Fish

Ask the Experts On Henry's Fork: Rene Harrop

  • By: Greg Thomas
  • Photography by: James Anderson
  • and Greg Thomas
Rene Harrop

René Harrop has lived and breathed the Henry’s Fork fishery for decades. His company, House of Harrop, produces some of the leading flies for the area; he was a founding partner of Trouthunter, a top fly shop on the river; and his artwork, writing and overall philosophy of fishing have inspired and enlightened countless fly-fishers, on the Henry’s Fork and elsewhere. Harrop lives in Last Chance, Idaho. We caught up with him there.

The Ready Position

  • By: Chico Fernandez
  • Photography by: Chico Fernandez
Assume the Ready Position

The most frustrating part of fishing the saltwater flats with a fly rod, especially for someone new to this part of our sport, is the casting. I find that most new fly-casters, and even some intermediates, don’t like to practice away from the water; they feel it’s too much work. And it is a bit of work, at the beginning, but once we bypass that entry-level stage with saltwater tackle, say to the intermediate and up levels, casting is no work at all. Rather, it’s pure pleasure. Personally, I love to cast.

Autumn Tailouts

  • By: Dave Hughes
  • Photography by: Dave Hughes
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Big Indian Creek is a small stream that originates in a glacial basin on the flank of a mountain in far-eastern Oregon. It runs high into July, holds its water well through summer, and finally subsides to mildness in autumn of the average year. The water gets thinner then, which is true of nearly all streams, small or otherwise: if the source is anything but a stable spring or tailwater release, the water is lowest late in the season.

Dean River Records Fall

  • By: Fly Rod and Reel
Dean Steelhead Release

After a couple years of sparse steelhead returns on western British Columbia’s fabled Dean River, anglers found reason to rejoice this summer as…

Turneffe Alternatives

  • By: Larry Kenney
Turneffe Flats Jacks

In a rare stroke of luck, or something, the occupants of the middle and window seats next to me on the plane to Houston, from where Pat Dunlap and I would jump to a flight to Belize City, weren’t a fat guy and an anxious mother with a screaming infant. Instead, our neighbors were two 20-something cocktail waitresses who each worked their way through four Screwdrivers before we touched down.

“We’re going to the Bahamas to party,” said the blonde in the tank top, after drink number one. “Where you headed?”