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Love in the time of climate change
For one angler, a wounded California is better than no California at all It was a classic Yuba day with Joe and the Butler brothers—a 105-degree scorcher with the river inviting swimming as much as fishing. As typical as it seemed, the river was in many ways new to me. It had been two years…
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What are fences good for?
In New Mexico, fences protect trout habitat and livestock It feels great to get out again on TU field projects. A few weeks ago, we journeyed to the Gila to take some stream measurements, and last week we went to the northwestern Jemez Mountains to replace some fence along the Rio de las Vacas. Our volunteer crew of women and men from regional TU chapters and our partner organization, New…
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Taking in the infrastructure of nature in New Mexico
Humans are coming to grips with the damage we've done ... and the need to repair it Even in New Mexico, a state so over-endowed with emptiness that one can find a place to hide a body almost anywhere, Gila country is about the loneliest place imaginable. The closer you get, as I realized on…
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Progress before perfection: advice from a bionic angler
I’m trying to improve my health. Still. Again. Since my hip surgery, working out has required considerably more intentionality than I’ve been able to muster over the last decade or so. Pain speaks in different terms; the “your legs are sore because you’re making them stronger” motivation of my younger days has been replaced by…
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It takes a suite of tools to recover native trout in the Pecos River of New Mexico
The Pecos River, its tributaries and surrounding wilderness area, is where much of northern New Mexico comes to fish. In fact, many of us learned how to fish on the Pecos. The variety of fishing options in the Pecos watershed is almost limitless: fly or lure, small creeks to larger streams, wild brown and rainbow…
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Remembering Duane Cook and his service to people
I remember being a boy and watching my mother and grandmother yell at the television, as though the Vietnam War was Nixon’s fault and Kennedy and Johnson never existed. At the Memorial Wall in D.C., I remember tears rolling down my good friend’s face the moment he located the name of his father, who died when my friend was but two years old and had yet to commit his dad’s face to memory. My fishing buddy who worked at…
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The gift of the skunk
One learns not to expect much when fly fishing during the winter months. At least around here, or if you’re me. Regardless of the season, sometimes you step into a river and just know something’s off. The water’s not moving right, or the sound of the wind rings particularly empty and distant. I envy steelhead die-hards their familiarity with this feeling, the impending, inevitable void, and how they march into it undaunted. A guy I know…
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