Articles

A casting instruction session at The School of Trout (photo: Tim Romano).

There’s a belief floating around the angling community that the fastest way for beginning and intermediate trout fishers to improve their skills is to sign up for a top quality class or attend a first-rate fly fishing school. I’ve thought about that assumption a fair amount over the years, and while schools make a ton of sense for some folks, they’re not necessarily the right approach for everyone. If you’ve been wondering whether you should invest the time and money to attend a fly fishing school, or participate in angling classes, I’d suggest looking through the information below. If you find that something really resonates, you may be better off skipping school and finding another path forward.

Anglers, it's time to vote

Who will you support in 2026?
Photo: brooklyntheborough / CC-BY-2.0.

Our angling and our public lands are at risk. Our nation is in trouble. And we have a national election coming up on Tuesday, November 3rd.

As we approach the 2026 election, an awful lot of voters are laser-focused on the American economy. Both inflation and the high cost of living are major sources of concern.

The bad luck banana

Ever wonder where the superstitions about bananas and boats originated?
Mythbusting (photo: Justin Hamblin).

As a kid on a party boat charter off the coast of Galveston more than 40 years ago, I learned first-hand that having a banana on board a fishing vessel is a more egregious sin than letting the engine oil run dry, hoisting the Jolly Roger, or even throwing the captain overboard. Much of my first taste of this maritime wives tale was theater, but even initiating a seance and conjuring up the ghost of Fletcher Christian, I was told, would be more forgivable than pulling a banana out of your lunch bag while out at sea.

Spoiled rotten with BC bull trout

In search of mammoth backcountry char in southern British Columbia
Photo: Chris Hunt.

Spoiled. Rotten.

There’s no other reasonable way to describe the feeling that washed over me as Andre Lafferma guided the metallic blue Bell Jet Ranger II helicopter off the gravel bar, elevated into the cold, gray sky, and disappeared into the rain-blurred ether. Light three passengers and some fly-fishing gear, the chopper climbed to the lip of the river canyon, topped the spruce and cedar trees that reached to the slate-gray heavens, and, just like that, we were alone on a remote, emerald-green river somewhere in British Columbia’s Cariboo Mountains.

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