- By: Grant Wiswell
- Photography by: Grant Wiswell
For a half-hour my guide, Balacho, had been pointing and smiling at threatening black clouds that formed over the Brazilian border. With each lightning strike, he laughed demonically and shouted, “Bueno, bueno!” What was he thinking? Was he crazy?
My perfect bluebird afternoon was succumbing to a jungle storm of diluvial proportions. Balacho, who was now singing and looked as if he had won the Bolivian lottery, cheerfully paddled the dugout canoe to the beach in preparation for the pending storm. Adding to my misery, we landed across from what looked to be the perfect payara pool.
- By: Bob White
- Photography by: Steve Laurent
There’s a certain spark in great artwork that’s difficult to define, and hard to ignore. The photography of Steve Laurent has that fire.
Laurent works in black and white with a wide-angle lens to record the everyday lives of bush pilots and fishing guides at Bristol Bay Lodge, in southwest Alaska. His images are honest, stark and gritty, reminiscent of Dorothea Lange and Walker Evans’ photographs of the Great Depression.
- By: John Gierach
- Photography by: Cathy Beck
- , Jim Klug
- , Barry Beck
- and Jeff Edvalds
You naturally think of bears first. Whether they’re seen from a safe distance or they’re uncomfortably close, you have a visceral response. “That thing could kill me,” is how you’d verbalize it, although the emotion itself predates language.
- By: Bruce Smithhammer
- , Will Rice
- , MIles Nolte
- and Greg Keeler
- Photography by: Will Rice
- , Lucas Carroll
- , Louis Cahill
- and Brian Grossenbacher
Sink your toes in the sand or in the snow?
Risk sunburn or frostbite?
Cast for half-frozen trout or full-bore saltwater speedsters?
Our crack angling team makes a case for each.
- By: Greg Thomas
- Photography by: Greg Thomas
Being cooped up during winter does strange things to people, especially in the northern Rockies, where snow may hit the ground in September and remain through May. There’s sanity to be had if you strap sticks to your feet and chase powder days, or can escape to sandy beaches in southern climes, but the rest of us rot until spring brings assurance that we haven’t entered another ice age.