by Tom Bie

--Mark Doolittle

You’re a cab driver in New York City in 1971, trying to make a right hand turn at a busy Manhattan intersection but there’s some cocky bike messenger in your way and he won’t move. So you nudge him. Not hard, just enough to let him know that you’re in a cab and he’s on a bike and if he doesn’t move and soon you might run his ass over. But the bike messenger does a strange thing. He doesn’t move out of your way. He gets off his bike, walks to the front of your cab, and swiftly kicks your headlight in. Then he invites you to step outside and discuss the matter further. You, as the cab driver, make a wise choice and roll up the window instead. Because you’ve just met John Gierach on a bad day and getting out of your car would only make it worse.

I grew up under the roof of a fly fisherman, a well-respected guide whose father—a guide himself—was a pioneer on his native Snake River. I remember him as a skilled caster who could throw a line more that 90 feet and make it seem effortless. I remember him, too, as a superb oarsman, getting his low profile raft into the tightest of positions. But more than anything, I remember him as a fly tier.

By Will Rice

"There was no evidence to show they’d been around. There were no boats, no wreckage. There was nothing." - Henry Bain. Andros Island, Bahamas

On the morning of August 5, 1995, Stanley Bain stood in front of his Cargill Creek Lodge and surveyed the small flyfishing empire that he’d built. The resort sat near the North Bight on South Andros Island, The Bahamas, concealed among lush tropical gardens and manicured lawns. Three satellite cottages peppered the outskirts of his property, which included an in-ground swimming pool and a Cessna 402 for his more affluent clients who wished to arrive via private charter. And surrounding it all were some of the most productive bonefishing waters in the world.

Stanley was preparing for a two-week fishing trip to harvest lobsters for the coming year’s clients. A recent hurricane had just passed and he and his brother William were getting a late start on opening season. But soon after fueling up the 36-foot Luhrs Sport Fisherman and two Dolphin skiffs that would accompany them, Stanley, William, and three lodge employees set out into the emerald waters surrounding Andros. As they headed away from Cargill Creek, the group passed Simon Bain, another of Stanley’s brothers, who was returning with a client from the North Bight and Moxey Creek after a morning chasing big bonefish. Simon ran his boat close in front of his older brother’s cabin cruiser, and he can still remember his two brothers laughing as he passed. It was the last time he would ever see them. Stanley Bain and his crew of four disappeared that day forever.

The ancient Mako 17 lounged beside an Indian River fishing camp. Amid the rusted trailer and decaying leafy interior clutter was her magical and somehow readable stern message merrily announcing, "Reds R Us."

I chuckled at the irony of that sun-bleached clunker’s name as I wheeled a friend’s sleek, carbon-and-fiberglass Maverick down the ramp. Almost single-handedly, redfish have CPR’ed life back into the light-tackle fishing markets of the inshore Gulf and lower East Coast. Reds R Us was built over 30 years ago, in the bad old days, even before Cajun Chef Paul Prudhomme’s blackened redfish craze reached epidemic proportions. Thanks to proactive anglers and the multi-state Coastal Conservation Association, species-devastating commercial netting was reduced, and now even old time crackers are surprised at the booming redfish numbers.