Anglers Journal Fall 2021

I’ve always had a thing for islands. I fished five islands in the North-east, by boat and from shore, for so many years that I consider them home waters. Most of the large stripers I’ve taken have come off four of those islands, which are swept daily by strong currents, cool waters and plenty of food. The fifth one, which once held small fish, has vanished, its shifting sand eroded by current and winter storms. Sea level rise certainly would have claimed this beach grass-covered sandbar in time, but it already lies beneath the waters. No longer an island; now a shoal. For several years, I’d run my small boat there on spring nights, anchor off the east side and wade the large sand flat, casting along the drop-off, which…

Jerry Audet is a writer, photographer and lifelong fisherman residing in Massachusetts. Dedicated to shore-based striper fishing, he writes about and takes photographs of a wide array of angling disciplines up and down the East Coast. The managing editor of Surfcaster’s Journal, Jerry takes us to a spot he calls “Bizarro Beach,” where he pursues big bass. Phil Fibiger grew up fly-fishing for trout with his father in upstate New York, but now mostly fishes the saltwater flats of Florida’s east coast. When he’s not on the water or spending time with his wife and two sons, he leads product development for a medical device software company. “A World Away” is Philip’s recounting of a once-in-a-lifetime trip to fish the Seychelles. Andrew Miller is a photographer based in the western…

ELUSIVE BROOKIE Great Summer issue. Redolent of Gray’s Sporting Journal but better. I noticed in the story about the Bolton Ranch Club [“Fish Hippies”] that one of the guys had what looked like my first not-hand-me-down fly rod and reel, an Orvis Madison setup. I spent my first 10 years in Rumford, Rhode Island. I’d ride my bike to Ten Mile River below the Seekonk Reservoir to fish for sunfish, yellow perch and horned pout on worms. I moved to Maine in 1958 and became a fly fisherman. Many years and many fish later, I caught 15-pound-class blues in the surf at York Beach on a big silver plug. Big fighters. I’ve caught bones on fly in the Bahamas and, of course, many brook trout and salmon in Maine. A…

Home Waters By John N. Maclean Custom House The most influential and recognizable family name in American fly-fishing literature is undoubtedly the Macleans of Missoula, Montana. In Home Waters, John Maclean — son of Norman Maclean, the author of A River Runs Through It — offers a glimpse into the life of this family; the love of place, people and fish; and the tragedy that lingered over them and their casting. This vulnerable memoir of fathers, mothers and sons also acts as a biography and shows Maclean’s prowess as a researcher. From the history of his mother’s family store in Wolf Creek and the Lewis and Clark expedition through western Montana, to the Salish and Kootenai peoples who walked the Blackfoot to reach buffalo, Maclean stitches a vast quilt to…

A half-assed cast and my four-dollar crankbaithangs from a stump like a Christmas ornament.I tighten the line and snap my wrist,turn my head too late and feel piercing steel.My right eye explodes with something worse than pain.The world sliced in half, I fall to my knees.Hands slide in slime and blood of dying fish.The bass boat rocks under melike the whole world has given way. And maybe it has. Each time I blinkmy guts heave. I grope for the Jim Beamin the tackle box, pour some on my eye,most in my mouth, half a fifth,never wanting a drink so bad.I pound my fist against the gunwaletill something breaks inside my hand. And finally feel whiskey spread like gracethrough my body, the pain almost pain again,trace the line to the swiveled…

I just killed a thing I love. A living thing I revere. But it doesn’t belong here in Montana. It’s more than 2,000 miles from its home range, that place in the Appalachian Mountains where I’ve lived much of my life, falling in love with its graceful movements, with its spectacular colors — speckled, as the old folks say. I’ve hiked mile upon mile, tracing tributaries with my feet, scanning the waters along the Allegheny Front, to catch brook trout, to hold them for the briefest of moments in my hand and say a prayer of praise before opening my fingers to feel their finely muscled bodies wave-splash back into the current. And now I’ve taken my index finger, pushed it into the throat of this fish, bending the flailing…