The Drake Summer 2023

IN DECEMBER 2022, two Northern European professors published a paper in the Finnish Journal of Tourism Research titled “Angling Tourism: A State of the Art Review.” Their research looked at ninety-eight articles on angling tourism in twenty-nine countries. Their biggest takeaway: “Tourism studies have, by and large, ignored angling as a tourism activity across the globe, despite angling’s significant contributions to the tourism industry.” Reactions to this may range from “No surprise” to “Who cares?” If it’s the latter: The economic impact of flyfishing dollars on national, state, and local economies, particularly in rural communities, is directly proportional to the power of our voice when it comes to investments and policy decisions. For a somewhat sad but honest example: Pickleball-playing snowbirds traveling to Florida, Hawaii, Arizona, and elsewhere have gained…

STRUCK A CHORD Sean Foley’s essay (“Full Boat” Fall ’22) was such a beautifully written memory of both pain I can’t imagine as a father, as well as similar experiences I have with my brothers. Thank you for this reminder that childhood, fatherhood, and life are precious and fleeting gifts. Wes Cotter, Kansas City, MO FLYFISHING IS SUPPOSED TO BE HARD Sending my appreciation of the “Numbers Game” (Fall ’22) article and podcast. This message is really important these days, in the world of hero shots, social media, “fish-porn” movie tours, etc. It reminded me of a trip I took to Yellowstone, where other anglers would share that they’d landed ten or more fish from the same pool, on the same fly. Personally, after catching a few fish from the…

ON JUNE FIFTH, the seven members of Colorado’s court of last resort unanimously ruled that 81-year-old flyfisherman Roger Hill “lacks standing” to continue his decade-long legal battle for public access along the Arkansas River (Hill v. Warsewa). Put another way, the Colorado Supreme Court unanimously ruled that its justices lack the resolve or the readiness to pursue a rational clarification of the state’s river-access laws. It’s hard to blame the judges. Their reluctance is likely due in part to State Attorney General Phil Weiser not wanting the clarification pursued—not by the judiciary, anyway. But let’s not pretend that the state Supreme Court couldn’t have granted Hill the permission he sought. If we’ve learned anything about supreme courts over the past few years (state or federal), it’s that precedent doesn’t have…

FLYFISHING’S GUIDE/CLIENT relationship has always been a special one. All the best guides understand that advice should be given sparingly—as hangry, hungover mumbles mixed with chew spit. Meanwhile, all the best clients understand that, while there are no dumb questions, there are still plenty of dumb questions. Guide: “Always mend upstream, unless you have to mend downstream.” Client, to guide on a trip: “Did you bring any stool softeners?” Guide: “What kind of fucking coward wears a size 8 wading boot?” Flyshop customer: “You like snook? I like snook. Small world!” Guide: “Make your next cast upstream and to the right.” Client: “Downstream?” Guide: “No, upstream and to the right.” Client: “I’m not sure what you mean.” Guide: “Face upstream. Cast that direction.” Client: “I still don’t get what you’re…

A ONE-GALLON ZIPLOC bag full of water is a wonderful tool for observing a brook trout, allowing you to study it like a jeweler might hold a diamond to the light. I was participating in a sampling event hosted by Trout Power, a Rome, New York-based nonprofit founded in 2011 that uses citizen science to advocate for native brook trout. Specifically, the group aims to identify new strains of wild, native brookies in New York’s Adirondack Park. Results thus far have been encouraging. Like technology used to provide humans with insights about their own heritage, recent advances in genomic testing allow average anglers to determine (with a little help from experts) the heritage of native fish, all for about twenty-five bucks per test. With a quick fin snip, citizen scientists…

HERE I SIT, behind the backseat of this old Mercury Marquis, staring at the white-oak acorns I’ve collected in the spare tire to get me through winter. My tiny heart is about to explode because my home just began roaring again like the Detroit luxury boat it was built to be. There’s some idiot driving it. I watched him stealthily from under the seat as he kept calling folks, saying, “Well, Clyde’s running again.” Or, “Just took Clyde to Foxy’s.” I would’ve freaked out entirely—my home was being stolen with me inside! But the gas fumes acted as a mild sedative, and I fell asleep instead. Waking up, I knew I had to get the hell out. Fight or flight had become a survival imperative, because if this human found…