Innholdsfortegnelse for Spring 2022 i Anglers Journal

Many of us who are a bit long in the tooth are looking for a once-in-a-lifetime trip or have a bucket list of fish that we are checking off. Chinook salmon likely are at the top of that freshwater fly-fishing list, but finding a river that’s fishable with a fly rod and has a reliable, substantial run of kings can be a problem. The first place that comes to mind is the Kenai River in Alaska. There are some huge kings in the Kenai, but the river is big, and finding a spot where you can present a fly is difficult. I’ve spent more than three years of my life fly-fishing in Alaska, and one of the very best spots in the world to catch a king salmon on a…

When Paulino Arias started school in the tiny ranching town of Rio Pico, Argentina, fewer than half the kids in attendance owned a pair of shoes. Granted, that was in 1940, but the town hasn’t changed much since. Even today, more residents own horses than cars. One thing that has changed is that people now travel from all corners of the Earth to chase Rio Pico’s fish, and the money that comes with them has paid for a lot of shoes and waders, and has turned a generation of Patagonian kids into guides and conservationists. It was a transition that took some time and owes much to Paulino, who at 87 is a local legend and a strong advocate for conservation and sustainable fly-fishing in the region. I think of…

Standing on the docks of Shrimp Landing, I look out over the Salt River, which connects to the Crystal River and then flows into the Gulf of Mexico. I breathe in the salt air as the sun inches up out of its slumber. The marsh grass on the opposite side of the river hardly moves in the stillness of morning as the sky turns from black to pink to orange. A bird is silhouetted on the top of a palm tree whose fronds were lopped off in a big blow, like a dandelion that lost its fuzz to the air-filled cheeks of a child. The aroma of barbecue wafts out of a smoker by a small storefront that stocks a mix of tackle, dry goods, bait, fish dip and T-shirts.…

How many times have you heard the word “epic” used to describe a fishing trip? A thousand times? More? Its frequent use does nothing but enhance the stereotype that those of us who spend ungodly amounts of time chasing fish routinely exaggerate and spin tall tales. Not entirely untrue. At the risk of adding another log to the fire of overwritten hook and bullet adventures, this is the story of a truly epic day that photographer Tom Lynch and I spent fishing for striped bass with Chuck Many on lower Chesapeake Bay. I have chased stripers for more than 50 years and know plenty of stories from the so-called good old days. This outing was reminiscent of the catches you might read about in dusty tales from yesteryear, minus the…

Pyramid Lake’s remote location is a big part of the adventure. Pyramid Lake Lodge in Sutcliffe offers rustic cabins and large RVs that rent out as hotel rooms. The Ritz-Carlton it ain’t. But it has a wellstocked tackle shop, a general store, and a bar and restaurant with all the character you’d expect of a place where chest waders pass for dinner attire. The bar scene gets lively each evening as anglers shuffle in still dripping from the lake, drinks begin flowing and the B.S. starts flying. The lodge is the only game in town and books up early during peak fishing season. If you can’t get in, there are casino hotels and other options about 45 minutes away in Sparks and Reno. Also, Pyramid Lake Marina and RV Park…

Carpathian browns and grayling finning far from missile strikes and tank blasts, just a goat trail to a pine shack, old Boris and his pet bear. I fed the bear apples while Boris snipped greasy fur for streamer wings his gypsy wife cinched with silk. River voices, chickens, your leaky leather accordion, sometimes gunshots — Don’t worry, you’d laugh. Only Dmitry shooting wild pig. Gutted before us and roasted in the yard — svynyna with yellow pickles and moonshine. No Internet, riding horses to the bosky banks, fish rising all morning. Let’s pray it’s over soon, you text. Your room will be ready. You and Nina okay? Okay now, but many refugees at dairy farm — crying mothers, little girls petting a calf. There was that plunging blue pool behind…

The first time I saw a trout as long as my arm follow my lure almost to my waders, I squealed like a kid. I clearly saw the speckled black spots along its flanks, the large and iridescent blotch of pink across its cheeks and the whiteness of its open maw. I watched in awe as the dark-shouldered fish opened its jaws to snatch my one-ounce spoon, only to wheel around at the last moment, a manholesize swirl on the surface the only evidence of its existence. While that trout and I didn’t connect, from that moment I was hooked. I now understood why barren, high-desert Pyramid Lake draws trout pilgrims from across the country in search of one of freshwater fishing’s trophies: huge Lahontan cutthroat trout that trace their…

Capt. Randy Harris handed us each a headset much like the ones you wear in small planes. The cold, squishy black plastic covered our ears, protecting us from the growl of the engine, and an adjustable mic let us speak to one another like football coaches. The airboat heaved forward, took a hard left turn and launched into a labyrinth of coffee-colored creeks spanning all directions through the grass like spider veins. “Look at that,” Harris said through the headset, taking his foot off the gas pedal and letting the aluminum hull coast to a stop. I thought he may have seen a gator or a spoonbill, but when I turned back to see what he was looking at from his perch above the deck, he was standing, facing east,…

I’ve run a charter business in Boothbay Harbor, Maine, since 1971, and have owned six boats named Shark. The name came about as a tribute to Capt. Joe Russell of Key West, Florida, a gruff, old guy my father and I chartered with a couple of times way back when. Russsell had a big, yellow Carolina sportfisherman named Shark and had been one of Ernest Hemingway’s skippers — or so we were told. My boats have ranged from a 1956 24-foot plywood cabin cruiser (my first one) to a custom, tricked-out 36-foot Down East tuna boat to a 24-foot Boston Whaler. All did their jobs admirably in their eras of service, but in 2007 I decided I wanted something with which I could continue to chase striped bass, which had…