- By: Buzz Bryson
Whether flying domestic and dealing with TSA, or abroad dealing with whomever you encounter, follow the rules, and try to fit a common profile. The last place you want to land is in the mini plywood cubicle.
- By: Dave Hughes
I fished the yamsi ranch last spring, in the sparsely settled and flat pine-forest country of southern Oregon, with owner John Hyde. John grew up on the ranch. He raises range-fed beef when he’s not involved in his first love, guiding folks on his home waters. He’s tall, slender; his hat and mustache are both broad.
- By: Greg Thomas
- Photography by: Greg Thomas
I like catching as many fish as possible, and I’m prone to keeping at least loose track of numbers if only to gauge, in a vaguely scientific way, one day or one season versus another. Some say that scorecard mentality is all about vanity and ego. In fact, I’ll take quality over quantity every time because dealing in sheer numbers, in fishing and life, is a setup for failure.
- By: Scott Sadil
- Photography by: Gary Bulla
Valente Lucero captains the panga La Venadita, “the little deer,” off the shores of Punta Arena, an hour by car south of La Paz, Baja California Sur. Valente is known amongst family and friends as Venado, a nickname earned at a younger age when the seductions of local tequila often inspired him to hop about the pueblo of Agua Amarga like a deer and, on more than one occasion, climb into the arms of a cardón cactus and leap, like a frightened doe, to the desert floor below.
- By: Kirk Werner
The St. Joe River is no secret among north Idaho anglers, but those who fish it agree: the “Joe,” as locals call it, is very much a diamond in the rough.
- By: Maximilian Werner
- Photography by: Maximilian Werner
The last time Greg and I fished together was in 2008 on the Fremont River (see “On the Lower Fremont: Part II”), and I had been trying to get him to come back ever since. Despite a handful of conversations to that effect, 2009 came and went. Then 2010 rolled around and the ritual of half-promises and unfinished phone calls started all over again. Understandably, Greg was noncommittal: He was up to his elbows in teaching obligations, and as a recent divorcee, he was busy reorienting himself to the new world and juggling love interests. But when the infernal hand of July came knocking, he did what a lot of Arizonans do: He looked for a way out.
I WAS TAKING ADVANTAGE OF THE beauty of the low Mexican morning sunlight to shoot photos of my friend Dave casting toward the white-sand shoreline…when Dave paused his cast. Our guide quietly, very serious now, said “Si.” About 50 yards down the beach appeared a dark shape hovering over the sand—a piece of driftwood? No, it was a snook. A huge snook. Dave, a lefty, was having a hard time loading the rod with the cross-wind. As the guide poled our skiff closer to the dark form, Dave told me to step up on the casting deck. I put down my…
- By: Greg Thomas
- Photography by: James Anderson
- and Greg Thomas
René Harrop has lived and breathed the Henry’s Fork fishery for decades. His company, House of Harrop, produces some of the leading flies for the area; he was a founding partner of Trouthunter, a top fly shop on the river; and his artwork, writing and overall philosophy of fishing have inspired and enlightened countless fly-fishers, on the Henry’s Fork and elsewhere. Harrop lives in Last Chance, Idaho. We caught up with him there.
- By: Fly Rod and Reel
Along about late June, we began receiving fishing reports that the Yellowstone region was bursting with great fly-fishing. Here’s an update: Dick Greene of Bud Lilly’s Trout Shop in West Yellowstone says: “We had high-water issues early in the season, but the water cleared fast. The salmonfly hatch was a good as I’ve ever seen it…the bugs exploded…
- By: Larry Kenney
In a rare stroke of luck, or something, the occupants of the middle and window seats next to me on the plane to Houston, from where Pat Dunlap and I would jump to a flight to Belize City, weren’t a fat guy and an anxious mother with a screaming infant. Instead, our neighbors were two 20-something cocktail waitresses who each worked their way through four Screwdrivers before we touched down.
“We’re going to the Bahamas to party,” said the blonde in the tank top, after drink number one. “Where you headed?”