Innholdsfortegnelse for Winter 2022 i Anglers Journal

“Incredible,” Charles says over the misty white roar as we idle my 16-foot skiff below Willamette Falls at Oregon City, Oregon. Just south of Portland, 26 miles above its confluence with the Columbia River, the Willamette thunders over mossy basalt and crumbling concrete. It’s America’s second largest waterfall and once the region’s center for hydropower and industry, but only one revived paper mill still turns. What remains are ghostly buildings and a rusty steampunk circus of pipes, steel beams and acid tanks. Also remaining are major runs of chinook and coho salmon, and the breeding grounds for thousands of lamprey, shad and white sturgeon. Twenty feet from our boat, the gray fuselage of a sturgeon — easily 5 feet long — rockets out of the water. “Amazing,” Charles says. “How…

"That’s the bridge where me and Pop caught a tarpon at night on a chunk of mullet,” I tell the two little heads in the back seat who had just awoke from a Netflix coma. “I still don’t know how we got the fish in without breaking it off.” With each mile marker we pass, another memory bubbles up. I only retell the PG-rated anecdotes and fishing stories, but in my mind I hear the laughter pouring out of Woody’s as the house band, Big Dick and the Extenders, berates tourists between Tom Jones and Lynyrd Skynyrd songs. My father always said misfits and vagabonds jumped on a train, headed south as far as they could, got off in the Florida Keys and never left. He would know; he was…

The crisp air around the salt pond is autumnal. Jaime Boyle stands silhouetted against the first flecks of the rising sun tending to the 1992 Hewes skiff that’s been outfitted for his use in the briny waters around Martha’s Vineyard, Massachusetts. He’s not a tall or imposing man, but his shoulder-length blond hair and broad smile break through any pretense that one might bring to this fishery. “Wish the wind was better and it wasn’t so cold,” he says as we load the skiff and back it down an “unimproved” island ramp. “Might warm up this week,” I say, trying to make a good impression. He nods and shrugs, and I realize that it’s all right with him either way. The day has started, and there’s a breathy feeling of…

Brian Rice’s grandfather owned a nicely outfitted Johnson Brothers powerboat but didn’t know a thing about fishing — nor did he want to. Luckily for Rice, his father and uncle loved to fish and made good use of the boat in their home waters around the Navesink River in New Jersey. His father eventually turned his attention toward bringing Rice into the tribe. “My father is the one who got me into fishing,” Rice says. “Every Saturday and Sunday, I would fish with him for an hour or two and get really seasick. I’d go home, lay down for an hour or two and then go fishing again. I just kind of fought through it. That’s part of the passion for fishing I’ve had since I was 5 years old.”…

Michael Carr is an English teacher and writer from New Jersey who chases stripers with a fly rod whenever and wherever he can. He is working on a collection of fishing essays in the off-hours between hikes, pond trips and driveway hockey with his sons. Michael writes about Martha’s Vineyard guide Jaime Boyle. Retired Miami lawyer and award-winning photographer Pat Ford has held two dozen world records during decades of fishing. Pat writes about the magic of Key West in “Heaven’s Gate,” and his photos appear in several places in this issue, including the “Tension” opening spread. Tom Lynch is a photographer, surf fisherman and the owner of Angry Fish Gallery in Point Pleasant Beach, New Jersey. His images have appeared in The Fisherman, On The Water, Big Game Fishing…

Corn and soybean fields are the last scenery that blows past my SUV as I turn left onto a country road in the heart of Virginia’s Eastern Shore. It’s late August, and humidity hangs in the air as a dragonfly goes kersplat! against my windshield. A tractor rumbles by as I pull over to figure out how I’ve become so lost. It’s not the backdrop typically associated with tarpon fishing, but that’s what I am here to do. I sort my bearings and make my way to a remote launch ramp where longtime friend and tarpon devotee Kendall Osborne is rigged and ready with his Dragonfly Emerger, a 16-foot flats skiff that’s perfect for the skinny waters where we’ll hunt for silver kings among marsh-lined bays, guts and creeks. Osborne…

Off Sandy Hook, drifting the Mud Hole, shaking the yellow chum bag into glittery flutter, circle hooks hang live bunker under pink balloons left over from my daughter’s tenth birthday. We spot dolphins and whales, eat cookies, chat about her friends and these little gray birds, storm petrels, fairy-winged and wave-dancing on golden webbed feet, hovering and picking happily over the slick. They are all the sweetness my girl imagines about the sea this calm sunny morning before the tide changes. Blood scent, fin swirl, the clicker sounding, balloon skimming away. Ready? I ask her. A sky-blue mako runs and jumps. We hold the rod and take turns reeling. Pointed head and gnarly teeth finally thrashing beside the boat. Cleaning the shark, slicing open the soupy gut, we find pale…

The bow of the ship chugged up the wave like a roller coaster clicking up the track to the peak of its first drop. Cresting the top of the mountain-sized swell, the bow fell off, crashed into the trough and disappeared under the icy waters of the North Atlantic. Half of the crew locked themselves in their bunks, green and utterly useless. John Simms, a young Navy seaman, made his way to the bridge of the ship, which escorted destroyers for 30-day stints. It was the late 1950s, and Simms was serving as a radarman, which appealed to his technological abilities. But his true superpower at the time was that he could avoid seasickness by understanding the dynamics of the storm and thinking his way through it. Mind over mal…

A MAN AND HIS NAMESAKE FLY Great article and photos. You’ve captured Bob Clouser’s very heart and soul [“One Fly To Rule Them All,” Fall]. I’ve known Bob for many years, and I’ve said it before: Everyone should have a friend like Bob Clouser. I am so happy that he and Jackie found each other, and I know there is a smiling face in Heaven who feels that same happiness. Bob Mead A wonderful tale about a fine fellow angler. Lenny Lee “Bobby knows the Susquehanna better than anyone alive,” said fly-fishing legend Lefty Kreh. I grew up fishing for smallmouth with with my dad, Bruce Brubaker, on the Susquehanna off Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. Memories of fine times and proud catches that will never fade. Terry Brubaker AN IMPORTANT CHOICE A great…

It was a beautiful winter day in the Florida Keys, and Rhona Chabot and I were cruising west of Key West in Capt. R.T. Trosset’s 39-foot Yellowfin, Spindrift. Our destination was a ledge some 65 miles west of Key West harbor, where Trosset’s son, Capt. Chris Trosset, had spotted a school of massive kingfish a few days earlier. Chris Trosset had landed two dozen kingfish weighing more than 30 pounds and two that were north of 50. King mackerel are one of my favorite fish to catch on a fly rod, and I really wanted one more than 40 pounds. This was going to be my chance. I’ve been fishing out of Key West for 50 years, and I still find it magical. It offers the best light-tackle sport fishing…

My son’s cast flew skyward like a pop-fly and landed with a loud splash about 10 feet off the bow. The kerplop made me cringe and undoubtedly gave away our position to any fish within 50 yards. I was just about to suggest that he reel in and cast again when the slack line on the surface disappeared in a blink. His rod bent over hard, the tip dunked below the surface, and Max’s 7-year-old grip went full white-knuckle. We were fishing a pocket of open water along the eastern edge of the Indian River off Oak Hill, Florida, with guide and longtime friend Capt. Scott MacCalla. It was Max’s first saltwater fishing trip, and you could call it a classic case of beginner’s luck — that was no dink…

Wayne Davis is a pilot who looks for fish. Like an osprey, he stares down from above, eyeing the water for movement, shape, contrast. This summer will be his 50th season as a fish spotter. But Wayne doesn’t look for just any fish. In all these decades, he has looked for swordfish, giant bluefin tuna and great white sharks. It’s a helluva trio by which to earn your living. The bulk of his career, from 1973 to 2014, was flying for harpoon boats, known as stickboats, in the swordfish and giant tuna fisheries in the Gulf of Maine and Georges Bank. Wayne would find the fish, then guide the boat toward them. The job involved a lot of communication between the plane and the boat. The harpoon fishery is an…