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Native brook trout are in hot water
My first brook trout arrived on a frosty late-spring morning in mountain water so cold it made my fingers tingle before going completely numb. No bigger than my hand, the brookie was a work of art to rival New Hampshire's Chocorua Lake, its home just before I enticed it to swallow my fly and to which I would return it moments later. Its olive skin peppered with blue-ringed red dots and a rakish orange belly is a vivid image that has stayed with me for more than 25 years. If I had a lick of artistic ability, I could draw that fish from memory. Since arriving here 18 years ago, my encounters with brookies have been fewer and farther between. Some of that has to do with the other fish that occupy my time: white perch, croaker and, of course, striped bass. (Let's not even mention menhaden, OK?) But even when I've carved out the time, it's been hard to do a meet-and-greet with Maryland's only native trout.
FlyFishing Retailer World Trade Expo 2006 a Big Success
More than 2,700 of the fly-fishing industrys business people converged on Denver for FlyFishing Retailer 2006, and industry leaders are celebrating the brisk trade. It was one of the best shows weve ever had. We actually sold out of one of our new for 2007 products before the end of day two, reported Jim Bartschi, President of Scott Fly Rods. If you missed it this year, make sure to come next year. 126 credentialed media attended, including Shallow Water Angler Editor and Florida Sportsman fly-fishing editor, Mike Conner. .
FISHING DESTINATIONS: NEW ZEALAND: Screaming reels in kiwi land
TURANGI, New Zealand - Tyler Shoberg, a Herald copy editor, recently spent two weeks traveling through New Zealand with his girlfriend, Erin Dixon, who was studying abroad. The following story is from a daylong guided fishing trip the pair took June 23 in New Zealand. Shoberg's parents gave him the trip as a present for graduating from UND. Twenty-five minutes: That's how long it took to land the first fish of the day. I'd never fought anything that long back home in Minnesota. My parents, my sister, the school bully; all 15 minutes, tops. But when the tired-out rainbow trout finally succumbed to the bend of the rod and the strain in my back, Will Kemp, my guide, tapped the face of his watch. "Twenty-five minutes," he grinned. "She's quite the pig, eh?" With the fish safely nestled inside a landing net, Kemp popped a clip on the handle and used the built-in scale to calculate the weight.
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