Indholdsfortegnelse for Fall 2020 i The Drake

FOR BOB SPENCER, Monday, September 7th, started out like a thousand other days. A fishing guide on Oregon’s McKenzie River for the past 30 years, Spencer was on the water with clients, casting for redside trout, the secret hope of a rare steelhead in his back pocket. “It was just a beautiful day,” recalls Spencer, “Clear, sunny, no wind to speak of.” He got home about six and noticed the wind beginning to gust out of the east. This was rare as a royal flush: West slope Cascade river valleys get their weather from the west, which is where the wind and prodigious rain almost always come from. “By eight it had really begun to howl,” says Spencer. “By nine we were on a level two evacuation. By two in…

TUCKED AGAINST THE Bighorn Mountains in northern Wyoming, Sheridan is the kind of iconic Western town that attracts millionaires, landscape artists, and bona fide trout bums. For anglers, the Tongue River and Goose Creek provide year-round access. The famed Bighorn tailwater is an easy hour-and-a-half drive, and in summertime, the Cloud Peak Wilderness offers countless lakes for those willing to hike. Main Street is home to the legendary Mint Bar—an establishment that survived prohibition. The famous neon sign shows a cowboy bucking on a horse as an homage to a bygone era. But newcomers are popping up, too. There are art galleries, breweries, yoga studios, wine bars, and de rigueur fly shops. At the far end of South Main is Joey’s Fly Fishing Foundation. Up the steep stairs of an…

ABOUT 27 MILES south of Nashville, the historic town of Franklin is growing rapidly, like many affluent bedroom ’burbs. Founded in 1799 by Abram Maury, the town is named for Ben, and has seen its share of prosperity and heartache. In the early 1800s, it was one of the richest counties in America, but this prosperity often came on the backs of slaves, and on Nov. 30, 1864, the Civil War ravaged the town. The main battle pitted Confederate soldiers moving up from the south, against the Union forces, which were entrenched on the north side of the Harpeth River. Today, the town successfully markets its historic battlefields, fine restaurants, art deco theater, and occasional sightings of country music stars. But Franklin doesn’t market the river it was founded upon—the…

We’ve lost many musicians this year. From Kenny Rogers to Eddie Van Halen. But lost among bigger names was jam-band hero Todd Nance, of Widespread Panic. If a finer flyfishing band existed in the ’90s, I can’t name it. Seems every show I saw, from Bozeman to Red Rocks to New Orleans, was tied to a fishing trip. I interviewed Nance in 1995, before one of their many shows in Jackson, WY. I asked him, (because it had just happened to Darius, who was then Hootie), if they’d ever want a Top 40 hit. His answer: “I like where we are. I think our fans do, too.” Precisely.…

I STAND IN MY GARAGE, the 4 a.m. silence broken by the chirp of crickets just outside the door. It is mid-week, mid-October, my favorite time of year. The heat and the crowds are gone. Today I’ll cast a vintage fly over the Manasquan River in hopes of attracting a lone linesider—a straggler striped bass prowling for easy prey before heading south. On the wall hangs a Penn Gold Medal nine-foot, 9-weight, circa mid-’70s, mated to a similar vintage Pflueger Medalist. A sharp eye and forty bucks liberated both from a flea market in the Keys. My line cost more than the rod and reel. Antiquarian angling only has to make fiscal sense to the one holding the rod. Coursing through the Point Pleasant Canal en route to the Manasquan,…

ON MOST EVENINGS, there she is, waiting for me on the porch. It doesn’t matter that it’s nearly ten o’clock and my stomach aches. I can see her gaze from across the alfalfa field as I trudge home from the river in my waders, a net and bag slung across my shoulder. After cracking a beer and fixing a plate from leftovers on the stove, she curls up to me on the wicker loveseat, her long legs draped over mine as she twists into my shoulder. She’s slender, with beautiful orange hair. Every once in a while, she looks up at me, batting her eyes with approval at this simple life of fishing and sunsets. When she isn’t there my mind will wander. Did she meet someone else? Looking back,…

“Remember,” Art said. “You move for the barges. They don’t move for you.” He was talking to Hansi, our designated captain, who was at the helm. Art, the instructor from Fun ‘n The Sun Houseboat Vacations, mostly spoke in memorized soundbites, seasoned with friendly snark. But on this point, we could tell, he was serious. It is rule number one of the Mississippi River: Industry First. No matter what we were hoping to do here with fly rods, binoculars, cameras, and coolers full of food and beer, the Mississippi is a working river. Stay out of the way of the barges, and mind the red and green buoys that mark the main channel. The morning was dark with a low overcast, amplifying the drama of training. But it was almost…

As the setting sun colored the basalt bluffs above the river in shades of orange, I linked arms with my guide, Gerardo Tsuji, and we waded into the frigid waters of the Río Reñileuvú, which were swollen from rain and snow the night before. Moments earlier, a hefty brown had eaten my streamer in the fast-moving current, but the fish had thrown the hook with a violent headshake. Gerardo, one of only a handful of guides in Patagonia’s remote northern Neuquén Province, was convinced that if we could reach the far bank, we would find another willing fish. Trout are not native to Patagonia, but were introduced from the United States and Europe in the early 20th century under the direction of Argentina’s Ministry of Agriculture, which hired American fishery…

THAT WE’RE TOO DIVIDED. That a delicate hookset with a light leader on a 20-inch trout is a difficult thing to master. That fishing from a raft or a driftboat with two of your friends is a far more equitable experience when all three of you know how to row. That many American steelheaders this fall are learning just how much they love Canada. That if your neighbor’s home is on fire, you rush to help put it out regardless of which candidate’s sign stood in the yard. That an early-morning run in a flats skiff across calm water is one of the most hopeful, enjoyable, anticipatory acts in the known universe. That your one missed fish was always slightly larger than the three you landed. That there is no…

BEFORE FIRST LIGHT hit any of the famed pools along Oregon’s North Umpqua on the morning of September 8th, the Archie Creek fire had already begun. I woke up at 5 a.m., when the power went out at the Dogwood Motel, and I opened the door to darkness and an eerie wind. It was blowing so strong it was snapping tree limbs—very unusual for a pre-dawn September morning on the North. It’s always dark when you’re heading out to fish on this river, but it was darker than usual that morning. Something just didn’t feel right. It was downright spooky. As we were about to head out, my buddy Andy was just returning from upriver. He told us they’d spotted a fire, a big one. He showed me a photo…

WHEN THE AVERAGE fly angler imagines brook trout fishing, they likely picture blue-lining their way through tiny Appalachian drainages, or wading into the storied Northwoods streams of Michigan or Maine. An emerald-green backdrop, maybe be a moose thrown in for good measure. That’s brook trout country. Few of us would picture ourselves casting to brookies in the shadow of a John Deere combine harvester in an Iowa corn field. But the northeast corner of Iowa is technically part of the “Driftless Area”—an unglaciated section of the upper Midwest known for its rolling hills and spring creeks. And while Iowa trout angling has historically been focused on put-and-take fishing for stocked rainbows and browns, the discovery in the early 1990s of a population of native brookies hanging on in one tiny…

HOME HAS BEEN REDEFINED. Historically, it was where we ate, slept, and lazed around in feejays without fear of Zoom. A peek inside our new-norm homes: squadrons of remote, on-camera laborers, a next gen of contactless learners, boxes of disinfectant, and just lots of pasty, caged-in inhabitants. Thankfully, our stay-put orders, whether governmentor self-imposed, come with a certain degree of baked-in freedom, based on the notion that a home is a home, whether it belongs to you, or a stranger in Reykjavík. Sharing-economy apps like Airbnb facilitate this mobile existence by giving us the keys. And for flyfishers, there are plenty of homes close to good fishing—plus WiFi, so you can still feign contributing to what’s left of the economy. Airbnb founders Brian Chesky, Nathan Blecharczyk, and Joe Gebbia launched…

“The most common items are straws,” says Project Litterbug founder Bradley Bouchillon. “It’s the pattern on my logo. I’ve caught bass and baby tarpon on it.” There’s no shortage of ’Gram “companies” these days, but with a clever name and concept—turn beach trash into flies—this one’s special. Bouchillon has built a few patterns with his year-old venture, using everything from cigarette butts (dubbin material, body fibers) to a Croc (two gurglers and a popper). He packs his “mystery trash” orders in bags he’s found, in hopes they’ll be used to pick up more trash. And the straws? “They work well as weed guards and bodies,” says Bradley, “and they come in a variety of colors to keep the creativity flowing.” INSTAGRAM: @PROJECT_LITTERBUG…

As a writer and reader, I want to be able to say that nothing can “take you there” like a well-written story. But art, really great art, the kind of classic sporting art that Bob White delivers, can take you even further. White’s art rarely depicts the “action scene.” In part because, as a lifelong sportsman himself, Bob understands that the action is quite often the least interesting aspect of a day or a trip. This gives Bob’s art what Gierach calls “unforced authenticity.” The artwork includes both wingshooting and flyfishing, plus Bob’s writing, which is also superb. Keep it or gift it. BOBWHITESTUDIO.COM…

SONNY IS WITH US TODAY. I don’t always bring him, because he’s often a nuisance on this small skiff. He’s a bird dog, so he naturally gets excited to be in the marsh. But his nails clicking against the fiberglass as he excitedly paces around, jumping from deck to cockpit and back again, can sometimes spook the fish. I really love Sonny, but he’s not a stealthy fishing dog. MANY DECADES AGO, in what is now downtown Jacksonville, Florida, there existed a shallow, narrow spot in the St. Johns River called Cowford, where cattlemen would bring their herd to cross. Like the Mississippi and countless other American rivers, the St. Johns over time was straightened and dredged and developed for commerce. The industrial manipulation wiped out much of the upstream…

THE WHOLE TRIP was Forrest’s dumb idea. But for Forrest, enthusiasm overcomes all obstacles. In his world, “Rad” is always capitalized. As in, “Dude! It’ll be so Rad to go fishing right now!” But Smithers over Thanksgiving? Not Canadian Thanksgiving, mind you—on October 12, a perfectly reasonable time to be fishing in northern British Columbia—but American Thanksgiving, a month and a half later. We went anyway, of course. There were three of us, including Forrest’s sagacious friend, Joe. Back then none of us had others significant enough to discourage us from going on a trip over a “family” holiday. And none of us would miss chatting politely with current, former, or fill-in family members, spending a day eating to discomfort, then watching Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. That’s the year I…

I CAUGHT MY FIRST striped bass in New Jersey, a state that tracks the migratory patterns of stripers like helicopter parents following their child’s first year of college. Shoulder-to-shoulder congestion lines the beaches and back bays in early spring and again in the fall. Avoiding the crowds can be as hard as the fishing itself. The only way to navigate through the traffic is to fish when others don’t—either super-early mornings or super-late at night. Early alarms, layered clothing, and hot coffee are all parts of the East Coast striped bass experience, an experience that many New Jersey anglers hold dear. I’m convinced that striped bass feed not only on herring and peanut bunker, but also on human frustration. Sometimes, finding fish brings you to uncomfortable places, and finding those…

I hadn’t showered in six days and had been sleeping in the car. It was almost October, and I’d been chasing albies for three weeks, since losing my job at the tackle shop in the city, when it finally closed for good. Traffic whipped past my shoulder at night, Connecticut-bound drivers racing to catch the ferry, which stopped around 10 p.m. I got used to the noise, and slept soundly on my side in a sleeping bag. The first night I slept in the driver’s seat, so if anybody disturbed me I could get a leg out and just drive off. But I found that nobody cared as long as you didn’t cause a problem. There was only one other lonely vehicle that parked there overnight, a pale Tacoma. Striper…

I MET CAPTAIN VICTOR CASTRO in 2016, when he first showed me the “precioso” waters of Chetumal Bay, where he used to dive for conch and lobster, but loved to fish for anything, particularly snapper. One day he got a call from someone who wanted to catch a bonefish. Victor recounted the story for me: “Bonefeesh? Pff. Easy,” he said, with a small wave of his hand. They caught fish, the man tipped well, and Victor decided guiding was more lucrative and fun than diving. He built up a client base, and by the time I met him, he’d been a full-time guide for more than 20 years. He didn’t remember how many permit he’d caught, but he did remember the slams—six of them. On days off, he liked to…

THE 2020 CHEEKY Schoolie Tourney was a bloodbath. Not for the fish, but for the fishermen. Nearly 500 fly anglers casting into, out of, or around 25 mph north winds, with gusts to nearly twice that, at times made the event something of a contact sport between anglers and their whizzing, wind-resistant bait patterns. Successful fly casting on Cape Cod’s coast is not something typically experienced by those lacking spirit or double-haul skills, as many Cheeky contestants discovered in real-time. Luckily, even the most wind-flogged anglers maintained smiling demeanors, bolstered by the ubiquitous beers sticking out of their Simms-provided tournament koozies. Normally held in mid-May, and generally regarded as the official kick-off of New England’s striped bass season, this year’s rendition—the 9th annual—was postponed by COVID until September 19. Traditionally,…

Part of what I admire about Dave Stewart’s podcast is that, while he brings on a variety of guests, he’s arranged them on his site in an orderly manner, so you don’t have to be 30 minutes in before knowing the topic. If you want tips and instruction, it’s there. Travel stories? He has them. And if, like me, you have a soft spot for West Coast steelheading and spey rods and flies that are meant to be swung, then Stewart’s library is hard to beat: Brian Silvey, George Cook, Mia and Marty Sheppard, Jerry French. Plus Mairusz Wroblewski, if only to finally learn how to properly pronounce his name. (Full disclosure: Dave had me on, but any of those five episodes are far more interesting.) WETFLYSWING.COM…

I AM A RATHER ELDERLY MAN. The nature of my avocations for the last forty years has brought me into more than ordinary contact with what would seem an interesting and somewhat singular set of women and men, of whom little has been written: Those fly fishers who endeavor to catch the fearsome muskellunge using feathers or fur tied to hooks. I have known many of them, professionally and privately, and if I pleased, could relate diverse histories, at which good-natured gentlemen and women might smile and sentimental souls might weep. But I waive for now the biographies of all other musky fly anglers so that I may share a few passages in the life of Smeltzer, a fly fisher whose optimism for the pursuit of the muskellunge and fondness…

“CASH IS KING.” I cringe every time I hear someone say that. My wallet doesn’t even have a bill holder, only slots for plastic. I should’ve gassed up last night, because now Parker’s griping about paying interest on gas bought with a credit card. With wind in the forecast all day, I didn’t have the energy to argue. Irritated, I hopped in the truck. I don’t go fishing to ponder fiscal responsibility. But I also had no idea that the fish we were about to hunt were well-schooled in the art of debt collecting. Five hours later, I was sick of watching my bobber. No fish to the net, and my beer was still in my bag, warm. I sat dejectedly on the bank just downstream from Parker. He’d heard…

The Alto Sarca River tumbles out of the Italian Alps near the picturesque ski villages of Madonna di Campiglio, Pinzolo, and Spiazzo, in the far northern province of Trentino. Touched with a trace of glacier melt, the river runs bluely through vineyards, churchyards, and groves of chestnut and hazelnut trees so iconic to Northern Italy. Last night was windy; I spot some older villagers toeing the leaves beneath the chestnut trees for nuts. Or are they collecting wild mushrooms? It’s October, after all, and we all have harvest on our minds. The Sarca spills and curves through the valley, cutting under limestone and rolling over diversion dams older than America. Medieval ruins appear in the terraced landscape as naturally as the grape fields worked by the farmers. They stoop to…

IT’S AUTUMN ON Southern Idaho’s Silver Creek, and a meteor just broke through the atmosphere, sending a blurry streak of light across the water. Christian Reid and myself are standing knee-deep in darkness, headlamps off, the current silently peeling around our waders. It is half past midnight on a delightfully cool, late September night. Christian’s iPhone speaker pulses Mob Beat from the chest pocket of his waders. The darkness absorbs the sound. “When I was young, I was the kid who loved being out after dark,” Christian says. “Even if I was alone. When no one else is around, the darkness can just fuck with you. But you also have a chance at catching a fish that nobody’s ever seen.” Silver Creek is known for producing brown trout in excess…

THERE’S A PLACE I KNOW that was formerly under the radar, a wild headwaters stream flowing from the Rockies. In summer, its lower reaches are pounded by pavement-campers, while the high meadows are trampled by through-hikers and weekenders. And yet, it remains productive, full of native cutthroat, not Fish-and-Game feedlot dullards. The herds thin when the temps drop, so a few days ahead of the season’s first snowfall, with the go-ahead from my wife, I planned a midweek solo session. Nothing soothes me like a break from human contact. And if you’re willing to hike some cold, hard miles, you’re unlikely to find anyone spoiling your party—especially in my part of the country, during this time of year, when all Texans are dutybound to worship at the church of Jerry…