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The ancient ancestor of ours who discovered it was possible to cultivate food rather than hunt for it started a process..
The introduction of alien species is fraught with peril.
When I first heard about fish farming I thought of inland ponds filled with catfish.
Elusive is an adjective that could have been invented to describe sea run cutthroat trout.
Exactly two years before another cataclysmic 9/11 twisted the course of history, a cliff toppled into a glacier sitting high in the rugged Howson Range that presides over the headwaters of the Zymoetz and Telkwa rivers.
Forget the legion of problems connected to the proposed Enbridge pipeline. Assume the gargantuan project is going ahead and consider what route it should take.
I clicked on the Uniform Resource Indicator at the bottom of an e-message I recently received and there, thanks to the miracle that is cyberspace, was Mark Angelo, the noted conservationist who works for the British Columbia Institute of Technology’s River Institute. Mark was upbeat, almost ecstatic, and with good reason. Pink salmon have returned to Britannia Creek.
The biggest mystery in Canadian fisheries over the last decade has to be the case of the troubled Fraser River sockeye.
Summer, or whatever you want to call the cool uncool monsoon season we just experienced, is almost done.
In my home, and I suspect in yours too, we have a prohibition against waste, a sense that a fish killed then poorly cooked, or allowed to spoil, is a fish that has died in vain. Wasting a fish that has such an important role to play in the river environment is more than a shame, it’s a sin.
Jim is happy to put in a whole day fishing. He’s been putting in half days on the Zymoetz and doing well with the surface flies I’ve given him over the last three decades.
I resumed reading David Schindler’s article, The Boiling Point, while waiting for a my turn to urinate in a small jar after having some of my blood sucked out of an artery in my arm.
I was in the medical lab, sent there by the doctor as part of my yearly physical, when I realized I’d forgotten to bring some reading material
We meet at the Northern Motor Inn, Claude, Jean Pierre and I. The waitresses deal us a fine Canadian breakfast of bacon, eggs, toast and coffee.
It’s Sunday. There are white gauze curtains in the draws and ravines nearest the mountain tops.
Jim calls to ask if I’ve heard that there are plans to log Baxter’s. I tell him I haven’t, that I’m shocked, and that this kind of BS has just got to stop.
On the way back from Smithers last week, Karen and I decided to pay a visit to the Clay homestead in the Kispiox Valley.
One of the reasons I don’t buy fishing magazines anymore is because they are full of fishing porn, the most ubiquitous form being the infamous Grip and Grin, those tedious portraits of fishermen flashing their teeth as they hoist an exhausted fish aloft.
A good idea is often the sum of a series of random events. My Demo fly is an example.