'Hook: TMC 100, 16 Thread: Veevus 14/0, B14, Olive Body: Hareline Turkey Biot Quills, Olive Thorax: Spirit River Fine & Dry UV2, Dark Olive Baetis Tail: Fibetts/Mayfly Tails Olive, Olive Hackle: Whiting Dry Fly Cape, Medium Dun Tied by Torbjorn Tiltnes @torbjorn.tiltnes . The post Baetis Spent Spinner appeared first on Fly Fusion .'
A glut of big walleyes and other alien species are threatening native fish in the West. by Ted Williams IN AN EFFORT TO IMPROVE ON NATURE, alien fish have been flung like confetti around the lakes and rivers of the American West (and the world) by
'A glut of big walleyes and other alien species are threatening native fish in the West. by Ted Williams IN AN EFFORT TO IMPROVE ON NATURE, alien fish have been flung like confetti around the lakes and rivers of the American West (and the world) by bucket biologists, professional and otherwise.These days the professionals are mostly rehabilitated, the amateurs not so much.The results of bucket biology have almost always been the same—what a six-year-old would achieve by operating on a Bogdan reel to improve the gear assembly.Native ecosystems have been destroyed, native fish displaced and imperiled.In Montana alone, there have been about 600 confirmed illegal fish introductions in at least 250 waters.Consider the walleyed pike.Perhaps you’ve not heard that this large, predaceous perch is part of the native-fish complex in Montana east of the Continental Divide.Walleye fishing guide Dale Gilbert and his fellow walleye advocates have “proof”—a unique map Gilbert found in a book titled Biology, Culture, and Management of Walleye and Sauger, published by the American Fisheries Society, that depicts North America’s historic walleye range.On the strength of this map, Gilbert is petitioning Montana Fish, Wildlife & Parks to correct its classification of walleyes from “introduced nonnative” to native because, as he is quoted by the media, “natives get priority as far as management.” If you’ve not heard that walleyes are native to Montana, perhaps it’s because the claim is BS.The map is wrong. “We’ve looked at this really closely,” says Montana fisheries biologist Eric Roberts. “We talked to our natural heritage folks as well as the national American Fisheries Society.Reviewing all the literature and distribution, we didn’t find any information to indicate the walleyes are native to Montana.” Walleyes could never have made it over Great Falls.And Yellowstone cutthroat trout, which occurred as far down the Yellowstone as the mouth of the Tongue River, can live only in water with temperature and chemistry incapable of sustaining walleyes.The fact that Yellowstone cutts were there and in other east-slope Montana streams proves that walleyes weren’t.The first recorded walleye catch in Montana was from Nelson Reservoir in 1922—the result of stocking, apparently by a fishing club.In 1933 the state stocked 300,000 walleyes in the Missouri River near Fort Peck.Since then anglers have unlawfully polluted aquatic ecosystems with the species, further imperiling such natives as federally threatened bull trout and grievously depleted westslope cutthroat trout.The push by Gilbert and his allies illustrates one of the many dangers of bucket biology—creation of public advocacy for aliens.Now that illegally introduced walleyes have naturalized in reservoirs of the Missouri and Clark Fork Rivers, walleye anglers are fighting modest suppression efforts by Montana and Idaho.Walleye prey on kokanee salmon (left) in Lake Pend Oreille and elsewhere, but their toll on native bull trout and introduced Kamloops rainbows is minimal.This from David Brooks, executive director of Montana Trout Unlimited: “One potential impact in the Missouri is that in big water years, walleyes spill over dams into the free-flowing river, especially below Holter Dam.The stretch from Helena to Great Falls is a wildly productive tailwater fishery.It sees 12 percent of all trout angling in the state.That’s a huge economic impact.When rivers are flooded in spring, everyone goes there because it’s dam-controlled.There’s some walleye predation on the trout.Now the walleye management tool in that stretch is unlimited take.We would like to see it stay that way.” But Fish, Wildlife & Parks is being pressured by walleye anglers to reduce walleye kill in this wild trout water.So this year it will propose to change the no-limit walleye reg from Holter Dam to Cascade to 20 fish a day. “That proposal,” says Roberts, “comes mostly from discussions with our walleye folks.But just because we’ll propose it doesn’t mean it will happen.There will be lots of opportunity for feedback from the public.If the coldwater folks want to maintain that no limit, they’ll certainly have opportunities to comment.” Why should alien trout get priority over alien walleyes?Maybe because anglers who create illegal fisheries should not be rewarded for their ecosystem vandalism.What’s more, many western still waters are successfully managed for walleyes and not that many wild trout fisheries are as productive as that of the Missouri River.The river’s dams have pretty much precluded any fishery for native trout.So for anglers who appreciate wild trout, rainbows and browns are about the only opportunity.And at least the trout fishery is planned and managed by professionals.In the human-created alien hell of western water, there’s nothing wrong with managing for fish that don’t belong but have become permanent residents.States, Montana included, manage heavily for both alien walleyes and alien trout.While the Missouri’s trout are not native, they’re highly valued and able to provide a sustainable fishery.In contrast, introduced walleyes tend to do great for a while but eventually deplete the prey base, grow slowly, and aren’t so desirable to anglers. “A big objective of our agency is to provide fishing opportunity,” says Roberts. “Nonnative species create that opportunity, and we dedicate a lot of time and resources to that.We also dedicate a lot of time and resources to our native fish.” To its credit, Montana stocks only still waters.But with the walleye irruption in the Missouri reservoirs, it has been forced to cease stocking fingerling trout—that is, walleye candy.Now it stocks “catchables,” a bit ragged from their long stay in the raceways. “They survive better,” says Roberts. “But costs are higher.The fish need more feed, have to be kept in the hatchery longer, and they require more truckloads.” There is some spillover of hatchery trout into the river, but Fish, Wildlife & Parks minimizes it by not stocking during the big spring runoff and stocking as far away from the dam as possible.Illegally introduced walleyes showed up in the Missouri system’s Canyon Ferry Reservoir in 1989, remaining at low levels until 1996, when they reached critical mass.In 1997 Montana attempted to suppress them with gill nets, this to the distress of Walleyes Unlimited and other walleye advocates.The effort proved futile, and since then, all walleye suppression has been by generous catch limits, what Brooks calls “suppression light.” In 2017 the already prolific walleye population in Canyon Ferry hit a record high, and the state was obliged to increase the 12-fish daily limit to 20 with only one over 20 inches, this also to distress from the walleye faction.The world record bull trout, a 32-pound beast, was caught in Idaho’s Lake Pend Oreille in 1949.While alien walleyes pose scant threat to native fish in the Missouri system, that’s far from the case in the Flathead Lake–Clark Fork system.In that water, federally threatened bull trout and imperiled westslope cutthroats are being outcompeted and preyed on by alien lake trout.This necessitates lake trout suppression via gill nets.In 2015 two illegally introduced walleyes turned up in a gill net when Montana was suppressing lake trout in Swan Lake, deep in the Flathead’s critical bull trout habitat.State fisheries biologist Sam Bourret, who did his master’s work tracking origins of introduced fish via microchemistry, compared otoliths from the Swan Lake walleyes to walleyes from 14 popular fisheries in Montana.They were a perfect match for fish from Lake Helena, where Bourret’s analysis showed they’d hatched.The fact that they weren’t progeny of fish hatched in Swan Lake was a relief, and no walleye has shown up in Swan Lake since.Montana Trout Unlimited is offering a $20,000 reward for information leading to the conviction of the criminal or criminals responsible for the Swan Lake introduction.The state will throw in an additional $15,250, a reward available for convicting evidence for this or any illegal introduction anywhere in the state. (The state contribution includes pledges from angling groups, including Walleyes Unlimited.) The walleye reg for Swan Lake is mandatory catch-and-kill.Any walleye taken must be reported to Fish, Wildlife & Parks within 24 hours and delivered whole within 10 days.In 1991 illegally introduced walleyes turned up in 7,500-acre Noxon Reservoir on the Clark Fork.Twenty-one years later, after a popular walleye fishery had developed, Fish, Wildlife & Parks attempted suppression with gill nets and electrofishing.Walleye anglers howled, and the state went to suppression light via no limit.But some walleye anglers don’t like suppression light either. “We absolutely do not condone illegal introductions, but we also challenge the position taken by Fish, Wildlife and Parks and their loyal supporters that a ready source of walleyes will lead to introductions in other western Montana waters,” contends the Noxon Warm Water Fisheries Association. . The post Bucket Biology Gone Wrong appeared first on American Angler .'
Chasing char in Iceland’s Central Highlands.Story and photos by Zach Matthews The wind veered again, this time blowing straight up the Kaldakvísl River in Iceland’s Central Highlands.Shivering, I tugged my hood around so it covered the left half of
'Chasing char in Iceland’s Central Highlands.Story and photos by Zach Matthews The wind veered again, this time blowing straight up the Kaldakvísl River in Iceland’s Central Highlands.Shivering, I tugged my hood around so it covered the left half of my face.The rain squall—just short of freezing—rattled against my jacket like sleet on a tin roof.It was late June, but the weather was miserable; Iceland was suffering through its wettest summer in a century, causing landslides in some areas not seen in a thousand years; one slide wiped out a famous salmon stream, forming a new lake.I flicked my rod upstream, resetting my drift, trying to ignore the conditions.Behind me I could hear my wife, Tracy, hunkering deeper into her nook in the rock wall.Five months pregnant with our first child, she was as bundled up as a person could be while still being able to cast.She had already caught her fill of fish, and was now focused on staying dry.Across the river, my friend Snævarr Örn Georgsson howled merrily in the gale, his rod tip bounding from yet another hookup.I was knee deep in drinkably clear water, filtered down from glaciers we could occasionally glimpse on the mountaintops surrounding us, when not veiled by clouds.The Kaldakvísl offers excellent fishing on a clear day, with large, white-finned char visible and no backcast obstructions for miles.Casting between rain squalls was something of a suffer-fest for us, but the char didn’t care.They continued aggressively feeding on midge larvae and the occasional stickleback (a small baitfish), oblivious to our privations.The glacier-fed Kaldakvísl cuts a wide river basin through volcanic soil.Iceland’s Highlands are a seldom-visited, somewhat stark region, which is often snowed in for half the year.We journeyed here at Snævarr’s suggestion, crossing a moonscape of volcanic scree in his Land Cruiser, miles and miles from the nearest town.Magma hardened in a hurry when this part of the island was formed, segmenting the stony ground into strange polyhedral pillars as big as a man—sort of like the crystals in Superman’s Fortress of Solitude.Over the millennia, the Kaldakvísl broke those pillars up, grinding them into gravel as it cut itself a streambed through the lava fields.Where we stood, the river’s flows had sheared off a vertical wall, leaving shallow nooks wherever a single multifaceted pillar had fallen into the river.Tracy sheltered from the storm in one such slot.Just as another curtain of rain passed over, my indicator dunked and I set the hook, feeling the heavy tungsten nymph bite deep into the jaw of a powerful arctic char.I was fishing with an antique reel, nearly 100 years old, and the char’s first run made it scream.I watched its wobble with increasing trepidation as the char hit third gear, wondering whether a vintage reel could hold up to such an intense fight.Char are relatives to the brook trout and, like their cousins, easily hooked.They are not, however, so easily landed.In fact, I was quickly learning that, pound for pound, your typical trout has nothing on a mature arctic char.The average-size char in the Kaldakvísl is over four pounds, with many reaching twice that size.Even a four-pound char is plenty to handle, especially on a 5-weight rod on rain-swollen river flows.As my fish got into my reel’s backing, I hastily ran back over what little I had been told about the arctic char in this river.Snævarr Örn Georgsson cradles a Kaldakvísl arctic char, during a brief respite in the rain.Iceland employs a beat system, similar to the “outfitter” system in place on some western U.S. rivers.On the Kaldakvísl, the person with rights to the beat is named Kristjan Pall Rafnsson, a young and hip Icelandic angler who is co-owner of Fish Partner, a major Icelandic outfitter.The difference between Iceland and, say, Montana, is that you can’t just access the Kaldakvísl and fish on your own, as you can on the Beaverhead and dozens of other Big Sky Country waters.In Iceland, all the rivers are private, so you must secure permission from whoever owns the fishing rights.Rafnsson and a crew was actually filming a documentary on another section of the river during our trip, and we had met briefly before heading out.Rafnsson explained the unusual nature of the Kaldakvísl, which has everything to do with Iceland’s volcanic history. “In this river,” he said in his lightly accented English, “we have both char and brown trout.There are three sections, divided by big waterfalls.The brown trout are actually highest in the watershed, above the first waterfall.” This is paradoxical, because char are the fish better known for their preference for high altitudes and the coldest waters, nearest the glaciers.I asked Kristjan how the brown trout could have gotten above the char, and he answered, “They got there first.” Iceland has a sizable seismic history, meaning at some point in the past, the Kaldakvísl flowed all the way to the ocean without waterfall obstructions.During that time, the browns swam the full length of the channel.Later, a prehistoric earthquake disrupted the river, creating an unbridgeable waterfall.Char reached the watershed, intermingling with browns in the middle and lower sections, but couldn’t get over the waterfall to reach the headwaters.This didn’t seem to impact their abundance.Rafnsson explained that the base of the food web in the Highlands is the insect life. “You don’t see them when it’s windy and raining, of course, but we actually have so many caddis,” he said. “We also have a ton of midges.The char feed on these year-round, and they also eat the sticklebacks, which is why there are so many healthy fish.” The char are unquestionably in prime shape.Working cautiously so as not to blow my reel to pieces, and by using the current to turn the fish after each long run, I had managed to bring my char close enough to see.Shimmering teal and orange in the clear water, its white fins flared like airplane wings.I got enough of a look to see that it was over 20 inches long and probably weighed around five pounds—and then it made another run.As it sped away, I watched it scatter a whole school of its brothers.The white-fronted fins of char are easy to spot, and I could see many more all around me as I leaned into the current, resetting my feet.While I shivered and battled my fish, Snævarr was merrily toying with another of its brethren in the midst of the rain squall.He was apparently immune to cold, which we joked was all thanks to his Viking ancestry.On a previous trip to Iceland, I fished with Snævarr on his family farm on the eastern side of the island.There, fat brown trout over five pounds pig out on arctic char fingerlings, which wash down from the Highlands during the annual summer runoff.Char thus serve as both predator and prey; in the Highlands, mature char convert insect biomass and sticklebacks into baby char, some of which get pushed down to the coastlines each summer when the glacial fields begin to melt.Those babies are then eaten by predatory brown trout with noticeably long, sharp teeth—a special adaptation.These fish-eating browns grow fat as hogs in the summer, but nearly starve all winter, until the next glut of char arrive.The consistent rains, which were soaking me to the skin, convert to snow each winter, helping recharge the Highland glaciers while setting up a new cycle.The Highlands ecosystem, stark as it is, thus serves as the nucleus of an entire Icelandic trout food web.The white-tipped fins of arctic char recall their brook trout cousins.Upstream I heard another howl, this one slightly higher pitched.My friends Ken and Sydney Barré had accompanied us, and Sydney had just stuck her first fish, which was doubling over her blue fiberglass rod like a willow wand.Snævarr quickly landed his fish and reeled up, moving upstream with our only net.If we had chosen to, there’s a good chance we could all have fought fish at once—the char certainly would have cooperated.Sydney landed her fish quickly, and I watched them snap a few photos, with big smiles all around.She had two things to be thankful for: She had just landed her first arctic char, but more important, that also meant she could now join Tracy in the shelter of the shattered rock wall.Another squall line was building in the distance, and the wind made even shouted conversation impossible.Without question, the Kaldakvísl would be seen as a national treasure in almost any other country.Between its stark natural beauty, the abundance of its char (and brown trout) populations, and their near-suicidal willingness to take flies, it is an angling paradise, albeit a wet one.The funny thing about Iceland is how long it has taken for its citizens to recognize just what they have.Until recently, the Icelandic angling community was almost exclusively focused on salmon fishing.Catch-and-release was rarely practiced, and few anglers even bothered fishing for char.In the past 10 years or so, that has changed, sometimes with epic effects.Snævarr also guides for salmon in Northeast Iceland, for example, and he has seen firsthand the effects of catch-andrelease on that fishery. “Twenty years ago, it was incredibly rare to see anyone catch a thirty-pound salmon,” he said. “Then the anglers started practicing catch-and-release.I remember when the first thirty-pounder was caught; it was a big deal and even covered by the national papers.Nowadays, we are seeing a few thirty-pounders every year.” I asked him how the adoption of catch-and-release could increase fish size so quickly, and he continued: “Many Atlantic salmon die after they spawn, but a significant number do not, and obviously those fish can grow bigger and return.However the biggest fish also arrive first, meaning they are subject to angling pressure immediately, in many cases before they can spawn.By letting those fish go, they get to spawn instead of being killed.That means we keep the big fish in the gene pool instead of weeding them out.Before, we were basically accidentally selecting for smaller fish to pass on their genes, and now it’s turning back around.” This same awakening within the angling community is now extending to Iceland’s arctic char fishery.Where before, char were seen almost as a baitfish, now interest is up, in part due to the relatively inexpensive nature of char fishing.Many salmon beats can cost a whopping $3,000 a day or more, but char fishing on the Kaldakvísl is much more affordable.The rod fee per angler is about $800, but that includes a guide, meals, and, most important, what they call “Super Jeep” transportation from Reykjavík.Compared to salmon fishing or even the increasingly popular brown trout beats, arctic char are still a steal.Ptarmigan are common in Iceland, but finding their well-concealed nests is not.Her clutch of 11 eggs is typical, though only a handful will make it to adulthood As the squall lines faded into the distance, the softer side of Kaldakvísl revealed itself.Leaving most of my party basking in the sudden sunshine, atop a high, grassy cliff overlooking the water, I worked my way upriver, picking up char and also brown trout.A feeder stream above a small waterfall had been spanned by an arched wooden bridge, right out of a fairy tale, and I jokingly glanced underneath it to make sure there weren’t any trolls hanging around.Suddenly, movement caught my eye, as I spied a hen ptarmigan merrily bouncing along the river’s edge under the bridge, pecking midge larvae out of the shallows.She must have felt my gaze, because she froze, then quickly buzzed over to a bank of the creek, tucking herself down in the grass.I made my way over to her and realized I had found her nest—rare even by Icelandic standards.I eased down into the lush grass beside her, as she tolerated my presence.For a few minutes, we shared a kind of uneasy companionship; I meant her no harm, which she may have sensed.Together we looked out at the Kaldakvísl, with two waterfalls and my happy group all in sight.Snævarr and Ken both resumed angling, hooking fish in tandem, as the ladies lolled in the warm grass, eating a snack and enjoying the suddenly beautiful weather.Ken Barré launches a cast as Iceland’s midnight sun permits extended angling hours.Iceland is like that—one minute it’s a volcanic, sea-sprayed rock in the North Atlantic, and the next it’s like something out of a Tolkien novel.For an angler, it’s a paradise, whether you’re angling for salmon, brown trout, or merely the sorely underrated arctic char.Zach Matthews is a contributing editor and the host of The Itinerant Angler podcast. . The post Overlooked & Underrated appeared first on American Angler .'
Several years back, on an early September day, two fishing buddies and I trekked into a southwest Montana trout stream outside of Ennis, where we spent the day catching pan-sized rainbows, virtually at will. The day left us spoiled, feeling
This might come as a surprise, but I'm not an A-list celebrity. I don't actually know what it's like to be scrutinized day in and day out. While it's easy for me to sit on my Instagram perch and judge from afar, I imagine the pressures of producing…
'This might come as a surprise, but I'm not an A-list celebrity. I don't actually know what it's like to be scrutinized day in and day out. While it's easy for me to sit on my Instagram perch and judge from afar, I imagine the pressures of producing high-quality content that is going to yield the kind of positive response any normal human would want from their fanbase is hard. Perhaps no one understands this more than the Kardashian/Jenners. Kylie Jenner's response to a troll body-shaming Stassie Karanikolaou , her most current BFF, underlines this point. Don't come for Kylie. Don't come for Kylie's friends. They are just out here doing them and everyone else can take a damn seat. Karanikolaou is part of the lucky posse currently enjoying a once-in-a-lifetime vacation courtesy of Kylie Skin , Jenner's new skincare line. Jenner has whisked a select few off to an undisclosed tropical location where they are going in on luxury living. Based on Jenner's Instagram stories and her friends' posts, fans know the crew is enjoying endless amounts of swag, merch, food, bevies, spa treatments, the pool, the beach, and more. The house alone is the kind of thing dreams are made out of. Truly, it's all jaw-dropping, even for the world's youngest self-made billionaire. The trip is curating some grade-A Insta content for Jenner and her friends, which includes tons and tons of bikini photos. Karanikolaou and Jenner have been busy posting loads of #twinning pics rocking similar ensembles throughout the entire trip. On Monday, July 15, Jenner went a little wild on the front of boat posting loads of bathing-suit photos from extreme angles with lots and lots of wind. Meanwhile, Karanikolaou snapped this photo inside one of the home's stunning bathrooms. It's a vibe. No denying it. Alas, this is the real world and haters are everywhere. Someone took it upon themselves to pipe in from their own Instagram perch with the nasty comment: \'Stass, I would delete this, your private area skin is rippling, which makes the photo looked altered.\' First of all weird flex calling her \'Stass.\' Second of all stop body-shaming women. Karanikolaou took the heat in stride, responding, \'uhhh the photo would've looked altered if i DID take the rippling out,\' plus, Jenner had her back. The cosmetics mogul wasted no time jumping in to defend her friend. Jenner wrote: \'leave her thick thighs and phat p*ssy out of this!!!!!!\' She also added, \'beautiful inside and out.\' Message received. Honestly this is how I think everyone should vacation with their best friend: in matching outfits, sipping sponsored cocktails, with the strength and following of a million-billion fans. (It's just that easy, right?) If you think one little nasty comment is going to slow the sexy-photos roll, think again. This trip was designed for Jenner and her friends to flaunt what they've got (which includes money, beauty products, and tons and tons of fashion). It would be an honor to snap my own bikini photo in this mansion haters be damned. I imagine it's hard to keep someone down when they're flying high on that Kylie Skin private jet.'
This great white shark really took them for a ride. Fishermen who hooked the massive sea beast were dragged for 2-miles around San Francisco Bay as they battled 30-minutes to reel it in. A video viewed more than 62,000 times on Facebook shows the
'This great white shark really took them for a ride. Fishermen who hooked the massive sea beast were dragged for 2-miles around San Francisco Bay as they battled 30-minutes to reel it in. A video viewed more than 62,000 times on Facebook shows the group struggling to control a rod that was bent-over double —..'
A deep-sea fisherman has shared his spine-tingling experience of capturing a giant shark off the shore of Northern California on July 13. Golden State Sportfishing Captain Joey Gamez received the shock of his life when he led a fishing group on an
'A deep-sea fisherman has shared his spine-tingling experience of capturing a giant shark off the shore of Northern California on July 13. Golden State Sportfishing Captain Joey Gamez received the shock of his life when he led a fishing group on an expedition to Alcatraz Island, about 3 miles offshore from San Francisco Bay. At about 10:30 a.m. local time Gamez noticed his fishing line became very heavy when the giant fish took the bait. The shark tugged the boat for about 2 miles, he was forced to pull the anchor. “It is the first time I have had to pull an anchor for a shark,” Gamez can be heard saying on a Facebook video he live-streamed. “This is probably the biggest fish I’ve got picked about here.” As the minutes passed, he asked others on the boat to take turns at holding the fishing rod. At first, the group thought it was a large seven-gill shark, but, after a while, it quickly became clear it was much bigger. “That is a great white [shark], we have got a great white,” the men can be heard cheering. [/epoch_social_embed] [/epoch_social_embed] The shark floated sideways with a half-eaten fish in its mouth, exhausted from the battle. The men quickly realized they could not lawfully keep the shark and would have to return it to the wild. “Well we have got to let it go, we have got to let it go,” Gamez said on the video. “Alright we have got to let it go, we just caught a great white in the bay.” Gamez asked his crew members to pass a knife while he held the fishing line tightly. “Just cut the line bro,” he said while others on the boat cheered. “Bye, great white.” Gamez joined the crew in cheering about their successful fishing expedition. “Yeah baby, woo,” they said. “You’re seeing us fishing [a] great white suckers, choo choo,” Gamez said. The online video attracted more than 1,000 likes and about 600 shares, with many wanting to know the type of fishing gear he used. “Phenix Axis 8’2 MH fishing rod,” Gamez commented. “25 size Penn Fathom [reel].” Reflecting on the catch afterward, he admitted the shark put up a fierce battle. “It was a crazy fight bro,” he commented. “Thought we had a huge seven-gill on [but was wrong] … great white.” Golden State Sportfishing congratulated Gamez and his crew for achieving a historic milestone. “Today will go down in history for Golden State Sportfishing as one of the best days ever,” the group said on Facebook . “Big shot [shout] out to Phenix rods and Penn reels for the best gear around, without you, landing these big fish wouldn’t have been possible.” The group is now taking reservations for another fishing expedition for sharks, ocean salmon, halibut and striper.'
A rock slide on the Fraser River near Big Bar has created a five-metre waterfall that is blocking the passage of salmon. Handout / THE CANADIAN PRESS CLINTON — A system of pressurized tubes known as a “salmon cannon” is among the options the British