- 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.
- By: A. K. Best
- Photography by: A. K. Best
I prefer to use stripped-and-dyed rooster-neck hackle quills for all my mayfly imitations. Since the advent of Asian bird flu, however, strung Chinese rooster-neck hackle has not been easy to find. And our own domestic quill-body capes, although very good, are not always…
I WAS TAKING ADVANTAGE OF THE beauty of the low Mexican morning sunlight to shoot photos of my friend Dave casting toward the white-sand shoreline…when Dave paused his cast. Our guide quietly, very serious now, said “Si.” About 50 yards down the beach appeared a dark shape hovering over the sand—a piece of driftwood? No, it was a snook. A huge snook. Dave, a lefty, was having a hard time loading the rod with the cross-wind. As the guide poled our skiff closer to the dark form, Dave told me to step up on the casting deck. I put down my…