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Soverel, on Kamchatka’s Utholok river, Russia, 1998.

The fighting spirit of Pete Soverel

The status of wild winter-steelhead populations can drive the most committed steelheaders to seek refuge near the fringes of Salmo Mykiss' geographical range—fewer anglers can mean a few more fish. So, after 19 hours of driving, I pull my truck into the dark driveway descending to a rustic lakefront cabin. Towering cedars block what scant skylight remains at the end of a dreary day. The lake out back is frozen. In the northernmost corner of the British Columbia coast I have found the springtime hideout of an old friend, but by the looks of things my favorite season is still held in the grasp of a stubborn winter, and won't break free for another three weeks.

Cabin Cats

If My cats were talking cats they would ask me the same question my father does: why don't you keep the fish you catch. Why are you so spineless, so un-hungry, so thoughtless as to our longsuffering? I've released countless fish, many which could have turned a day into legend for my dad. We didn't have much luck on the water when I was growing up, and the thought of releasing anything of keepable size is akin to saying there's no God. Heretical. Where I'm from you get disowned for that shit.

Dumping Eminent Domain

Palmetto pipeline gets spiked

PIPELINES GET A BAD RAP, which they often deserve. Last November, the Keystone Pipeline—of Standing Rock protest fame—leaked more than 200,000 gallons of oil from a below-ground crack, adjacent to Sioux lands near the Lake Traverse reservation. The irony was lost on no one, least of all the protesters who were forcibly evicted from their camp after months of protests about the risk posed to groundwater.

Bluegrass and Fiberglass

Chronicles of a flyfishing festivarian

It's 1 a.m. and we've just shuffled out of the Sheridan Opera House, halfway through The Travelin' McCoury's NightGrass after-show. Not because they weren't fantastic. Fronted by the sons of bluegrass legend Del McCoury, they lived up to their pedigree. But we're exhausted. Ignoring the advice of experienced Festivarians, we have not paced ourselves. It's day one of the Telluride Bluegrass Festival and I can barely stand. We have a 20-minute shuttle ride back to our campground, and I plan to be up early, in search of fishable water.

The worst dates I’ve ever been on have all been with my husband, but last year he really outdid himself.

It began one day after work, when he announced that his schedule had finally allowed him to attend the Fly Fishing Film Tour. He told me we’d get a nice hotel, go to dinner, and watch artsy movies about angling. It would be a romantic and memorable way, he continued, to celebrate our first night away from our newborn kiddo.