Angeln & Jagen
The Drake

The Drake Winter 2019/20

The Drake is a quarterly magazine for people who love flyfishing, and also love quality writing and photography. The Drake is informative, educational, and entertaining, but it is not a "how-to" magazine. Many of the stories are about the "culture" of flyfishing—the people, the places, and of course, the fish.

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United States
Bie Media
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4 Ausgaben

in dieser ausgabe

3 Min.
sum total

I’ve never gotten along well with numbers, especially in the mathematical sense. I almost didn’t graduate high school because of them. But at my senior math finals, my grade sitting at a solid D-, I somehow walked away with a passing grade. Having already failed the class once, there’s no doubt the teacher took pity and bumped me along. (If you’re reading this Mrs. M, thank you.) As a teenager I vividly remember battling my Dad at the kitchen table while balancing my first checkbook. The totals never added up right, and I would quickly lose patience and walk away. I’ve never once needed the Pythagorean theorem or trigonometry to make life easier. And I still can’t balance that checkbook. Despite a healthy fear and loathing of math, fishing numbers have always…

5 Min.
faith in a river

BEFORE I’D FULLY degenerated into the folly of flyfishing, I lived in South Bend, Indiana, along the St. Joseph River. Every year, I would talk my dad or girlfriend into a winter drift trip for steelhead, but this was the business of egg sacks and crankbaits, not fly rods. And it only worked part of the year, when the fish would swim up from Lake Michigan in search of salmon eggs and spawning grounds. During other times of the year, I fished away from the Rust Belt waters of the St. Joe. I confess that, as a busy graduate student, I squandered my prime location along the St. Joseph for much of the year, failing to chase many of its endemic species with a fly rod. I would take long walks…

3 Min.
trout town lullaby

I’M AWAKE AGAIN at midnight, ghost-pale and sweating profusely, tortured by the possibility that my hometown of Gunnison, Colorado, doesn’t measure up to other Western trout towns. I’m haunted by the prospect that I may be cheating myself out of angling opportunities by not relocating to a more revered playground like Bozeman or Jackson. This insomniaproducing insecurity could just be psychological leftovers from my awkward and acne-scarred adolescence. Or worse, FOMO. No matter the cause, it’s a serious sickness. My very happiness is at stake. And my sleep. What if Gunnison isn’t the salmonid Shangri-La I think it is? How will I know? I begin working my way through the list of qualifying characteristics… A truly top-notch trout town will exhibit several tell-tale signs. For starters, while many residents may own…

3 Min.
anegada da vida, baby

ACCORDING TO MUSIC lore, Doug Ingle, organist and lead vocalist for the legendary rock band Iron Butterfly, wrote the band’s most popular song during an evening of heavy drinking. The instrument-driven ballad would eventually run more than 17 minutes, cover the entire Side B of an album, and be named one of the top hard-rock songs in history by VH1. The title of the song was supposed to be “In the Garden of Eden,” but when Iron Butterfly drummer Ron Bushy asked Ingle for the lyrics later that night, all the inebriated Ingle could slur out was, “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida.” The chorus of that catchy song filled my head as we sailed a blustery 12-mile passage from our previous anchorage in Eustatia Bay, British Virgin Islands, to the relatively far-flung, northernmost island of…

3 Min.
the wildest trout

WHEN LEWIS and Clark discovered coastal cutthroat, they were using horse-hair leaders, wearing rain-drenched leather moccasins, and traveling with a bunch of aggravated pack mules. When I discovered coastal cutthroat more than 200 years later, I did it with a tungsten sink-tip, a pair of polyester waders, and a rental Jeep Renegade barreling down Juneau’s Glacier Highway. Upon landing in Juneau, the salty squalls of Southeast Alaska were abundant, and some quick research affirmed that I would be hiking through eight miles of rain for twelve inches of cutthroat. As the trail wound through Sitka spruce, I periodically broke the mossy silence with a bear call. Woodpeckers jack-hammered their way into cambium, warblers pinged like sonar high in the canopy, and I went several miles before my delirious bliss began to…

3 Min.
holding over

EVERY YEAR, a small number of striped bass winter over in the bays, marshes, and salt ponds of Cape Cod, Massachusetts. We call them “holdovers.” They’re not big, they can be tough to find, and by the middle of the winter, they look a little haggard. Their flanks, once polished a gleaming silver by a life in the ocean, dull to a slate gray by New Year’s. With more food and better conditions off Virginia and Maryland—where most of the striped bass population lives from December to March—it’s unclear why these fish stay behind. Perhaps they became trapped, following the scent of baitfish into the backwaters and staying until the ocean was too cold to continue their journey. Perhaps they weighed the risks, deciding that a lean winter was more appealing…