- By: John Sherman
Fly Rod & Reel’s Angling Adventures 2013
For some, it’s the roar of the crowd in the Big House—100,000 strong, all bellowing for the maize-and-blue. For others, it’s the irresistible attraction of the opposite sex. They claim Ole Miss’s campus-wide speed limit is 18 miles per hour because that was Archie Manning’s number. But one look at the co-eds strolling the pathways and you’ll know the real reason. And then again there is actual academic achievement (it turns out that this often-overlooked factor has some bearing on future employment, if you’re into that kind of thing). Whatever your main motivation, there’s no denying that choosing a college is a heavy decision.
- By: April Vokey
There are many ways in which I relax. Admittedly,fishing is not one of them. In fact, it is not at all the appeal of “ease” that draws me to the sport. Truth betold, since the day I was born I have needed adventure to flush my cheeks and sparkle my eyes. I have needed the uncertainty of what’s around the corner to spark my interest, and it just so happens that in fishing, there are a lot of those corners.
- By: John Gierach
- Photography by: Judith O’Keefe
IN ERNEST HEMINGWAY’S 1925 short story “Big Two-Hearted River,” the protagonist, Nick, sets up camp after a long hike with a heavy pack that makes him desperately hungry. So before he goes fishing, he cooks a reckless meal: He mixes a can of pork and beans with a can of spaghetti and eats it slathered with ketchup. He says to himself, “I’ve got a right to eat this kind of stuff, if I’m willing to carry it,” something every backpacker who’s lugged cans of food miles into the woods has thought.
- By: Chris Santella
- Photography by: Jim Klug
On arrival for my first visit to Belize’s Turneffe Atoll, I stepped off the boat a little dazed, partially from a long day of travel from the West Coast, and partly from the six or so Belikin beers I’d consumed en route. After fishing my laptop out of the drink (a result of those aforementioned Belikins), I shamefacedly shambled toward the main lodge where I was greeted by a short, trim gringo with a soft voice and even quieter demeanor—Craig Hayes, Turneffe Flats’ proprietor.