Cascade-Siskiyou National Monument, on the Oregon-California border. American sportsmen have long been advocates for strong habitat conservation policies and designations on public lands. This stems from the fundamental principle that every seasoned outdoorsperson understands: good fishing and hunting opportunity requires productive habitat—and for habitat to remain productive it must be kept largely undeveloped. This advocacy
Photo by Mike Sepelak By Chris Hunt FOLKSTON, Ga.— I’ve never been a boat guy, choosing instead to find my best fly fishing using my two feet, usually after driving to the end of the road, and then wandering on a bit farther to the water few others bother to reach. It’s a preference thing.
Helping organize rallies, like this one at the Idaho State Capitol, to show elected officials how sportsmen and sportswomen feel about legislation is an important part of the politics of conservation. Trout Unlimited photo. By Brett Prettyman Waders and work boots are the uniforms people typically think of when they envision Trout Unlimited staffers, members
My Dad says it happened when I was about 7 years old. Some punk lifeguards and their hangers-on were tormenting a sand shark they had pulled from the surf down the Jersey shore. I marched in between the sea of tree-trunk legs and, through my tears, carried the dead fish back to the surf. My
April, particularly in the West, is a bona-fide shoulder month. Higher up, it’s still winter. In the valleys, spring is springing and water is rising. It’s a tough month for trout fishing, given the transition happening between winter and spring and all the trappings that come with it, both good and bad. Video of Trouts
As a western fly fisherman who has never wet a line east of Colorado, I was drawn into Walt Franklin’s account of fishing a variety of rivers and streams near his home along the Pennsylvania/New York border. The watersheds of three rivers – the Genesee, the Allegheny, and Pine Creek – can be traced to
By Chris Hunt The first time I visited a blackwater swamp, I was probably about 12. My dad rented a little jon boat from the marina near Uncertain, Texas, and he manned the tiller as we glided over the glassy waters of Caddo Lake. I was instantly enchanted. At the time, 35 years ago, East
