gathered to swap stories. On most days I would listen but today I had a story to tell. All I had were the good folks at the Mobile Station. They weren’t hunters, and all they’d want were the details.

Moments later I saw a head pop up on I placed my gobbler in the pickup’s bed. the west side of the bowl. Two more At one point his beard must have been heads appeared at the north side and long, but now it was slightly longer four jakes gathered towards the south. than a stub. The harsh winter saw to When it rains it pours I guess, but that. The birds that escaped likely had this time I didn’t have an umbrella. To blood on their spurs, but there was take one corker of a bird meant that none on his. I sat on the tailgate and I’d educate six others. That’s turkey looked out at the road. There were hunting for you. You can’t always have no cars whizzing by to disturb me, what you want so you take what you so I took out my journal and wrote. can get. I was ready.

Even though no one heard the story it would still live on like those tales of Everything was calm until the first the Mooncussers, with me hunting in bird started down the hill. After their shadows below.

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with Keli Prescott

Home Cures: Curing meat is one of the oldest methods of food preservation in existence. We have been harvesting and curing meat since the beginning of time. It is in our blood. I can attest that there is still a primal rush associated with chopping silvers of oak to build the perfect fire for smoking a piece of cured meat.

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I’ve chosen two of the easiest cured meats to master: bacon and gravlax.

Although these two items are completely opposite in flavor and composition, they are equally easy to perfect. Compared to other cured meats, these recipes have fewer steps, faster results, and are nearly impossible to mess up. Both the salmon and bacon recipes I’ve provided rely heavily on one magic ingredient: salt.

Bacon+Gravlax Salt works as a curing agent by removing excess moisture, allowing the meat to dry out, and in turn preventing bacterial growth. The “pink salt” used for curing typically contains added nitrates, is pink in hue, and is also known as “prague powder” or “curing salt.” Pink salt kills bacteria immediately and works to preserve color, giving bacon, pastrami, and other cured, smoked meats the beautiful color we associate them with. It is important to note that Himalayan pink salt is a different product and does not contain added nitrates.

Curing whole legs, hard salami and other non-cooked meats requires more care and should not be attempted without pink salt. I use pink salt in my bacon recipe for good measure.

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Baco n

W h at yo u ’ ll n e e d :

Although many cured meats are never cooked, bacon is a smoked treat that western culture has perfected for the frying pan. It is cured for about a week to lock in salt and flavor then smoked low and slow before being rested, sliced, and cooked.

- 1 boneless pork butt, butterflied or 1 pork belly, cut in two -2 1-gallon storage bags - s moker (wood-burning or electric) with thermometer - meat thermometer - 1 1/2 cups kosher salt - 3/4 cups packed brown sugar - 1 tsp pink salt (curing salt #1) - 1 tbsp coarse black pepper - 1 tbsp red chili flakes - 1 tbsp cumin seed

I prefer shoulder bacon over belly bacon, as the ratio of fat to meat is more proportional and is less expensive to make. I use Berkshire boneless pork shoulders (pork butts) for my bacon. Berkshire pigs have an exceptional fat cap and marbling; I’ve yet to find a better cut to make bacon from. If you don’t have Berkshire pigs available, look for the fattiest pork shoulder you can find or use pork belly.

Mix dry ingredients together to create seasoning blend.

Butterfly the pork butt. If using a pork belly, cut in two equal pieces.

Sprinkle the slabs of pork generously with seasoning blend. Transfer the seasoned pieces of meat into storage bags and remove as much air as possible before sealing. Feel free to use a vacuum sealer if one is handy.

Store airtight bags of seasoned meat in the refrigerator for at least five and no more than seven days.

When at least five days have elapsed, remove the meat from the storage bags. Rinse excess seasoning from meat with cold water and pat dry.

Time to smoke!

Heat the smoker to 200º F. Smoke bacon with the fat cap facing up until internal temperature reads 150º F. Be very careful to keep the smoker temperature between 200º and 225º; a too-hot smoker will result in dry or jerky-like bacon.

Transfer smoked bacon to a sheet tray for cooling. Let rest in the refrigerator overnight before slicing.

Use a slicing knife to cut bacon to desired thickness.

Bacon will remain at peak freshness for two weeks in the refrigerator and can be kept frozen for as long as desired.

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72-Hour Gravlax

what you’ll need:

Cured salmon, or gravlax, is the easiest of all cured meats to make.

It is absolutely delicious perched atop a cream cheese bagel, or simply enjoyed with toast and a poached egg.

- small sheet tray - parchment paper -p lenty of room in your refrigerator - 1 skin-on salmon filet, as fresh as possible - 4 cups kosher salt - 3 cups white sugar

In my gravlax recipe I use only salt and sugar. Feel free to add other aromatics like lemon zest, cracked pepper, dill, tarragon, or similar.

Combine salt and sugar.

Line a sheet tray with parchment paper.

Take one cup of the salt/sugar mixture and make a pile on the parchment paper. Nestle the salmon skin-side down on top of the mixture so that all of the skin is touching salt.

Sprinkle another cup of salt mixture on the salmon flesh until it is evenly covered.

Place salmon directly in refrigerator uncovered. The salmon will release a lot of liquid and absorb most of the salt mixture.

Replace parchment paper and gently pat salmon dry every 24 hours. With each change of parchment paper, sprinkle more of the salt mixture on both the bottom and top of the salmon. Make more salt mixture if needed.

At the end of 72 hours, thoroughly rinse the salmon with cool water.

The goal is to remove as much salt as possible so the end product is balanced in flavor.

After rinsing, pat dry with paper towels. Place the salmon back into the refrigerator to air dry for at least three hours before slicing.

The salmon should now be a deep orange color and have obtained a soft, leathery texture on the outside.

It should have little to no fishy smell.

Thinly slice the salmon off of the skin and enjoy. Cured salmon should be kept in a zip-top bag or airtight container and will remain fresh for a week in the refrigerator.

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WITH JOE DOGGETT

ICELAND’S ACE SALMON RIVER

We were seated at the bar of the Sand Hotel in Reykjavík. Fishing partner Ed Cappel was thumbing over the soft glow of his iPad. He was reviewing the Federation of Icelandic River Owners (FIRO) page of catch statistics of the numerous Atlantic salmon rivers.

“I still think it’s pronounced Mid-FiorDawa,” he proclaimed.

I swirled my wine glass and gave him a condescending glance. “No, no, no.

It’s Mid-Fa-Ja-Dara.”

Neither stab at the Icelandic pronunciation was close. The mysterious river that awaited us the following day is spelled “Miðfjarðará” Roughly translated, it means Middle-Fjord-River.

We still haven’t gotten it right, not surprising for a pair of Texans on their fledgling flight to the land of fire, ice, and fabulous fly fishing for salmon.

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Cappel and I were tipped two years ago while fly fishing for steelhead on the Sustut River in British Columbia.

But, by any name, Miðfjarðará is consistently rated as one of the top salmon rivers in Iceland. And most American anglers have never heard of it.

Recent official statistics enforce his claim. Each year, the FIRO compiles meticulous week-by-week catch results from 75 salmon rivers in the country.

Iceland’s great Atlantic salmon runs started getting U.S. press during the late ‘60s and ‘70s, with features in the major outdoor magazines publicizing rivers such as Laxa i Adaldal, Ranga, and Nordura, but Miðfjarðará was off the stateside radar.

At the end of last season, the YtriRanga led the list with 4,032 fish. But that tally was based on 18 rods (only 12 during the first two weeks) for 19 weeks (six days of fishing per week).

The weekly tally per rod was 12.2 salmon, an average of approximately two per day, respectable on the global Atlantic salmon scale but mediocre for Iceland.

Cappel and I were tipped two years ago while fly fishing for steelhead on the Sustut River in British Columbia.

A world-travelled angler from Germany, Bernd Elendt-Schneider, confided the information. He has salmon fished in Iceland for years and stated without reservation that Miðfjarðará was the go-to drainage.

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Conversely, Miðfjarðará fishes only 10 rods per week during a 17-week season (six rods during the first three weeks). Last year yielded 2,719 fish.

That was 19.7 per week, the highest per-rod tally in Iceland during 2018’s below-average season.

The long-celebrated Laxa i Adaldal was far down the list, posting a paltry seasonal tally of 608 fish for 17 rods per week. Salmon fishing in Iceland is not cheap, with the cost of most full-service weeks well north of $10 or 12K USD. Running Laxa i Adaldal’s depressing numbers against a severely battered credit card might require professional counseling and prescription drugs.

And Miðfjarðará’s top showing per rod was not a fluke; it has a recent five-year average of 3,137 fly-caught Atlantic salmon.

These semi-tedious statistics are provided to provide a factual foundation, to cut through the fluff that sometimes accompanies fishing destination articles. Accolades over glowing sunsets and sparkling waters aside, this river is the real deal.

Cappel and I were sketchy on our enunciation but agreed prospects were looking good as we joined our group of 10 Midfjardara anglers and departed Reykjavik in a crisp, clean bus on a crisp, clean morning.

Significantly, we were the only Americans in the group. The others, all repeat clients, hailed from England and Italy. The accents and backgrounds varied, but we shared the common thread of well-tied salmon flies.

The entire island-country of Iceland has a population of approximately 350,000, a borderline suburb in my home of Houston. Vikings first inhabited the stark but strangely beautiful island. Volcanic terrain is widespread and obsidian rocks far outnumber trees.

The Miðfjarðará River is about 200 kilometers north of the capital city, just below the Arctic Circle, and the drive on a series of good highways takes approximately three hours.

The river is clear and surprisingly small, an excellent race track for light-rod fishing. It drains a broad valley near the village of Laugarbakki.

Three tributaries - Austura, Nupsa, and Vestura - flow from the craggy foothills. The entire drainage is owned and controlled by the various small farms in the valley, and exclusive salmon fishing rights are leased from the co-op by Miðfjarðará Lodge.

More than 200 named pools are available and the 10 rods rotate among five beats. No boats are used and one-handed seven- to nine-weight rods and floating lines cover the majority of situations.

The expression “too much gun” applies to most Spey rods.

The one-level lodge resembles a simple motel, nothing elaborate outside but spacious and comfortable. And, worth note, in a journey potentially fraught with honking, braying snorers, each guest is assigned a private room and bath.

A professional chef oversees meals and a wide selection of wines is available.

“The river level is normal, not too low for mid-summer, and fish are still entering the river,” Alfredsson said.

“We should have nice weather and I expect a good week.”

We were met in the hallway by lodge manager Rafn Valur Alfredsson. He was pumped.

“The river level is normal, not too low for mid-summer, and fish are still entering the river,” Alfredsson said.

“We should have nice weather and I expect a good week.”

Our fishing day is divided into morning and evening sessions, with a three-hour midday break for lunch and rest back at the lodge. Two rods are paired with a guide, and you fish a different beat each session. You’ll usually have at least eight or 10 pools to choose from in a beat.

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Most of the pools can be covered in less than an hour by wading, so you relocate quite a bit. At each stop, each angler is given his own pool and the guide rotates.

Any seasoned angler should recognize the positives of this setup—easy fishing, plenty of water, and no competition.

I bumbled and fumbled over Alfredsson’s first name and he smiled. “For the sake of convenience, I go by Rabbi.”

I bumbled and fumbled over Alfredsson’s first name and he smiled.

“For the sake of convenience, I go by Rabbi.”

Rabbi introduced us to our guide for the week. For the sake of convenience, he goes by Dolli. He was 50-something, of obsidian-hard lineage and a master angler.

“I have my grandfather’s proper name,” Dolli said. “It is so confusing that even my neighbors cannot say it.

Our language stems from Norwegian; we can understand them but often they cannot understand us.” Dolli concluded the language lesson with a brisk wave. “Most of the time we just speak English.”

He certainly did not fit his nickname.

I figured word-association might help but the only “Dolly” I could think of was country singer Dolly Parton.

Cappel and I were shocked at the tiny flies. Some were wets on double hooks, others were micro-tubes on miniscule trebles. Almost all were sparse and dark with a suggestion of silver flash. The idea of a salmon raging up through icy currents to grab such a puny offering seemed preposterous but Dolli just smiled.

Each guide commands a clean SUV with custom rod holders fitted across the hood and roof. The vehicles are excellent for driving the spider web of gravel roads, even for crossing shallow riffles and bars. Cappel and I racked two Sage rods each—one 10-foot 8-weight, and one 10-foot 7-weight.

The longer rods proved to be a fine choice for mending and swinging, and the softer actions were a good buffer for the tiny hooks.

Our first afternoon was slow. We drove 15 or 20 minutes up from the valley of hay farms and through an expanse of grassy foothills. Scattered on the slopes were small bands of domestic sheep. Most were shaggy and white and all were skittish, running at distance and acting more like wild sheep or mule deer than livestock.

The farmers use Icelandic sheepAs we rigged up in the wader room dogs—thick and short and furry, a for the first afternoon, I proudly breed brought on longships by the offered several Wheatley fly boxes Vikings. They must be tough dogs for Dolli’s inspection. They contained with big lungs. dozens of salmon flies from several previous trips to Russia’s Kola and Cappel and I flipped for openers; he Quebec’s Gaspe. Most were tied on No. won and I started solo. Dolli parked 4, No. 6, and No. 8 single and double near a beautiful pool below a white hooks. All were classic killers. He tumble of waterfalls. He selected a promptly dismissed the lot. fly and knotted the 10-pound Maxima tippet. He showed me where to start “Much too big, too bright. Here in and how to work downstream. He Iceland, we use small 12’s, even 14’s. watched my first few swings then I have a selection ready from the departed. lodge’s fly shop.”

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The guides know the river to a fraction but there is satisfaction in wading solo, moving at a chosen pace and relying on judgment and instinct to cover the water. It’s one-on-one.

Once alone, I spent several minutes absorbing the scenery and the situation. I gazed at the wonderful expanse of emptiness that was mine.

I was a long way from the Hermann Park duck pond in Houston, where I began fly fishing as a boy. A top river in Iceland is a Top Tier dream for any salmon angler.

It would be grand to say that during that warm and fuzzy moment a fish struck but, salmon being salmon, not a damned thing happened.

Considering that salmon stop actively feeding once reentering freshwater to spawn, it’s a major miracle anyone ever gets a pull.

Spending ruinous amounts of money to cast over a fish that doesn’t want to eat perhaps defies common sense, but sometimes avid anglers aren’t exactly overburdened with logic. But, now and then, during a gold-dusted swing, the right trigger is pulled.

One accepted theory is that the tiny fly rekindles a faint reflex, a vague instinct of feeding as a young fourto six-inch parr in the river. Another is that repeated casts through the same area can irritate a “holding” fish into striking.

About two hours later, on a different pool, the quirky nature of Salmo salar rose with a confident, deliberate boil. I correctly waited for the weight of the turning fish, then lifted the rod. It’s a rookie mistake to yank on the splash; this premature set almost certainly rips the fly away from a deranged salmon doing its suicidal best to get caught.

It would be grand to say that during that warm and fuzzy moment a fish struck but, salmon being salmon, not a damned thing happened.

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“They’re licking the paint. It’s something about the paint they like.”

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The fish shook its head several times, transmitting a main-line thrill of weight and power. Then it sprinted downstream and surfaced in a vaulting, twisting jump. The fish shone silver in the afternoon light—a “chromer” only several tides removed from the sea.

The Bogdan Model O reel spun smoothly as the salmon dodged and darted before jumping again. And again. It stayed in the long pool and the two-to-one retrieve on the classic reel kept the situation under control.

Tiring, the salmon wavered close to the gravel bank. I backed slowly, easing the fish into inches of water, then grabbed the line and held the leader close.

The fish lay broadside in the shallows and I dropped to my knees. It was a hen with a small head and swelling girth, probably five or six pounds either a large one-year grilse or a small two-salt salmon. Whatever it was, it was gorgeous, freshly minted with bright sides flecked with dark spots, and a purple sheen to the green back.

The Atlantic salmon was anointed in 1496 as the “moost stately fyssh that ony man maye angle” by Dame Juliana Berners in Treatyse of Fysshynge wyth an Angle. As I watched my first Icelandic salmon swim free, I saw no reason to contradict that claim.

The Atlantic salmon has it—that stately and special “something‚” that spans the centuries.

The tractor was surrounded by a tight cluster of 12 or 15 horses.

They were the unique Icelandic horses, small in frame but sporting huge manes with great tufts spilling over the foreheads.

Cappel landed a similar fish and that was it for the afternoon. We returned to the lodge excited but a bit deflated. Still, we were on the board.

And we agreed that we were fishing I looked over at the tractorfest. reasonable well; the sympathetic “What’s up with that?” review was supported by the fact that Dolli only occasionally barked “They’re licking the paint. It’s at our casting. something about the paint they like.”

Still, there is a learning curve in each type of fishing, and the egotistical angler who fails to acknowledge that fine tuning will always remain a B Teamer. The learning curve on the Miðfjarðará was confirmed by comparing notes with the other rods over drinks that evening. Two of the proper Brits had four fish apiece for the afternoon, and an affable Italian had five.

But maybe the bite was just off on our beat. That theory started sounding better after another glass of Merlot. Regardless, Cappel and I were stoked to be facing a full week of fishing.

And it was a grand experience. I only had one awkward glitch. During the drama of playing a hot fish I fumbled and started yelling for “Polly!”

The paint job on the ancient machine appeared tired and faded, while our new Land Cruiser was shiny and gleaming—a fact not lost on the assembled mob.

The horses stared fixedly then trotted after us as we parked on a cut bank overlooking a gorgeous series of pools and riffles. We stepped out to admire the water and the keen animals pressed closer. One prominent brownish-gray stallion gave me a serious dose of the stinkeye, and it wouldn’t do until the rascal positioned about 10 yards directly behind me.

Icelandic horses are claimed to be a friendly breed, but I suspect this mane-tossing, hoof-stomping, truckeating ne’er-do-well was plotting a righteous headbutt into the river.

Social blunders aside, the variety “We’ll have to leave—go to and abundance of water kept things another stretch upriver,” Dolli from getting stale. The lower river said as I retreated around the was smooth and steady, and the surly stallion. “We can’t leave higher pools were tucked amid the vehicle sitting here.” rugged canyons—on several stretches coursing down through jumbles of Since the lodge leases the river boulders and ledges a collapsible rights, the resident horses wading staff was a strong ally. apparently have priority over any and all visiting Texans.

During the six days of rotating beats we had only one interference call Cappel and I averaged about three on our “private” water. Dolli drove fish per day for the trip, good by through a gated pasture and past an global standards but so-so for the old tractor abandoned in the weeds. river. The camp average was four.

But we did improve; my last full day tallied six fish and Cappel had five.

Also encouraging, during the week we lost only two fish apiece that were “on the rod.” The little hooks worked amazingly well against a light touch when stuck in the meat of the jaw.

A highlight for me was catching two fish on a Payne 410 bamboo rod. The 9 1/2-foot stick was built during the early ‘50s and was regarded by the late classic tackle dealer Marty Keane as Jim Payne ‘s finest “light salmon” model. It cast a smooth, soft line and, if anything, the gentle flex of cane was an asset with the tiny flies.

My best salmon was a long, slim hen estimated to weigh 15 pounds. The fish took with a grand splash on a riffle-hitched Sunray Shadow tube.

We had several other double-digit salmon but most were between five and eight pounds. Twenty-pound fish are considered exceptional and Iceland is not the place to go for the angler desperate to tail a 30-plus.

But the small water and light rods made the most of every fish. And so did the wading. Each pull was a close and personal encounter.

I have fond memories of salmon fishing years ago on Russia’s Umba and Pana, and Gaspe’s York and St. Jean. But, well, Iceland is Iceland.

Salmon runs are cyclical and Iceland’s downturn during 2018 should rebound this season. At least, Cappel and I are going with that—we are rebooked on Midfjardara for midsummer.

And it is possible, although improbable, that by then I will know how to pronounce the name of my favorite salmon river.

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Instinct by design.

Days on the flats can be a wild ride of slow hunting punctuated by adrenaline pumping action unfolding at warp speed.

When the opportunity comes to intercept prehistoric poons, or to psychoanalyze neurotic permit, your instinct kicks in.

And that’s the moment you take your place on the bow and make the improbable possible.

Colorado, USA | 970-249-3180 | scottflyrod.com

We designed Meridian fly rods with a similar mindset. At the core of it all is the kind of fine tuned performance that comes with 45 years of innovation and experience. The result? Something akin to effortlessness, something intuitive.

Take a Meridian along on your next saltwater journey, and fire on instinct.

Recon Rec liatio Reco ilia Reconciliation with Edward Clem

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What drives us to take the risks that we take? Last November, professional skier John Spriggs and I were confronted with that question after losing a friend in the Vail backcountry. Bindu Pomeroy, a 44 yearold teacher at the Vail Ski School and Snowboard Academy, passed away after falling headfirst from a cliff in East Vail as we skied together. John and I were already below Bindu, and the deep and unconsolidated early season snowpack made it impossible for us to reach him before he suffocated. An hour of CPR was no use; the tight knit community of Vail lost one of its most beloved members.

The following weeks and months brought a lot of soul searching for John and I. Beyond the initial emotional shock of being so close but still unable to rescue Bindu, a question kept creeping into my head; is the risk worth it? We are all aware of the inherent risks, whether we practice backcountry skiing or snowboarding, climbing, backpacking or any other endeavor that puts us in uncontrolled environments far from medical services. I didn’t return to East Vail for almost a month. Then one December morning, on a clear and cold Colorado day, I found myself standing on the top of East Vail, ruminating on the last time I was there, and remembering the stoke that I felt from Bindu as he prepared himself for another run down his favorite place on Earth. I was overcome by the feeling achievable in no other situation: the anticipation and electric excitement that comes with standing on top of a mountain, ready to drop. It was here that I decided that the risk was worth it. I’m confident that Bindu would agree.

Often, the things that we live for are also worth dying for.

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Touring up to Camp Muir: Mount Rainier, Washington.

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November 7th: Vail Pass, Colorado

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Pillar Zone: Vail Pass, Colorado

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Pillow Fort: Revelstoke, British Colombia

Previous spread: Hold on Tight: Illumination Rock, Mt Hood, Oregon Next spread: Golden Hour: Pineapple Pass, Washington

Riders on the Storm: Stevens Pass Backcountry, Washington

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It only rains in Washington: Alpental Backcountry, Washington

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The alarm rattled off at 4:00 AM and I dressed myself in the dark, doing my best not to wake my wife. I loaded the truck the night before to make sure nothing was forgotten in the morning’s mental fogginess. Our rendezvous was a unique store in Sarasota called “The Compound”. It specializes in surfing, skateboarding, and fly fishing gear—an odd trio of sorts that, incidentally, works well. I was meeting the owner, Jake Shields, who has been a longtime friend and mentor. Also joining us was Devin Maggio. Devin is a shop employee

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and is casually known as a “ditch fish” guru; he has scoured every inch of South Florida on Google Earth in search of hidden spots and is a master of finding quality fish on foot and paddle craft.

After a certain amount of parking lot bullshitting, we all jammed into one truck. With one Gheenoe in tow and another strapped to the roof, we began to ease our way south.

We were all happy to step away from reality and wet a line in the Everglades’ labyrinthine waterways.

The shop had been busy and the guys were ready to step out from under the fluorescent lights and get some fresh air.

The northern end of the Everglades is a quick two-hour drive from Sarasota and marks an abrupt transition from cookie cutter houses and golf courses to ancient forest and swamp. We arrived at Big Cypress Preserve just after sunrise and launched the boats into one of the many canals cut in the early 1900s. In an effort to drain the

Pa-Hay-Okee: Grassy Waters with Corey Woosley

Everglades for agricultural use and development, the Army Corps of Engineers and private developers blasted these channels out of the limestone earth. The canals are deep and narrow and lined with mangrove trees. Through these, fresh water from the north flows south through the Everglades and eventually exits through thousands of distributaries into the Gulf of Mexico. These distributaries are tidally-affected, allowing saltwater intrusion into the canals thereby creating a brackish environment that many fish, both

salt and freshwater species have adapted to. Along with native species that live in the canals like snook, tarpon, largemouth bass, and bluegill, there are many non-native species that make the canals home; fish such as peacock bass, Mayan cichlids, oscars, tilapia, and more can be found prowling the shallows.

These invasives have made their way into the canal system primarily from people “rewilding” their pet fish. Ironically, the peacock bass were released by the Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission in

response to the growing number of invasive species. Their hope was that the bass would act as population control for other introduced species. It’s the same type of backwards logic that we see time and again in recreational fisheries across the United States.

Now that these species have set up shop, anglers might as well have some fun with them - they’re not going anywhere anytime soon. Nonnative fish, namely oscars, Mayan cichlids, and hard-hitting peacock bass were our targets.

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he day before our arrival, a cold front passed through, dropping the temperature significantly for the area. We were a little nervous about how it would affect the bite, especially because these fish hail from the Amazon. A little cold couldn’t stop us from trying.

Once we paddled to the area we had planned to fish, Jake took to the bow first. He stripped some line off of his five-weight and hauled out a 75-foot cast to the edge of the bank.

His pink and purple mini Clouser hit the dark tannic water, and with two quick strips, an oscar darted out of the depths and drilled his hand-tied baitfish imitation. First cast, first

e eventually found a serene spot of water that looked relatively promising. We relaunched the boats, and at this point in the afternoon, the wind that had plagued us most of the day had shut off completely. The sweet tea water looked like a mirror. The temperature was dropping as the sun waned, but the fish were still eating. We continued hooking oscars and cichlids and finally landed the peacocks we were looking for. They weren’t the largest, but sometimes size just

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fish. We took that as a an omen.

From then on, we saw relentless action from the resident Mayan cichlids. Picture a toothy, oversized, orange and black bluegill with a turquoise ring on its tail and a bad attitude. Any rod between a 3- and 5-weight is ideal for these little monsters. Every fish pulled drag and had my 4-weight glass rod bending into grotesque shapes. After catching fish on nearly every other cast all morning, hunger pangs reared their ugly head. We beached the boats, ate some lunch, and made a plan for the afternoon.

caught a peacock yet and needed to knock that off our list. We drove down U.S. 41, also known as the Tamiami Trail, a stretch of road that originally spanned from Tampa to Miami, hence the name. Canals full of fish run along the Trail’s entire length. We would drive until we’d see a spot of water that looked fishy, pull off and take a couple of quick shots in between traffic. Cars whizz past at 70 miles per hour, and there is very little shoulder to cast from. A mistimed cast could hitch your fly a ride on a passing vehicle, which won’t end well for you or your rod.

The decision was made to pull the boats out and drive east. We hadn’t

doesn’t matter. Devin connected with a rotund largemouth in the six pound range just before sunset. After spending the whole day catching fish no bigger than a pound and a half, the big bass caught us all by surprise.

It was a fine way to end our day of fishing.

With the sunset comes the mandatory appearance of the infamous ‘Glades mosquitoes.

They make a hell of a motivator to get off the water and back on the

road headed towards camp. Our lodging for the night was a stilted cypress and palm frond chickee hut.

Fittingly, chickee means “house” in the local Miccosukee language. The Miccosukee are a group of Native Americans who took refuge here during the Seminole Wars of the late 1800s and have been living in the Everglades ever since. Early Native Americans built these huts to live in, and the Miccosukee still build and use them today.

nce we finally pulled into camp, we rushed to build a fire and get started on dinner. The rest of the night was filled with food, drinks, and tall tales under an enveloping blanket of stars. Views of the Milky Way are increasingly rare in rapidly developing Florida and I make sure to savor them while we still have them.

We woke early and cold, quickly struck camp, and headed to a spot Devin had fished before. We did finally find our peacock the day before, but hoped to find one with some size before heading home.

Devin’s spot followed a long path with water and mangroves on either side. The area is a rookery loaded

with all different types of birds, and they all vied to make themselves known. Below the roosted birds were sun-drenched banks scattered with alligators sunning themselves in the cool morning light. The low temperature made the cold-blooded beasts lethargic, allowing us to fish in close quarters without much concern.

As good as it looked, the spot proved fruitless for the big bass we were in search of. Farther along, we came across a small hole in the mangroves with a pool of water no bigger than a retention pond. We noticed some pintsized tarpon rolling on top and took turns catching a half dozen of the “micro poons,” as we affectionately refer to them down here.

With the sunset comes the mandatory appearance of the infamous ‘Glades mosquitoes. They make a hell of a motivator to get off the water.

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e eventually worked our way west out of the ‘Glades and into Naples. It’s a sea of retirement communities with names like “The Preserve” or “Heron’s Rest,” each an ironic homage to the area the town was built upon. I’m not a fan of the sprawling development constantly swallowing swaths of wild lands here in Florida, but that is the state of current affairs. Regardless of my distaste, Naples still holds solid fish.

There are canals running between and around innumerable villas, condos, and McMansions. These canals give the water that would otherwise flood these suburban communities a place to come to rest, and they happen to contain a lot of fish. A buddy dropped a few pins for us where he had previously found decent-sized peacocks. We followed his directions and found our way onto a canal butted up to the back of a subdivision. We paced up and down the banks carefully scanning the water and blind casting at spots that looked as though they may hold fish.

Devin was at the edge of the bank just to the east of myself when a pair of peacocks emerged from a shadow.

They were lit up lime green and blaze orange in their Sunday best.

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The pair swam casually and confidently in Devin’s direction, each easily topping seven pounds.

He made one backcast and let it rip, leading the fish perfectly. The fish, as they are wont to do, paid no attention to the quick snack.

Utter rejection. It could have been the color, the size, or the pattern. It could have been anything. We’ve all experienced the weight of rejection.

You can do everything right and fish your ass off but nothing is guaranteed. The thing is, that’s part of what keeps us coming back for more. The outcome is always a mystery. Rejection is always a possibility, but so is success. Success in fishing can be more than just landing trophy fish. Big peacock or not, our trip was inarguably a success. Our ride home was quiet.

We were tired and content, each of us replaying the image of those bass swimming down the edge of the bank, DayGlo flanks undulating from side to side. Images like that haunt us all, but they also drive us back. No doubt, we will be back.

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with Joseph Albanese I’ve been infatuated with the mountain for as long as I can remember.

It may not be tall when compared to the peaks of the Continental Divide, but for a small boy growing up in the Northeast it might as well have been K2. The Rockies may have more height, but Mount Washington is more unpredictable.

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New Hampshire’s Mount Washington is known to have the world’s worst weather. In fact, the observatory atop the 6,288-foot pile of rock has recorded a 231-mile-per-hour wind— the second highest wind speed ever measured that wasn’t related to a tornado. Despite only being just over a mile high, the top of the East’s tallest peak is completely devoid of trees, presumably because of the extreme weather. The base is a lush, mixed forest that gives way to conifers as you gain elevation. Continuing further upward brings you to the alpine zone, and then just talus and scree.

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My efforts have been rewarded with a five-state view and near-whiteout conditions that seem to roll in to the peak from nowhere.

I’ve been climbing the mountain since I was a small boy, summiting in good weather and bad. My efforts have been rewarded with a five-state view and near-whiteout conditions that seem to roll into the peak from nowhere. Over the years, the cranky overgrown hill has thrown me plenty of curveballs, just as you’d expect a place that earned the moniker of “World’s Worst Weather” might. To avoid an incoming weather system I’ve literally ran downhill, and been caught when the temperatures dipped from 80 to 40 degrees Fahrenheit in the span of an hour.

I climbed the mountain for the first time before I entered my second decade of life, probably covering enough ground to ascend the mountain twice that day. As a nine year old with the unbounded energy of youth, I spent most of the time running ahead of the adults, stopping and turning back only when their pleas to halt my progress grew faint.

In those early years, the mountain didn’t seem that tall, and I couldn’t understand why everyone was so tired that evening. Youth is wasted on the young.

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I was grappling with the ravages of puberty when my sister, two years my junior, joined us for the first time. The morning broke clear and calm, providing us adventurers an easy start, but no clues as to what we would encounter later. The climb was uneventful, and we took the summit around noon. We were rewarded with the best views the mountain has ever given us, five states and the ocean visible from our perch. But as soon as we began our descent, the weather took an unexpected turn for the worst.

The bluebird skies had given way to storm clouds and wind so strong that my father and his friend had to secure my sister lest she be blown over. With one on each shoulder we inched our way back toward treeline as quickly as the shortest legs in our party would allow. By the time the trees of the subalpine zone had grown to over her head, she had left it all up there. We would later learn that the winds were sustained at 70 miles-per-hour, with gusts well into the 80s. That trip soured her for the peak for a great many years after; she’s only tackled the climb a few times since.

In my twenties, the peak started to grow, and what was once just a long walk seemed to morph into a more arduous journey. I continued my annual pilgrimage up the mountain, though I was no longer able to shake off the effects of the climb in a couple of hours. Technology improved in those years, and with it the ability to predict weather, though Mother Nature would still find ways to surprise me. Many times I began the hike on a bluebird day only to be greeted by unfavorable conditions at the treeline, though I managed to miss the truly terrible storms.

I’ve never summited in the winter months; I don’t possess the training or equipment to take on a journey that is used as a training run for ascents of Everest. The temperature at the summit has been recorded at negative 47 degrees and snowfall totals have hit nearly 50 inches in a single day. But many midwinter’s day has seen me climbing Tuckerman’s Ravine, a glacial cirque sloping eastward on the southeast face, with skis or a snowboard strapped to my pack.

The bowl is a popular destination with both skiers and snowboarders, with a variety of runs ranging from no-fall thrill rides to gentle down hills. Though the hike up Tuck’s is relatively simple, it is not without its perils. It’s relatively unheard of in the Northeast, but avalanche plagues the ravine. Despite the increased danger that accompanies warm weather, the bowl fills with skiers, becoming overrun at times.

On a nice April weekend, the cirque can host as many as 3,000 visitors.

With the crag serving as a barometer for my physical fitness, I had something to prove in my early thirties.

The week’s outlook was bleak, with rain forecasted nearly everyday, but there was 22-hour window that should have provided the break that I needed. I fished through the morning’s rain, and timed my start to coincide with the end of the downpour. As the sun broke through I was already trudging through the wooded ascent alone.

I continued my annual pilgrimage up the mountain, though I was no longer able to shake off the effects of the climb in a couple of hours.

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The trip up was uneventful until I broke treeline and saw the mass of storm clouds rapidly approaching.

Racing the impending weather, I stepped on the gas and reached the summit in just over three hours, and likely could have made it up faster if not for the moisture present on the slick rock of the Ammonoosuc Ravine Trail. As I reached the summit, the fog rolled in and the temperature dropped nearly 40 degrees.

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The late summer hailstorm pelted me with ice chunks half the size of golf balls, driven on the 40 mile-per-hour winds. After a quick photo on the summit, I ducked into the observatory to choke down a sandwich and a Gatorade. Checking the radar, I made the decision to go for it, getting to the relatively safety of treeline as quickly as possible. I opted to take the longer, but gently sloping, Jewel Trail down.

Visibility was down to 20 feet and finding cairns was proving difficult. I had to stop and backtrack on more the one occasion, losing the trail on the featureless talus slope. But my pace was brisk, eating up miles as quickly and surely as they ate up my knees. My journey down took longer than my trip up, despite my breakneck pace.

It’s been a couple years since I’ve tackled the peak. Now, there’s a small boy, who hasn’t even seen his second birthday, that has taken all of my attention. If all goes well, soon he’ll be running ahead of me up that mountain, only coming back to me when he can’t hear my calls anymore.

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I wo k e u p to small drops of water hitting my face. The night’s dew had condensed on the inside of my tent and falling like a passing shower. My tent and sleeping bag were soaked through, leaving me cold and very awake. I looked at my watch. The sun wouldn’t come up for another two hours.

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I was camped beside the Daqu River, headwaters of the Mekong, in China’s Qinghai Province. Our camp was on land allocated to Sanjiangyuan National Park, a “pilot” park scheduled to open in 2020. It was a shock to be here at all, let alone at the beginning of rafting season in a country with little established whitewater recreation culture. I came here as a video boater for Last Descents River Expeditions. Although multi-day rafting isn’t “a thing” in China, Last Descents is fostering a whitewater community for the benefit of the Chinese people through exposure to their country’s vast wild areas.

Sanjiangyuan means “Three Rivers Source Natural Reserve.” It is located in the Tibetan Autonomous Prefecture and contains the headwaters of Asia’s three great rivers: the Huang He, the Yangtze, and the Mekong. Somewhat confusingly, this region is separate from the popular conception of Tibet, known as the Tibet Autonomous Region of China, which lies roughly fifty miles away. China’s autonomous prefectures are a type of self-governing administrative division with ethnic minorities forming over fifty-percent of the population or being the historic home of significant minorities.

Here, the majority of the population is Buddhist Tibetan. Once formalized, Sanjiangyuan National Park will consist of a third of the Sanjiangyuan region’s 76,490 square miles.

Finding Daqu with Meredith Meeks

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Deciding to make the most of my early morning, I stumbled out of my tent into the darkness. With camera in hand, I scrambled up towards a hill overlooking the river valley to catch the first sunrise of our trip. From my vantage I saw rolling green hills on the other side of the river, clouds curled over the edges of snow-capped peaks faintly traced in the distance. I pressed ‘record’ on my camera as the sun rose behind me. The river lit up bright and tangerine, its serpentine flow coursing through the valley. Our camp looked small from here, but I could see people starting to emerge from their tents. Upstream, I noticed the brightly colored tents of a Tibetan nomadic camp. Downstream were hundreds of prayer flags strung across the river adjacent to a Buddhist monastery perched on the hillside.

I headed back to camp, descending on a cushion of green vegetation. The soft curves of the hills and meandering bends of the river were sharply dissected by the unnatural straightness of high-voltage lines zapping and crackling above me, installed just one year ago. They felt misplaced among multitudes of wildflowers and the river’s thoughtless serenity.

Farther downstream, where granite walls closed in, we would leave the power lines behind and experience a wildland only accessible by river.

Last Descents Rivers Expeditions was founded by Travis Winn in 2006.

Winn came to China with his father, Peter, who was conducting geological research in the 80’s and 90’s. Together, they floated stretches of rivers that had never before seen hardshells or rubber. Falling in love with China’s undammed rivers, Winn devoted himself to giving people the opportunity to experience them.

Some Chinese see wild places as things to be feared or as opportunities for development rather than

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these trips could be the last time anyone descends these rivers.

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bearing inherent value if left intact.

Exposing both young people and current decision makers to the value of free-flowing rivers became Winn’s primary way of trying to save them.

China’s rivers are being impounded at a rate unseen elsewhere in the world. Currently, the country hosts 98,002 reservoirs, 46,758 hydropower stations, and 268,476 sluices with additional hydropower projects materializing every day.

China’s rivers are being impounded at a rate unseen elsewhere in the world.

The name “Last Descents” is a tongue-in-cheek nod to boaters making a river’s first known run. With China being the world’s largest energy consumer, accounting for 23% of global energy consumption and being the largest hydropower consumer, the moniker implies that these trips could potentially be the last time anyone descends these rivers. When the dams on the Great Bend of the Yangtze were completed in 2012, Winn saw flowing waters which only a handful of people had ever rafted fall silent behind the seven large dams.

It’s a loss he carries with him, and it has made him fight that much harder to protect China’s other great rivers.

Like Winn, I believe that rivers have a profound effect upon us. They are immensely powerful with an uncanny ability to help us realize human impermanence. They help me tread more lightly and escape the ever-pervasive consumer headspace. The river is always changing and beyond my control. When I travel down a river, I must work with the water and respect the line that I have chosen.

Nature shows us to be humble and respect our surroundings, if we pay attention.

I first found myself with Last Descents in January of 2018. I made five trips down the Salween, one of five major rivers in Yunnan Province, cutting through landscapes that didn’t exist in my wildest dreams. More often than not, the Salween was mired

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with trash as it flowed through populated valleys, past ancient temples, modern factories and farms. That winter, I learned just how threatened China’s rivers are. In Yunnan alone, 27 major dams are in various stages of planning or construction.

I headed back to China in July 2018.

After 48 hours of travel I landed in Yushu, Tibetan Autonomous Prefecture. With a population of 120,000 people (97% of which are culturally Tibetan), Yushu is barely a city in a country of 1.4 billion. Yushu sits at 12,100 feet, nestled between high mountains with prayer flags splayed on almost every summit. Here, the summer’s monsoon rains bring the majority of the moisture for the year, and July sees nearly-daily downpours.

Once settled, we would be rowing 76 miles of the Daqu through the pilot park. The Daqu is fed by melting ice and snow in the Himalayas, forming the headwaters of the Mekong River.

Traveling through China, Myanmar, Laos, Thailand, Cambodia, and Vietnam, its 2,703 mile length is 1,253 miles greater than the Colorado River.

It is one of the world’s great rivers.

The Sanjiangyuan region through which the Daqu flows is ethereal, with red rock gorges carved amongst vibrant grasslands replete with musk deer, Tibetan eared pheasants, and blue sheep grazing at the river’s edge.

The Daqu hosts one of the world’s richest freshwater ecosystems, second only to the Amazon. It is also one of the most densely populated and intact habitats for large carnivores.

Many of the valleys are covered in a soft cushion of moss, lush green with pinnacles of granite reaching into the sky like bolts of lightning. The river most often appears as an opaque orange thread contrasted against rocks and carpets of vegetation. I had never seen anything like it. Because this area of Qinghai feeds the Huang He, Yangtze, and Mekong, all of which bear incredible continental

PHOTO BY FLY FISHING NATION

HATCHOUTDOORS.COM

China is inciting a hopeful sea-change towards conservation-oriented land management practices.

importance, Sanjiangyuan has been proposed as China’s first national park. By showing an interest resource and cultural preservation, China is inciting a hopeful sea-change towards conservation-oriented land management practices. With any luck, it will be a model for future national parks.

While floating the Daqu, we had the opportunity to create a tutorial video to introduce the Chinese people to whitewater boating in their country.

Winn and I decided that the best way to nudge local governments towards conservation action was to create a film that would persuade authorities that rafting is safe, environmentally-friendly, and bears profound educational value through intimate experience of the landscape. “Rafting 101” was to be a 15-minute tutorial that the new park could use to help guide visitors towards lowimpact, high-stimulus visitation.

No roads are needed to experience the landscape—the river serves that purpose and more.

bureaucracy, permission may be granted one day while a different department or ministry demands a separate permit the next. Once on the water, the river had us in her grasp and we would move at her pace.

This particular eight-day trip was devoted to taking Sanjiangyuan’s first “Youth Rangers” down the river.

Most of them grew up in Yushu with Sanjiangyuan in their backyard. These adolescents were chosen through an afterschool program called Pedkar Education, which aims to keep Tibetan culture alive through interactive cultural experiences. Th program was founded by Tsering “Diana” Pedkar, a Tibetan firecracker in her early forties, out of concern that cultural traditions were slowly dissipating with younger generations. She had formed an undeniable connection with each student on our trip and saw the benefit of incorporating curiosity and excitement into any learning experience.

The first few miles were silent as we When I learned that nine local were were catapulted back through Tibetans ranging in age from 12 to time. I watched our young explor18 would be joining us, the film took ers, none of whom had never been on new meaning. I wanted to do on a raft, take it all in. Many people something more substantial than just in China, especially Tibetans, don’t make trip videos for paying clients. I swim or have much of a recreational wanted to work with local residents relationship with rivers. Namchen, to help preserve Sanjiangyuan. I won- our interpretation guide, explained to dered if they held similar thoughts that “the source of rivers are always and feelings about this place. We sacred because we believe all the livwere here at a critical time when the ing beings are using this water. Also, future of the park was being decidin our in culture, we believe that in ed. At the time, I was not aware of the river there is a spiritual thing, the how profound of an experience the naga, which is almost like a powertrip would be and what I would learn ful serpent that you don’t want to along the way. offend. Pollution to the environment or disrespectful acts such as washing Our put-in was nearly 13,000 feet soiled clothes in the river could result in elevation, adjacent to a small in naga afflictions.” He continued, town named Sahuteng. For all of my “our parents didn’t let us play with whitewater trips in China, rigging the water. They didn’t let us swim in and launching has been stressful. the river because they were afraid of Here, anything can happen. Workthe river. We don’t want to disrespect ing within the confines of Chinese the mountain gods.”

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At the beginning of each of our trips, fear was a constant not just for the Tibetans, but for the urban Chinese who had little to no experience with boating or river recreation. As we started ticking off miles, the tension began to ease. The crew felt back in their natural environment, on the river with oars firmly in hand. The passengers gradually accepted that they weren’t going to drown unexpectedly. There was less fear of the water and more intrigue. The kids gained confidence and sat up front to greet the waves. Eventually, many of them wanted to be in charge of their inflatable kayak or stand-up paddleboard.

At the big rapids that required scouting, everyone would gather around Lao-Tang, our Renaissance man of a river guide, as he explained river hydraulics. Despite the language barrier, I could understand Lao-Tang perfectly. With theatrical gestures and miniature diagrams made with sticks and rocks, he explained how we would work with the river while respecting the rapids. Every day was filled with educational moments not

only on riversheds, but on the geological influence on the Tibetan history engrained in this area. I watched as Lao-Tang instilled a sense of adventure and humility into the kids. The one-time lumberjack, truck driver, restaurant owner, baijiu drinker, and constant chain smoker had a way of keep everybody engaged, the crew included. With our days on the water slipping past, we found that the kids didn’t need to be pulled in or pandered to. They embraced this place wholeheartedly.

One day on the boat, I sat next to Namchen. Namchen was pointing out one of the mountains we were floating by to 12 year-old Pema “Macy” Seipa. Most Chinese today have a Western name since their Chinese or Tibetan names are difficult for Westerners to pronounce. Macy, small in size, held his own with charisma, wit, and the best dance moves of the group. He was extremely aware of group dynamics and was always there for his friends, including me. I couldn’t understand what they were saying in Tibetan, but I could see that

Macy was wrapping his head around some new ideas. Diana chimed in, her passion for helping Macy understand the apparent. He smiled and nodded, squealing and pointing at the mountain further downstream. “Sacred mountain!”

As we meandered downstream, we saw nomadic families dancing alongside the river, waving and wishing us the best. There was less trash, less infrastructure, and more stares from shore at the circus of five 18-foot yellow rubber boats floating down the river. The concrete road next to us turned to gravel. The rapids grew larger while the gorge narrowed, opened up, and narrowed again.

We rounded a bend and saw peaks stretching into the sky before plunging headlong into the riverbed. I wondered how long these rocks had been polished smooth. I looked at Macy and could see we were both taking in the enormity, one blink at a time.

This was a place that defied urbanity and all of its trappings. It was a place—a feeling—to be protected.

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At camp that night, I played soccer with the kids. I didn’t speak Chinese or Tibetan and felt awkward trying to socialize across age and cultural barriers. Without skipping a beat, Julia, an inviting 18 year-old, kicked the ball over to me, accepting me into the group. These eight kids became my buddies. For the rest of the trip, we explored, laughed, and learned together. They taught me Tibetan phrases, laughed at my terrible accent, offered to carry my equipment, danced with me, and helped me not take my job too seriously. I watched these kids awaken to the river like I awoke as a child. I saw them opening to the landscape. Their newfound knowledge seemed empowering.

A part of me was concerned by how scripted the film felt. “Welcome to Three Rivers Source National Park!

A river trip through the Namsei core area is one of the most unique ways to experience the park and is guaranteed to be an experience that you will never forget! Remember to leave your cell phone and watch behind and come into this area with an open heart and mind, ready to

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accept the nature and culture here on its own terms! You will not regret it…” But the students were eager.

They resonated with the material and the mission. They wanted their government to know that the first Youth Rangers wanted this place to be protected. Tsewang Choetso, 18 years old, expressed that “before the trip I actually didn’t have any ideas about what rafting was really about.

But after this precious field trip, I have learned that rafting is a unique method which can help us get in touch with nature in a different way.”

Sanjiangyuan exuded an air of holiness that I embraced. I walked clockwise around the mani stones etched with Tibetan mantras, just as the children did. These rocks covered in lichen spoke words of compassion.

We would see mantras carved on rocks half-covered by water, on trails, in fields, and meditation caves. We came upon a shrine with tree-anchored prayer flags spiralling steeply to a pole at its center, creating a sort of steeple. I learned that this holy place had tripled in size over the past year and that the government was

planning a bridge across the river here. Locals made it clear that the bridge wasn’t wanted. That type of infrastructure wasn’t needed here.

The shrine signalled our departure from the park and back towards the city of Yushu.

As one Tibetan boy, Tsering Pabar, said to me about his time on the river, “Our purpose was not just having fun. I learned the importance of human’s connection with nature and the importance of environmental conversation. Usually when I travel to different places, I see roads and electric polls everywhere, but this time I saw so few of them... it was very pleasant to see just untouched nature. I realized that we really need to protect the environment and our homeland.” As I considered Tsering’s words, I walked clockwise around a collection of mani stones once and eventually towards the jutting granite cliffs with my camera strapped across me. I scrambled up the cliff’s flank to a precipice overlooking a bend in the river. I looked down at the river, wondering what this place will look like in five years. Will there

be more power lines criss-crossing the valley, feeding restaurants, gift shops, and hotels? Will there be bumper-to-bumper traffic on paved roads that hug the river’s length? Or will it be much like it is now, wild and unspoiled? Which option is better for China and the Chinese people? We strive to connect the people of China with their rivers so they can decide what is important to them.

We were damn lucky to be here at such a pivotal time. The development of Sanjiangyuan could go in several directions. It’s a future on the edge.

I hope that Chinese decision makers listen to what these children are saying. As one boy from Beijing, Sheng Xicheng, said to me about his time on the river, “This place brings you back to your original state, back to zero.

Back to zero, your heart is open to learning about your true self. There are few natural rivers left. If these rivers disappear, there are few places to find ‘zero.’”

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THE WA REMEM UNFORGE After you display a Boen original, go ahead, embellish your fish stories just a tiny bit more.

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AY WE MBER IS ETTABLE. Bucking Rainbow, Tooled Leather 84"x28"x10" 2018

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