Summer 2018 Contents

Drake 2018 Summer Issue


  • Once
    Working with fire as both vocation and avocation has given the author a unique perspective on its power. A tale of fire and water, both heartbreaking and inspiring.
    Story by Jimmy Watts and photos by Carson Artac
  • Miskito Machinations
    Traveling by small boat, off the coast of northern Nicaragua and southern Honduras, can be treacherous. Luckily, the fishing payoff is only 27 short hours away.
    Story and photos by Nick Price
  • Some Headwaters
    In 1983, David James Duncan's novel, The River Why, became available for flyfishers to read. After that, nothing was ever the same. A profile of the man who wrote it.
    Story by Chris Dombrowski and photos by Chris La Tray
  • Eggs in Your Beer
    Twenty years ago this summer, the writer and a friend discovered Montana. A look back on a memorable time in flyfishing, and a significant float trip on the Bighorn.
    Story by Dave Zoby and photos by Tim Romano


  • Put-in
    In 1998, this magazine went from idea to reality. Thank you.
  • Rises
    A look back at some of our earliest letters to the editor.
  • Scuddlebutt
    Cuban largemouth, a ballsy feather thief, Flyfishing FOMO, tiger hybrids, PA brookies, Clyde in FL, and archived humor.
  • Tailwater Weekend
    Hot ticket: The inaugural esCARPment, in Central Texas.
    By Ben Haguewood Photos by Ashley Haguewood
  • Tippets
    Greatest gift ever, Wisconsin muskie lore, bonefishing barefoot, inflate-a-mate fishing, Michigan mousing after dark, in defense of the bobber, Cali surf fishing, and justifiable theft.
  • Redspread
    Want to help redfish? Use a damn water bottle.
    By Rick Crawford
  • Passport
    When in Mexico, Tabasco's tarpon are worth a visit.
    By Hilary Hutcheson
  • Bugs
    Caddisflies in Maine. By Ryan Brod
  • City Limits
    Long Beach bassin'.
    By Elliott Adler
  • Rodholders
    Rodmaker Keith Lyon, from the great State of Jefferson.
    By Tom Bie
  • Backcountry
    Wild and Scenic John Day. Not everyone's so stoked.
    By Mia Sheppard
  • Permit Page
    Building an ode to permit, one license plate at a time.
    By Geoff Mueller

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.


In Honduras, some mysteries are better left unsolved

I'm not sure I want the Miskitos back in camp. Rules are different here. Maybe there are no rules. They want gas this time. They also want weed: "Fuma?" We give it to them. They smoke it in front of our camp. We've given them sliced pineapple, five-gallon jugs of water, rice and beans. They want the weed more than any of it.


The gift of missing me

LAST SUMMER, SITTING QUIETLY on a stump smoking a fine-smelling cigar, no doubt rolled on the thighs of an elderly Cuban woman, I heard one of the greatest lines ever muttered by a fellow brother of the flyfishing fraternity. In many ways it encapsulated subconscious thoughts I would like to think I am capable of, yet rarely produce. As with so many iconoclastic ideas, its genius was in its simplicity.