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category_outlined / Caza y Pesca
Anglers JournalAnglers Journal

Anglers Journal Fall 2018

Anglers Journal celebrates the best writing, photography, illustration, design and sporting art on the topic of fishing. Come join some of the most prolific fishing editors and writers in the industry for the best angling experience on the water.

País:
United States
Idioma:
English
Editor:
Active Interest Media
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9,57 €(IVA inc.)
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21,25 €(IVA inc.)
4 Números

EN ESTE NÚMERO

access_time4 min.
the beautiful curse continues

For three decades, I anticipated the arrival of an offspring who would enjoy chasing fish to the far horizons with his or her old man. We would be a pair of happy, moonstruck lunatics, fishing side by side from boat, beach and beyond. I had three daughters and a son, and they all fished with me to varying degrees. Mostly, though, they just wanted to spend time with their father. Fishing came second. Then came Ben, a precocious 6-year-old who can cast like a fiend and has learned more about fishing from YouTube than from spending time on the water. He’s my oldest grandson and my latest wingman. My job is to put a little salt in his socks and keep stoking the flames of his fishing desires. Right now, they’re burning pretty…

access_time3 min.
contributors

Outdoor writer/photographer Gary Caputi specializes in fishing and boating. A founding member of the Recreational Fishing Alliance, he fishes his New Jersey home waters, and his travels have taken him throughout North America, Central America and South America. In “Trailblazer,” Gary profiles Jake Jordan, who has made catching billfish with a fly rod a reality for hundreds of anglers. An education in English and film helped Austin Coit develop an appreciation for the art of storytelling. Between rigging ballyhoo and cutting squid on his stepdad’s charter boat, he picked up a camera. Two years ago he passed on a private boat job to pursue photography full time. Austin shot the photos for “Party Boat Living” and “Big Fun.” Rip Cunningham is a former editor-in-chief and publisher of Salt Water Sportsman and a…

access_time4 min.
mail

BLUE MARLIN! STARBOARD SIDE! My wife, Nancy, is an amazing person, and I have her to thank for buying me my first subscription to Anglers Journal. I was hooked with the first issue. I cannot come up with words to appropriately convey the depth of my enjoyment of fishing, the challenge of fishing and the opportunity to experience the wonder of nature that fishing provides. Your magazine and the writers who share their lives with us, the readers, speak to this and the shared adventure we are on. My son Michael wrote a paper while he was in fifth grade, reflecting on his first canyon trip. Michael is now 26, and I still enjoy reading his take. Here’s part of his paper: Then there was a shout from the tuna tower. “Blue marlin! Starboard…

access_time10 min.
laughter rang off canyon walls

At night from the rims above Billings, Montana, stars pattern the vault over the Beartooth Range. The Yellowstone River roils unseen in the darkness, and the sky is dusted white by the Milky Way, turning a slow wheel. I was lucky to get there early with my father; at sunset, a blood red line on the edge of the world parted the horizon under a granite swath of cloud, the whole sky lit from above, light blue becoming violet, becoming black. Then nightfall, and he and I are seated on rim rock, looking south toward the star fields over the mountains. In my mind’s eye I’m a boy again, and in the dark he’s calling me toward something I can’t see. “Going to Sylvan Lake tomorrow morning,” he says. “You want to…

access_time3 min.
child on the marsh

I worked the river’s slick banks, grabblingin mud holes underneath tree roots.You’d think it would be dangerous,but I never came up with a cooteror cottonmouth hung on my fingertips.Occasionally, though, I leapt upright,my fingers hooked through the red gillsof a mudcat. And then I thrilledthe thrill my father felt when heburst home from fishing, drunk, and yelled,well before dawn, “Wake up! Come here!”He tossed some fatwood on the fireand flames raged, spat and flickered. He helda four-foot mudcat. “I caught it!”he yelled. “I caught this monster!” At first,dream-dazed, I thought it was somethinghe’d saved us from. By firelight, the fishgleamed wickedly. But Father laughedand hugged me hard, pressing my headagainst his coat, which stank, and glitteredwhere dried scales caught the light. For breakfast,he fried enormous chunks of fish,the whole house…

access_time5 min.
last of its kind

Who knew that chasing wind-whipped Doritos through the cockpit of a cruising boat could trigger a flashback? I was grasping at the chips in the whirlwind, frantically trying to prevent an epic mess, when I had a fuzzy vision of myself at 3 or 6 or some other vaguely young age, sitting on the motor box of a Chesapeake Bay deadrise owned by a friend of my father’s. My chips had escaped the bag and were blowing across the deck. Dad was on his hands and knees grabbing at them, with a slightly aggravated look on his face. He had asked me not to make a mess. He heard me cry. He looked up from the deck and smiled. I blink, and the flashback ends. I look up from the deck at…

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