Innehållsförteckning för Spring 2021 från The Drake

ON JUNE 20, 2018, Martha’s Vineyard-based flyfishing guide and shop owner Abbie Schuster walked into Massachusetts Senator Ed Markey’s office to advocate for the Magnusson-Stevens Act, a law that has, for the most part, successfully managed federal marine fisheries. It was the end of a busy day, but they spoke excitedly about their shared love for the Vineyard and the environment. They were meant to have only five minutes but spoke for nearly 45, with aides and the sound of the Senate voting-bell interrupting regularly. That meeting, in which Abbie—a wiry five-foot, four-inch relative newcomer to politics who is not yet 30 years old, met Markey, a six-foot-plus, 70-plus powerhouse of New England government—is the story of Abbie’s life. Abbie’s first memory of fishing is as a young girl, when…

FROM THE PLATFORM above his outboard, Kyle Schaefer spots things for a living. A migratory striper stalking crabs on a coastal Maine mud flat; his client’s mouse pattern wiggling across the surface; a golden dorado in Iberá Marsh, Argentina. A shadow, a head-wake, a glowing tail, a black horizontal line—these are the indicators Schaefer looks for, the visions that flash when his eyes close at night. He lines up his client, who takes the shot on Schaefer’s cue. The fish eats or doesn’t, the hook sticks or falls out. It’s all part of the game he loves. Like the best guides, Schaefer also notices the less-than-obvious: subtle tide movements, wind shifts, changes in water clarity or bait behavior. An exhaustive inventory that expands with each season. Every detail is information.…

WHEN MOST PEOPLE THINK of Oregon’s North Umpqua River, they imagine emerald waters and steelhead—either the summer variety caught by Zane Grey as they made their way to Steamboat Creek, or their slightly larger siblings that enter the river in the colder months. For nearly 100 years anglers have come from around the world to target these fish in the 31 miles of fly-only water that guarantees you won’t be stuck fishing a run after someone has dredged a roe sack through it. Bring on the swing. If you’re heading upriver to these hallowed waters, coming from the west, you’re required to drive State Highway 138. Along the way, you’ll pass a surprisingly passable deli at the Idleyld Trading Post, followed by bait plunkers at Swiftwater Park who are hoping…

ONE DAY in the summer of 1979, Dr. Mikhail “Misha” Skopets, a young Russian ichthyologist based in Magadan in the Soviet Far East, found a mysterious fish skeleton in the stomach of a Boganid char. He’d been cutting up the latter for dinner on an expedition to the remote and frigid Elgygytgyn Lake, a uniquely deep, round, air-clear basin of water created three and a half million years ago by a meteorite. Recognizing the skeleton as likely belonging to a new species, he arranged to return, six years later, to search for its owner, prepared to spend all three ice-free months if necessary. For weeks he probed the lake edge with rod and reel. No luck. As the ice receded he began using a boat to get out onto the…

When seeking makers who’d managed to find a lighter side to Covid, I looked, naturally, to the always-zany community of fly-tying accessories makers. Oregon woodworker Gerry Engel took a typical path from flyfishing to fly-tying, but then went a step further by making his own accessories as well. Among the staples like bobbin-holders and tool caddies, Engel—with help from fellow woodworker Roger Crooks—created this gem: the Covid Spool Rack. Engel sees it as his humble contribution of “retaliation against the pandemic.” Visit Gerry’s website to see his many other elegant creations. BENCHBUDDYS.COM…

THAT OUR MOODS are inextricably linked to the weather is obvious in a city like Seattle. See them huddled at bus stops, beneath droopy ceilings of mismatched tarps. Note the native craniums. Hooded. Plugged with earbuds. But in the wilderness, we feel it. Like this morning, with a hard rain driving through the emaciated canopy of torched pine. I just never knew how much it could affect dogs. She finished her breakfast, but I could tell her heart wasn’t in it. Then she kept shifting her eyes from the wet ground to the tent flap, as if asking when we were going back inside. I wadered up and tightened my boot laces, picturing the blisters on the backs of my heels. At the first crossing of the day, less than…

DEVOTED TO THE UNTRACEABLE PATH, carp are muddy enigmas that speak an ambiguous language. Wanderers of sunken trees along river islands, their routes are tied into knots, impossible to untangle. One can only hope, with carp. One can only seek. They are non-native, but they have come to know this river. They fit here, and strike a balance with all that’s been pumped into it. Carp crawl along the shallows. They keep to themselves. They love the silty, the stagnant, the excess, the forgotten. They tell a story no one else is telling. Last June, after two months of remote, virtual teaching, I needed to get out. I had to find some wildness close to home. I’d never caught a carp, but quickly learned that fishing for them isn’t like…

I kept seeing him in different aisles—stringy hair hanging limp from the baseball cap set low on his head, a small backpack fraying at each edge, and his clothes sullied with deep, permanent stains. First in the aisle with the beef jerky. Again in the aisle with the noodle soup and other instant meals prepared easily with only boiling water; food that can be cooked in a free microwave in a gas station, bus station, or other waypoint to nowhere. In the cafe, we raided the plastic forks and took wads of napkins. The mustard packs were gone. There I caught the momentary gaze of his pale blue eyes, perhaps wary—and weary—of scrutiny from authoritative figures urging him to keep moving. I continued shopping and saw him leave the store…

“IT’S DIFFERENT. You’re fishing for really big fish with really puny tackle. There’s no mechanical anything with flyfishing—not when you strip the fish in.” I sat across from Nathan Rondeau in his aluminum rowboat as he cracked open a Hamm’s. A crisp wind whipped around the small lake. “If you’re pike fishing with a spoon, you can cast that thing a long ways and cover a big swath of lake with it. With a fly rod, you have to pay more attention to what you’re doing. You have to actually put some time and effort in.” Nathan is relatively new to flyfishing, having been chasing pike on the lakes near his home in Northwestern Wisconsin for the past three years. What started as a self-taught passion for trout fishing, grew…

SHE TRAVELLED by crate from Minnesota, curled up beside her brother for 26 hours of labrador kinship en route to the Oregon Coast. A fortuitous text from clairvoyant lab-whisperer Kate Crump—wife to Justin, and dog mom to Kada and Nukka—allowed me to cut in front of a million pup-owners-in-waiting created during the pandemic. Before her February arrival, I’d already named her Lily, after future NBA Finals MVP Damian Lillard, and in honor of bass-lake lilypads, under which lunkers live. She devoured her first meal with both paws placed inside her bowl, perhaps a leftover habit from fending off her brethren, now nearly 2,000 miles away. On our first morning together, Lily met an angry ocean. As remnants of a king tide crashed onto the beach, she sat in the wet…

THE CICADAS ARE COMING, billions and billions of them, and the trout, bass, and carp (and dogs, and some humans) will totally crush whatever you’re throwing so you better get your 1X ready and—man, stop staring into your fly box—gimme that thing. Don’t even worry about the pattern, these fish will be so jacked-up, just tie on a gurgler or a big stimulator or a wine cork attached to a hook. Cast out there and give the fly a little twitch-twitch and then hold on, dude, that big-ass trout will be headed right for it. IN TRUTH, I have no idea what I’m talking about here. I’ve lived on the East Coast all of my life. Periodical cicadas emerge every couple of years here (and even leak into the Midwest),…

CHERNOBYL ANTIBODY. Unlike traditional flies, you eat this one. Helps ward off belief in fictitious cicada hatches. MARJORIE TAYLOR GREENE DRAKE. Only floats on the right side of the river—the far right, more like a side channel, or a drainage ditch. ECONOMIC STIMULATOR. Stonefly imitation automatically deposited into your dry-fly account. BLOOMBERG DIVER. Like the Dahlberg original, only sexist and with more money. After tricking a fish with its flashy pattern, it frisks them once they’re in hand. THE TRICO KING. From our favorite zoo owner, its secret sauce is a series of awful, unbelievable plot twists that fish can’t resist. SEQUESTERRESTRIAL. For backcountry creeks and lakes, away from the kids. Tied in basements. CRAZY KLOBUCHARLIE. A great Midwestern crayfish imitation. The New York Times endorsed it as its Fly…

“I got her with a pearl necklace after she refused my sex dungeon,” said no flyfisherman anywhere, ever. Yet, like a shot across the bow, these two fly names and several others triggered emotions and opinions when Jay Nicholas authored the piece, “Because Our Words Matter—Sexual Violence and the Fly Fishing Industry” in an editorial published Feb. 23 on The Caddis Fly Shop blog. Jay shared his opinion that flies named with sexual innuendo “…reflect a culture of male dominance that expects superiority in all things, sex included.” He specifically mentioned fly names by two different male fly tyers. The internet flyfishing world exploded for a few days, with readers generally falling into one of three camps. Camp 1: This is “cancel culture.” Camp 2: These fly names are offensive.…

Dear Trask, Q: I’m finally back in D.C. after they sent me away for barely biting that dude (two dudes, actually, but whatever). I was forced to hang at a cat shelter to prove how nice I am. (Torture??) The worst was everyone saying how “good”" Champ is compared to me. Of course he’s good, he’s a 75-year-old Boomer, almost as old as Joe! I need some advice. –Major, frustrated in DC Dear Major, A:Wow. Rough start, bro. Here’s some advice: Stop biting humans. Also, you’re totally underplaying your hand as the first dog from an animal shelter to ever live in the White House. You gotta milk that, dog! Lastly: Word on the street is that Jill’s moving a cat into 1600 Penn Ave. Be friends with it. Seriously.…

Historically, “session beers” were defined by beer know-it-alls as being not more than 3-4% alcohol. Historically, session beers were defined by me as being PBR. (Or any beer from Mexico.) Not that I don’t love a strong IPA, but, like many who enjoy spending all day in a driftboat, I can’t pound a pair of 7% Two Hearted Ales or Dogfish Heads after breakfast and still expect to be standing by noon. Enter summer 2021’s coolest collab: 10 Barrel Brewing’s Reel Good Summer Ale, a limited-release Kolsch-style Yeti-filler being produced in partnership with Simms. At a perfect 5%, Reel Good has a light, Pilsner-ey taste from put-in to take-out. And you’ll be supporting TU with each purchase. 10BARREL.COM SIMMSFISHING.COM…

SPEEDING NORTH to Baldwin, I was running from what I’d known would happen. I needed to put the mess of life in the rearview and share the emotions with friends in similar circumstances. I’d not only left the city behind; it felt like I’d left the last decade behind. But truly letting go doesn’t happen overnight—too much inherent second-guessing. A quick run to Michigan wouldn’t mend how I was feeling, but damn, it will feel good being with friends and floating the river. The three of us had each gotten news the week before that our jobs had been eliminated due to Covid. When you work for an outdoor company as deeply respected as ours, you become attached in ways that are both amazing and bordering on unhealthy. So, finding…

CLOSING THE TAILGATE, I shouldered my pack and stepped off on a seven-mile hike into West Virginia’s backcountry. It was late in the season, increasing my chances for some secluded time on the water, drifting flies for wild brook trout. On the way in, a black bear plied through bushes across the river, and a juvenile eagle banked around the trees. Other than these residents, I was alone. But as I neared the area where I planned to spend the night, a few hammocks were already set up around a campfire ring. “You gotta be kidding me,” I thought. With the sun sinking behind the ridgeline, I needed to set up my tent and make something to eat. My desire for a remote wilderness experience would have to wait until…

My current copy of Madelynne Diness Sheehan’s Fishing in Oregon looks nothing like my old one: The paper clips marking obscure, tantalizing entries are gone; so is the marginalia—scribblings and stars and underlines. I referenced my previous copy so frequently that its starting point shifted, constantly and frustratingly. First, the cover fell off. Soon there was no table of contents (but more and more paper clips). Over the years—goodbye Introduction and the page with the first entry, which, in my current copy (the tenth edition, bought used), reads: “Alder Lake. One of Oregon’s dune lakes, a 3-acre trout lake in Siuslaw National Forest, 7.6 miles north of Florence…Alder is stocked with legal rainbows. Buck Lake is ¼ mile south and Dune Lake is ¼ mile farther…both are recommended for youngsters.”…

If your fishing friends are the type that would rather sit on lawn chairs in a Walmart parking lot than camp at an “improved campground” full of generators and jet skis, then Baja is your kind of place. On most beaches stretching along this nearly 800-mile-long fish factory, you won’t have cell service or restrooms or rules. You also won’t have AAA coming to pull your car out of the sand. So plan accordingly. As for fishing, there are no beaches in Baja than don’t have fish swimming along them, so the choice is often between the wave-breaking Pacific side or the calmer waters of the Sea of Cortez. Whichever you choose, and whichever random road you take down to a beach, just remember that you also have to drive…

HIS FACE READ like a ledger recording time on the flats, despite Nate still being a young guide. The constant wearing of sunglasses had left the skin around his eyes the color of sand, and beneath them, shades of chocolate traced his cheekbone. When I told him I wanted to go for permit, Nate only nodded, took his station by the tiller, and turned the throttle wide open. The 70-horse dropped from a gut-busting roar to a sleepy purr, and, finally, silence, as we approached Rosario Caye. “Let me see your flies.” I showed him a couple boxes, nervously awaiting his assessment. He eyed them with neither approval nor disgust, assessing each row while the panga buoyed in the tide. He pointed to a crab pattern, climbed atop the poling…

GASOLINE, STALE B.O., sweat-soaked clothing, streaks of runny sunscreen, and a bearded guy brushing his teeth without a shirt on. You could find all these scents and sights on April 11, at the finish line of this year’s Captain’s For Clean Water Skiff Challenge, but they wouldn’t do justice to the journey the participants went through to get there. That wouldn’t show what they are fighting, what seeps through the roots of mangroves deep in the Everglades, or in the veins of Lake Okeechobee. The policy that is slowing choking Florida’s water, Florida’s fish, and the Floridians that care deeply about both. Florida is in trouble, but with the help of four teams racing small skiffs 1,300 miles around the state to raise awareness, the last word may belong to…

“WE HAVE ONE GROUP of flyfishermen who come in on opening day, every year,” says Ruthie Zahm. “When they walk in we literally clap, because we know it’s starting again.” Ruthie and her husband—James Beard Award-nominated chef Luke Zahm—own and operate The Driftless Cafe in the heart of the Midwest’s remote Driftless Area. The Zahms could have opened their farm-to-table restaurant in Madison or Milwaukee or Chicago. But, to prepare the food they envisioned—like salmon croquette with pickled red onions and chipotle hollandaise—their tables needed to be much closer to the farms. So they opened a high-end culinary experience in Viroqua, Wisconsin, population 4,300. The Zahms knew that to be successful here, they would need a customer base beyond the sparse local population. That’s where visiting anglers come in. The…

WANT TO AVOID BUMPING elbows with ten million new trout-chasers this summer? Then consider a guided day on some warmwater fisheries. You’ll surely be facing a less-pressured waterway, and if the trip involves kicking around in a float tube, you get the added benefit of pretending it’s exercise. RED’S FLY SHOP ELLENSBURG, WASHINGTON Sitting beside Washington’s Yakima River (a great trout fishery in its own right), Red’s offers both large and smallmouth options, including access to one of the best largemouth fisheries in the state: Hilltop Lake. Known for great structure and low angling pressure (due to its private and flyfishing-only status), Hilltop’s cattails and weed beds offer legit shots at five-pounders. Plus, Hilltop is close to the Gorge Amphitheater, so if country’s your thang, plan ahead for next year…

We’ve all seen countless photos of flies, along with numerous paintings and drawings, some fittingly—and some generously—described as “art.” But the creative work of Nashville-based fine art photographer Chris Parsons involves taking photos of flies from prominent tyers like Brita Fordyce and Bo Wentworth (the one above was tied by Matt Ebbers), and making that the art. Parson’s uber-throwback style uses a 19th Century technique called the “wet-plate collodion process.” I have no idea what that means, but his unique approach certainly delivers some cool, compelling images for your wall. TINCROWNPHOTO.COM…

WHERE I GREW UP in New York, opening day of trout season holds more weight than Christmas. If it weren’t for the food and football, Thanksgiving wouldn’t be in the running, either. And there’s one event in particular that embodies this annual celebration: the Naples Creek Rainbow Trout Derby, held every April 1. This year was the 60th, and it was run online over four days. Naples Creek flows out of Canandaigua Lake, one of the 11 Finger Lakes dropping down from the glaciated valley of the Northern Allegheny Plateau. Under normal seasonal circumstances, not even squalling snow, sheet ice, driving rain, or blown banks could keep generations of anglers from lining the creek for a couple of river miles. The muscular rainbows that run up from the south end…

I FIRST MET Herb when he was working as a senior partner in a prestigious law firm. One of those places with lots of walnut paneling and huge conference tables, and probably a generous stash of Woodford Reserve in a locked cabinet somewhere. But he retired not long after our meeting so I moved on. About a year later his name appeared on my schedule as a new patient. The good life and the years had caught up with him, and his diabetes was out of control. So we talked about his options, and I cautioned him not to eat anything he enjoyed. And to get plenty of exercise, which led to a comment about his love of flyfishing. Over time our meetings came to be more about fishing trips…

I first fished on sand-bottomed creeks. This was in up-north Michigan, where cold water glides around hardwood snags, and beneath the cedar vaults, which, on the straight runs, felt like Christian canopy, arching and dark. A sanctuary. So I began to think of rivers as holy places. They were silent and shadowed, yet light pierced the wooden tracery, bars of hope and color through summer stained-glass. Like church, fishing was a contradiction. A ten-year-old boy did not know the word. He didn’t need to. He felt it pressing down; heavy timbers of discipline, commanding devotion—and then, in a flash, it sent him soaring when a fish would take the fly. Moments of elation to him, and of deliverance from the preparation: attaching the leader, stringing the rod, and trudging a…

SIDE BY SIDE, we fished the spring baetis hatch on Minnesota’s Whitewater River, one of the great Midwest trout streams. Not liking something, Eddie paused to check his tippet. He clipped off a fly and shortened the line, then opened a fly box. He had caught six trout. I had caught none. I looked over his shoulder the way a man, waiting for a haircut, reads another man’s newspaper. Carefully. In his box were ten tiny bluewing olives, tied with number 24 hooks. I had nothing close to that small. The flies were exquisite, without evidence of glue or knot, and wound tightly with impossibly thin green thread. A bit of gold enhanced the body. Tiny feathers, perfectly trimmed, curved from the tails. Like golf, there’s such a thing as…

I’m lucky enough to spend my summers in Cantwell, Alaska, on a lake that’s just big enough to land a floatplane, and in a cabin that’s small enough so that you don’t feel obligated to invite people in when they visit. Besides, the view’s so good that visitors don’t seem to care about what’s inside the cabin anyway. Instead, we just talk outside on the deck, looking at the mountains and the lake. Sometimes there’s a red-throated loon out front diving for whitefish, and high on the hills we point out what might be Dall Sheep. Or snow. It’s tough to tell sometimes. I guide out of that cabin, mostly for Arctic Grayling, and one of my favorite spots to take folks is a place that most people choose not…