Back Issue Content: 2018


Dream Weber

Utah's tailwater two-fer

Once upon a time, Utah's Green River below Flaming Gorge was the only tailwater in the state that anglers knew or cared about. Sure, the Green was, and is, one of the most famous in the country, but beyond that, or wading the Middle Provo if the snow sucked in Park City, the Beehive State just wasn't seen as much of a flyfishing destination. Utah was only for skiing, or roaming around national parks in the desert. But not anymore.

Fishstick. Photo by Hansi Johnson.

Being "fishy" vs. being "a stick"

"Hey, Lucky," Scott asks, "I can't get this Chuggernaut to chug. What am I doing wrong?"

My friend Scott Noble has traveled from Spokane, Washington, to Hayward, Wisconsin, with the singular goal of catching a musky on a fly. And now, finally here in the bow of the boat, being guided by Brian "Lucky" Porter, he can't make his popper pop.


The gritty appeal of Maine's Androscoggin River

Past the Far East Restaurant, and Big Daddy's Buff n' Wax, we turn left at the Mexico Congregational Church and find the boat launch empty. This is normal in the mill town of fewer than 3,000 residents, but surprises me on a spring morning: the Androscoggin is at its most fishable (around 4,500 cfs); it's free fishing weekend here in Maine; and the river's numerous, overweight smallmouth should be holding tight to the banks. We unload the canoe, neither of us complaining about our lack of company.

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.