Back Issue Content: 2018


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.

Artist Cody Richardson goes hunting

For artist Cody Richardson there’s no more enticing silhouette than the one belonging to a certain fish that he hasn’t yet caught. “To me it’s like the elk hunting of flyfishing,” he says of permit, as he pours us a couple of beers in his Windsor, Colorado workshop. “They’re so smart and you have to work so hard to get them. When you do finally hook and land one, is there a more perfect fish?”


Cruising the Keys

In late October of 2013, Tom Bie, editor of The Drake, sent me an email:

"CLYDE IS PARKED on 2nd floor, row E, space 14, in the garage for American Airlines, right next to an emergency phone. He is gassed and ready to go, but keep in mind he is 40 years old, with almost 100k miles, and a lot of quirks. You need to take it easy at first. For example, a LOT of play in the steering."

Central Oregon nothingness.

A different take on Wild and Scenic Rivers

When I opened the car door, a mangy border collie barked and charged at us. Mike Murtha yelled, and the dog backed off. Mike was in his 80s and wore a dusty-brimmed Stetson and tattered Wranglers. He smoked Camels, and his hands resembled the harsh, cracked earth of the surrounding desert. Tin cans filled with cigarette butts cluttered his porch. We sat on a muddy couch and drank Jack Daniels as Mike told stories of hunting mule deer, and talked about what the John Day was like before rafters, and before regulations limited grazing.