- By: Greg Thomas
- Photography by: Greg Thomas
I like catching as many fish as possible, and I’m prone to keeping at least loose track of numbers if only to gauge, in a vaguely scientific way, one day or one season versus another. Some say that scorecard mentality is all about vanity and ego. In fact, I’ll take quality over quantity every time because dealing in sheer numbers, in fishing and life, is a setup for failure.
- By: Darrel Martin
- Photography by: Darrel Martin
Tom Whiting was born and spent much of his childhood in Denver, Colorado. The Whiting clan admits that Dr. Tom must be some strange agrarian throwback. From youth he was fascinated by fowls, and their variety. When Tom was about 10 years old, a lucky break: His family moved to the suburbs, where he raised a few chickens, peddled eggs in the neighborhood and worked on a game-bird farm. Although he spent hours dreaming up breeding programs, there were no plans to become a feather merchant; when it was time to go to college he delved into music, political science and literature at Colorado State University. One day his older brother asked him what he really wanted to do. Tom replied that he often thought about quail. Avian science was the answer. After getting a bachelor’s degree in avian science at Colorado State and completing genetics internships with two poultry producers, he knew he wanted more.
- By: Scott Sadil
- Photography by: Gary Bulla
Valente Lucero captains the panga La Venadita, “the little deer,” off the shores of Punta Arena, an hour by car south of La Paz, Baja California Sur. Valente is known amongst family and friends as Venado, a nickname earned at a younger age when the seductions of local tequila often inspired him to hop about the pueblo of Agua Amarga like a deer and, on more than one occasion, climb into the arms of a cardón cactus and leap, like a frightened doe, to the desert floor below.
- By: Chico Fernandez
- Photography by: Jim Butler
For the third day in a row I had set my alarm for 5 a.m, and after a quick cup of café con leche I drove across the then-small city of Miami (this was in the early ’60s), over three bridges and onto Key Biscayne. Then, after a left turn onto a narrow, partially hidden, sandy road, I parked under a large seagrape tree, a tree I had parked under many times before. From there, just a quarter-mile walk along the beach brought me to the northeast shore of the key, where I looked out on a large, open flat facing the ocean.
- By: Maximilian Werner
- Photography by: Maximilian Werner
The last time Greg and I fished together was in 2008 on the Fremont River (see “On the Lower Fremont: Part II”), and I had been trying to get him to come back ever since. Despite a handful of conversations to that effect, 2009 came and went. Then 2010 rolled around and the ritual of half-promises and unfinished phone calls started all over again. Understandably, Greg was noncommittal: He was up to his elbows in teaching obligations, and as a recent divorcee, he was busy reorienting himself to the new world and juggling love interests. But when the infernal hand of July came knocking, he did what a lot of Arizonans do: He looked for a way out.