By Travis Banta It is safe to say we are a fishing family. Grandpa Lee crossed the Madison River to his favorite fishing hole in an old 1940’s era Ford pickup. Grandma Margaret hated that bridge because it was essentially a couple of 2×12 boards and she didn’t like guiding the tires of that old Ford
Dear Members of Congress: The undersigned hunting and fishing businesses are part of a thriving outdoor recreation industry that contributes $887 billion annually to the U.S. economy. We are writing in support of the Antiquities Act of 1906 and to request that it be used responsibly and in a way that supports the continuation of
Nymphing has come a long way over the last couple of decades—many fly anglers will start with attractor nymphs on new water, simply because they make great searching patterns and tend to be top-of-mind when nothing is obviously hatching. But, even searching with attractors like a Prince or a basic hare’s ear or pheasant tail
Ah, sibling rivalries. Anybody who has a brother or a sister understands exactly what it’s like to compete with those closest to you for everything from the food put on the table at night to the fish that come to hand. Meet the Sallee brothers—one is a musician and the other is robotics application engineer.
A fly fisher in Stanley, Idaho, casts to the edges of the Salmon River during high water over the weekend. I spent the weekend driving along a couple of Idaho’s more fabled trout waters—first, the Salmon near the “top of Idaho” in Stanely, and then the Big Wood as it roars through Ketchum near Sun
Verta Anne Dorseth photo Here’s a real hearbreaker. The famous shop where the R.L. Winston Co. makes its venerable bamboo fly rods was lost to fire over the weekend. The shop, a must-see destinat ion for fly fishers visiting southwest Montana from the world over, caught fire early Sunday morning and is a total loss.
By Chris Hunt There’s a fine line between fishing from a drift boat and fishing from a source of chaos. The first time I rowed a drift boat, I damn near put it into the bridge abutment just above Ashton Dam on the Henry’s Fork while my two passengers—one of whom owned the boat—watched helplessly
