By Mark Taylor The river was brown. Coffee-with-heavy-cream brown. It’s-been-raining-for-days brown. You-don’t-have-a-chance-in-hell brown. “Top off the raft and get the stuff down to the shore while I go drop off the truck,” I told my fishing partner for the day, Brett Prettyman. “I’ll probably be back before you’re done.” So, if conditions were more appropriate
By Chris Wood “I-185 and I-186 have qualified for the ballot.” With that inauspicious tweet, Montana’s Secretary of State Corey Stapleton confirmed two state-wide ballot initiatives this November in Montana. One is of huge import to people who care about clean water, trout, and trout fishing in Montana. I-186 would require Montana to deny permits
A native Yellowstone cutthroat trout. A backcountry treasure. Photo by Chris Hunt. By Chris Hunt Who knows how many times I’d driven over the little creek as it flows southeast through an arched culvert toward its eventual confluence with the mighty Yellowstone River. A hundred? At least a hundred. And every time, I made a
When I first heard that, some time ago, rainbow trout had been introduced to the high-mountain streams of Costa Rica, I was, to say the least, surprised. But it makes sense. These high-elevation streams are shaded by the jungle canopy and temperatures are pretty mild in the mountains all year long. And, if you squint
TroutHunter, the iconic fly fishing outfitter and fly shop in Island Park, Idaho, on the banks of the storied Henry’s Fork, is launching a new line of nylon tippet that the company claims has the strength of flourocarbon and floats better than other nylon tippets. Using EVO nylon technology, the company notes, the new tippet
Conservation might seem like a straight-forward enterprise, but anybody who has worked to protect or restore even a single stream in a larger watershed knows that it is actually quite nuanced. Anything involving people and the waters and fish they love is going to be complicated. In southwest Colorado, that’s no different. This week, on
Years ago, while perusing a pawn shop in Pocatello, Idaho, I stumbled upon a gem. In a dank corner of the old store rested an old bourbon barrel that bristled with fishing rods. After thumbing my way through the rods, I noticed something unique, especially at the time. There, unceremonious ly protruding from the barrel
