I don’t imagine many of you have listened to the Clive James/Pete Atkin album, Road of Silk.  But if you haven’t, I commend the track Perfect Moments to you…”Charlie Chaplin policing Easy Street. Charlie Parker playing my old flame.”

I was thinking of that this evening as I lay on my sofa, resting my right Achilles tendon on a bag of frozen peas. The sun was setting on the hills across the harbour; I had a nicely chilled glass of Chilean Chardonnay in my hand; and the radio was tuned to Falkland Island Broadcasting Service’s, The Vinyl Frontier. Roy Orbison, Only the Lonely. Not that I like Roy Orbison too much, but it was a hotline back to the sixties when my brother, nine years older than me, immersed himself in Roy Orbison, Buddy Holly and Eddie Cochrane. It was, for reasons I can’t fully explain, a perfect moment.

Perfect moments can be bad as well as good. Kathleen Ferrier choking on the last “Ewig” in Das Lied von der Erde, shortly before she succumbed to cancer, is, in many ways, as perfect a moment as Jonny Wilkinson kicking the winning points with seconds to go in the 2003 Rugby World Cup final.

It is important always to bear this in mind by the water. The ear-splitting imprecations to a seemingly uncaring deity when a knot breaks and a fish (which will grow daily by the telling) gets away should be tempered by the thought that maybe, just maybe, this is right. Though, being human, we will much prefer the moment when a large sea-trout is horizontal, a few inches above the water, in front of us, and suddenly, in a fit of bemusement and wonder, we realise it has our fly in its mouth, and we don’t know exactly what to do next.

The Falkland Islands provide a perfect backdrop to such moments. The Islands combine some of the nostalgia of a gentler age in England (telephone boxes, a double-decker bus, the ability to leave your key in the ignition when you’ve parked your car) with a more clear-sighted view of the future (advanced regulation of the fisheries industry, wind-power supplying 40% of the capital’s energy, high-end conservation science). The people are friendly, fiercely British, but can be wary of outsiders. Their overwhelming characteristic is grit and determination. They need it. The reason the Islands are not on everyone’s fishing itineraries is that you can’t easily get to them—Argentina deliberately obstructs access to pursue a rather bizarre claim dating back to the few months in 1832-1833 when they had put a garrison on what were, even then, British Islands.

But if you persevere, traveling either through London, where the Falkland Island Government Office can book you onto RAF flights, or Santiago, from which LAN Chile operate a weekly flight, you will find the experience worth it.



There are still signs of Argentina’s invasion of 1982 to be seen, not least in the minefields alongside some of the better fishing areas. But, although veterans from both sides still visit, and military historians organise tours of the battlefields, everyone has moved on. What matters is the future.  And sea-trout fishing will be an important part of that, as tourism develops. The record is over 22lbs, bigger than the British record. The main runs are September –November and February-April, when the climate is at its most pleasant, and you can move from traditional pub to penguin spotting to whale watching to fishing and back to the pub in the course of an admittedly long afternoon.

And the experience is worth it. The other day I was standing waist-deep on a rocky spit in the Malo River when a sea trout jumped just downstream. The gale-force wind mixed with drizzle, which can on occasion be a feature here, made casting difficult, but I was inches away.  A take, and there was a fish, brilliantly silver, clearing the water. Did it matter that, when I landed it, it was less than a pound?  Is a perfect moment dependent on an outcome so that, in fact, it’s only perfect with a hint of hindsight? That’s probably the case with Ferrier and Wilkinson, maybe less with lying back on the sofa resting your Achilles. With fishing, I’m ashamed to say, it’s probably the case too. Half an hour later, in a fit of desperation, I’d tied on my last Copper Frede, and was twitching it gently back, when a much bigger fish cleared the water. After more anxious moments than I’d have preferred, I was able to release her, at comfortably over 9lbs, to continue her journey upstream to spawn. That was, in many ways, more like it. And what was perfect? The take? The fight?  The size? The release?

No. It was the moment a split second or two before the fish took, when I stopped shaking with cold, breathing stopped, and then came easily, the world stood still, and I knew I was going to get a fish.

Nigel Haywood is Governor of the Falkland Islands and Commissioner, South Georgia and the South Sandwich Islands. He can be reached at nigelhaywood@mac.com

On the River Spey, for example, the best fishing is generally between May and July, but its world famous lower and middle beats usually require that four to six rods be booked for the entire week in the unlikely event of time shaking free. However, some of the Spey’s upper beats are easier to access later in the season and can offer great fishing at that time.

And then there’s the huge influx of Scandinavian fishers that ascend on the River Dee, such is the health of its spring salmon stocks. Though the demand has increased fishing prices, availability on its better beats often remains scarce there too in the spring. Later in the season from June onwards, good fly fishing is obtainable in the middle and upper reaches of the river, and can make for exciting sport in this beautiful, well managed river.

There are still beats available on the River Tweed during the spring and summer, and salmon fishing can be good during these times. The Tweed sees a massive run of salmon enter in the fall, but the cost of salmon fishing then is exceptionally high with a single daily rod permit often being between £350 and £600 (the Dee and Spey are typically between £100 and £250 per rod per day). However, these beats need to be purchased a year in advance with payments made then too. Most other Scottish salmon rivers close their seasons by the middle of October, but the usually productive Tweed can command whatever prices since its still in season through November.

The best bet for a visit is on Scotland’s largest river, the River Tay. Recent changes in its management have already begun to show that it’s officially on the up. The Tay is accessed much easier and it does have a good head of spring, summer, and fall salmon in it these days.

By far the biggest of the Scottish salmon rivers, the Tay requires careful planning due to its sheer size and complexity. The Atlantic salmon shift locations during the different months of the year, but landing them in the 15 to 25lb range is common and provides great excitement on the fly, especially in the Tay’s fast running, deep pools.  The fishing is usually let by the day without a minimum number of fishers and up to the maximum allowed rods per mile ruling for each beat. As with most Scottish salmon rivers, the Tay usually does not exceed six fishers per mile.




Having been a guide on the Tay for many years, I believe there’s nothing to touch the Tay’s Atlantic salmon fishing. Between mid April and late June, the bulk of the spring run is located on certain middle beats there. In addition, the Tay, unlike the other rivers, seldom provides unfishable or poor water conditions. Its 2,500 square mile catchment, which includes huge headwater lochs that act as settling tanks, keep discoloration at a minimum during the flood conditions that normally render the smaller rivers unfishable. During low water conditions, the Tay’s size also allows it to hold enough water for salmon to run when other Scottish rivers have become a waste of time.

There are opportunities on these four rivers, but Atlantic salmon fishing in Scotland is world renown, and its reputation coupled with high demand simply makes it difficult to get onto them at the best time of the season. Independent agents like Les Brandie of www.fishing-uk-scotland.com can offer good advice on availability of guides and salmon fishing on all these Scottish rivers. And regardless of the time of season, there’s always a best bet.

Jock Monteith is a Scottish salmon guide who runs a team of fellow time served professional guides. Visit his website, www.salmon-fishing-scotland.com, for travel information, advice for accessing Scotland’s famous salmon rivers, or to contact him. Jock would be delighted to welcome any American & Canadian fly fishers to Scotland’s finest salmon rivers.

Secret Fishing Spot from Alkota Beats on Vimeo.

By Travis Brady of Alkota Beats

Over the years I’ve sat through numerous alcohol induced ramblings about an epic multi-day fishing trip consisting of a train ride on the Alaska Railroad, ornery brown bears, and landing sixty rainbows a day. Having never been on this magical tour, I dismissed it as angler embellishment.

But then…

It was August, and the silver and pink salmon spawn was in full effect. We drove an hour and half north of Anchorage to the eclectic town of Talkeetna. Chalked full of anti-government libertarian types, overpriced gift shops, and “charming” restaurant-cafes, the town marked our departure via the Alaska Railroad. We parked our vehicles at the train station, unloaded our gear, and purchased our tickets.

The Alaska Railroad is one of the nation’s last “flag stop” trains. Remote homesteads along the rail tracks rely on the Alaska Railroad for transportation, mail, and supplies. Outdoor enthusiasts also take advantage of the flag stop service to access numerous remote camping, hunting, and fishing areas throughout the state.

For $45 each, we were handed roundtrip tickets, a train schedule, and extraction times for the coming days, and soon after we boarded with enough gear, beer, and 8mm beads to last a week. The train skirted along the Susitna River heading north for almost two hours before coming to a halt. Few places make grown men throw their hands in the air and cheer like children, but we’d found one.



The rivers and creeks of the Susitna River drainage were stacked with salmon, lurking rainbows, and creeping arctic grayling. Clouds of multi colored roe, eventually replicated by 6-8mm beads, supplied gorging fish with an endless food supply. It was a sub-surface fly angler’s dream.

Some claim that fishing beads to Alaska’s hungry rainbows is “cheating” or “too easy”, but it’s apparent these same individuals have never participated in the glory!

Travis is an Anchorage based entrepreneur and hip hop producer, otherwise known as Alkota. He is also a fulltime outdoor enthusiast and conservationist.

Whenever I think of The Junction, Jock Scott or of old lads, I’m reminded of the River Tweed where I was a ghilli, which flows through the border region of Scotland and England. The Junction Pool in Kelso is world famous with fantastic fishing and among the best, if not the best beat on the river, and people have been catching salmon there on fly rods for centuries.

About 200 yards from the river is the famous Ednam House, a real angler’s paradise with a history like no other place I’ve visited – you can get a glimpse of what salmon fishing was like a hundred years ago. Now-a-days, it’s mainly fished by people with 6 inch-thick wallets who can afford the big price tag (one week’s fishing will cost you about 32 000 £ for six rods during six days).

A lot of the lads here like to use classic flies, and the Jock Scott sticks out among the many patterns. It’s real old on the Tweed—the original was tied around 1840 by the well known ghilli, Jock Scott. The Tweed’s ghillis still tie it today, and the old lads still have to have it.

One thing there’s plenty of on the Tweed is old lads. During my time as a ghilli, I guided people I couldn’t believe could still do a day’s fishing. One of them was Mr. Olds, and at 92, he still couldn’t get enough. I remember thinking, I have to guide this guy? Mr. Olds had been fishing on the beat I worked for 40 years, and it felt strange because I assumed this old lad knew the river better than I did. How could I possibly guide him?

Our first day, Mr. Olds told me how he wanted to fish and where. I did the roping (a technique where you hold the boat with a rope, tied 1/3 from the front so that it works like a paravane used during trolling) and Mr. Olds went at it. The second day, we fished the beautiful pool, The Willows, where his flies were presented nicely in almost every cast—no distance casting but they were covering fish. But a couple hours and a salmon later, Mr. Olds wanted a short brake and told me to take his rod and fish while he relaxed in the boat and enjoyed the lovely weather.

So I waded out ten yards from the boat and started casting. I’d look over my shoulder to check on him, but I continued fishing and waded further downstream. I was a good 40 yards from the boat before I turned around again to check on Mr. Olds, who by then had his eyes shut. A couple of casts later he was still laying there with his eyes closed. Then another five or six casts and still no signs of life. So I asked, “Are you okay Mr. Olds?” No answer. I raised my voice, “Are you okay Mr. Olds?” No answer. I started wading towards the boat while quickly reeling in the line. I tried again, almost screaming, “Are you okay Mr. Olds?” Still no reaction.

I was running as quick as I could in the knee deep water with my head full of thoughts. Is he sleeping? Has he fainted? Oh my God, he’s had a heart attack! Shit, will I have to give him mouth to mouth?

I kept running and splashing water all over the place, hardly able to breathe and gasping for air. I must have looked like a big, crazy Saint Bernard racing towards him! After many hectic seconds I reached the boat, and just as I put my hand on it, Mr. Olds woke up and asked, “Did you hook one?”

“Eh…No, but I think we should go back and get some lunch.” All the way back I was enjoying life and the fact the Mr. Olds was still with us.

What a day, what a man and what a memory! Three things: The Junction, Jock Scott and old lads!”

Lars Munk is a professional guide and EFFA / FFF certified fly casting instructor, and the owner of VildmarksMekka in the heart of Swedish Lapland. They mainly fish for big Baltic salmon (average weight around 7 kg. /15 pounds), trout, grayling, arctic char and pike. Some of the salmon beats are private and can be exclusively reserved for their clients. Learn more at www.vildmarksmekka.com

What are we doing? Losing sleep over desk jobs, worrying about someone else’s profit margins—spending sixty hour weeks at the mall in retail management. At what point growing up did you decide you wanted to run database queries for a living? We’ve become so focused on “advancing” that we’re advancing into anything for the sake of advancing. It’s fantastic that you’re driven and intelligent enough to be rewarded with a senior management position at Stanley Steam Cleaner—does your passion for cleaning carpets come naturally?

And it’s all for leaving on Thursdays for tropical vacations and returning late Sunday nights, used Range Rovers, and homes in areas with higher sales tax. We all want a couple of kids too. But we’re losing a third of our lives working to achieve these goals, and that’s just too much time to argue the end justifies a monotonous means.

I made my own four day trip to the Florida Keys in March and fell in love with the laidback area and my guide’s simplistic lifestyle. Our second day on the flats, Capt. Nate said to me, “All I need is an inshore boat, an offshore boat, a two bedroom-one bath house, and a girlfriend for my girlfriend.” It sounded pretty good, and Capt. Nate’s already beyond content with just a few of those things. I sat there looking around and wondering if all along I’d been making life too complicated. And then he added, “Well, I don’t want to wish too hard for that last one—she might leave me for her.”

Live and guide in paradise and then vacation in Aspen or cruise Alaska. Or fly fish Montana Monday through Wednesday and return before your clients arrive Thursday night on their break from slingin’ office supplies. I wondered how Capt. Nate survived the offseason.

“I get on with a landscaping crew for just a few months each year.”

No kidding.

Pick any guide at random in the Keys and he charges an average $400 for half days and $600 for full, and that doesn’t include tip. Some fulltime fly guides there bring home sixty to seventy thousand a year, and it’s anyone’s guess how much of that’s under the table.

“My buddies will be like, ‘Man, you make 500 a day,’ like I’m some kind of high roller,” Capt. Nate said. “But they forget I’ve got insurance, boat maintenance—a while back one of my clients snapped a $300 fly rod.”

To an extent, his buddies are right. Insurance and maintenance are minor nuisances to the landlocked small business owners with much larger overheads, fretting administrative costs and office space expenditures. Capt. Nate’s flats boat, though ten years old, looks great and has been well maintained, and he bought it used for less than the price of a Kia. 

And for as little as $225,000, Nate’s modest dream home will sit on a boating canal with incredible open water views. That’s fifty grand below the national average selling price for homes last year. His barbeque is going to overlook the flats instead of aluminum siding. On Balboa Island in Newport Beach, California, a small home the same size built in the 20’s with a single car garage goes for 1.5 million. If the asbestos doesn’t kill you, the mortgage will.

Those of you saving lives or working one of your “Top 5 Dream Jobs”, and otherwise passionate about whatever it is that you do—you’re exempt. The rest of us should ask ourselves if what we’re doing really matters, because while we’re sitting in meetings getting ostracized in front of our peers and sweating sales quotas, Capt. Nate and others like him are looking for new secret spots for clients and getting in a little fishing of their own.

Why not move to the Keys? Teach English at one of the high schools scattered around the hundred or so islands, do some guiding part-time. Live in a modest home, have a couple of kids—ask my wife how her day was at work. Live simply and peacefully. Leave the stress and the hollow job promotions for everyone else.

A close friend of mine is a borderline nihilist, and a few weeks ago we ran into a coworker of his who was going on and on about some work-related triumph back at “the office”. My buddy laughed and said to him, “So what? We’re all going to die.” It put everything into perspective.

You had me at “mako.”  Who among the bug slingin’ juggernauts of the world wouldn’t want to hook up with a 200lb torpedo?  Talk about apex predators and an adrenaline shot to the heart!  But this is more than Pulp Fiction, as mako fishing now stands as one of the most convincing platforms from which to launch fly fishing into the realm of extreme sports. The mako, a.k.a., short-fin, blue dynamite and bonito, can reach speeds of 80kph, making it one of the most deadly and sophisticated sharks of the deep.

San Diego, California’s Flying Mako Charity Tournament is an incredible two day event hosted by Conway Bowman of Bowman Bluewater Guides & Outfitters, and Bob Deibel of Icthyosys.com, inventor of the revolutionary Ready Head.  The tournament is strictly catch and release using barbless hooks, and is held in August during the peak season for catching mako sharks on the fly.  The event raises money and conservation awareness for these animals, which are currently being over harvested by commercial fishermen.

In addition, the tournament’s committee auctions donated items, hands out awards, and thanks participants and sponsors at a luau-style reception and awards banquet. 

Aside from covering costs to fund the tourney, all proceeds go to the Pfleger Institute of Environmental Research (PIER), an organization dedicated to improving scientific research and public awareness about short fin mako sharks (Isurus oxyrinchus) and other apex predators.  Much of the money raised helps fund the purchase of passive satellite tags for adult mako sharks. 

On the water, anglers frequently see blue whales, free-swimming marlin, ocean sunfish, hammerhead sharks, and pods of Pacific white-sided dolphin. But when a mako strikes the scene is unequivocal, as indigo dorsal fins, pearl white bellies, and oh yeah…teeth, make themselves more than apparent. 

Popularized by authors Ernest Hemingway and Zane Gray, the mako is truly a beast among beasts.

The first one, an eight pounder, broke off my tippet. Or, more accurately, I did on the strip set. We had jumped out of the skiff and started to wade when this single appeared about 20 feet from me. I made the cast and watched it suck in the Gotcha, and I yanked on the line to drive home the hook. The fish and the leader went separate ways. “You don’t do that with bonefish,” said Edward, my guide. I do that with stripers and most of my regular non-trout quarry. But with bonefish, all you need is light pressure and they set themselves upon take-off—one of those 100 mph blasts across the flats.

The second one, I hit on the head. It didn’t like that. At least my casting is accurate.

The third one, I didn’t see. Edward saw it, and told me to place a cast 40 feet at ten-o’clock. I made the cast. He told me to strip. I stripped. I felt the fish take the fly and this time I applied light pressure. The line slipped back out of my fingers at an increasing pace until the slack disappeared and the reel started humming.

The fourth one, I found on my own. Edward had to get out of the skiff to unstick the aft end from the marl and push the boat through a really shallow stretch. I stood on the bow left to my own devices. I noticed a line of four shadows approaching from 12:30. At 50 feet, I made the cast. I stripped and watched a bone turn in my fly’s direction. My line came taught.

The fifth one, the rules changed. We had poled in close to some mangrove cays to look for bones along the edges. Instead of trying to spot them on light sand, I had to readjust and try to find one against the backdrop of eel grass. Edward saw one first, and I cast on his word. Only then did I pick up the fish. I stripped and let the fly sit, and it sucked the fly off the bottom and ran away. Another singing reel. Five shots, three fish, one satisfied angler.

Visit Fishingjones.com for more by Pete McDonald.

Several years ago, I took a mother and daughter on a day trip down the Upper Kenai River. While it’s not unusual to take a couple of ladies fishing, this trip felt out of the ordinary right from the start. Originally the trip had been booked for three, but they apologized and said dad couldn’t make it. When I asked about their fly fishing background, they said they didn’t have much experience.  After putting rods in their hands, it was apparent the ladies weren’t just novices, but weren’t serious about fishing in general. But always up for a challenge, I started them at ground zero and did my best to get them into fish and interested in fly fishing.

Things went well throughout the day despite my odd feelings. The ladies listened, learned and caught fish—they enjoyed the river float and made for pleasant company. I provided lots of details on the local wildlife and natural history throughout the float, and I even pulled over to show them a bear trail and a few ripped up salmon carcasses from the preceding night. They seemed impressed, but didn’t want to stick around long.

For me, it was an ideal day. Two women are a sure bet for a great trip. They typically come to fly fishing with an open mind and an ease about the process that makes teaching them a pleasure.  Fly fishing requires attention to detail and women seem to absorb this quicker because they aren’t just thinking about the end game catching fish.  Success usually follows, and after eight hours they were content to call it a day.

I still had an odd feeling about the trip.  It was as if they were just going through the motions rather than trying to experience a lasting impression. But then as I readied the boat for our trip back across Skilak Lake to the landing, the ladies perked up. There was a steady wind blowing in our faces, and as we motored out into the lake, the ladies stood up in the bow and began throwing something into the wind. Suddenly, gritty powder was wafting back into my eyes and mouth. For a moment, I thought Mt. Redoubt was erupting again. I put up a hand and tried to duck as the wind carried the substance they were throwing straight into every crack, crevice and opening of my clothing and face. They were laughing, smiling, and filled with a strange joy. I had just met dad and he was stuck in my beard and teeth.

Apparently, dad had always wanted to go fishing in Alaska. After the fallout, the women explained that he had passed away late in the spring, and they had decided not to cancel his trip. Dad never got a chance to take his Alaska vacation

"I thought Mt. Redoubt was erupting again!"

in living form, but his girls decided some of his ashes should make the trip and become immersed in the environment he longed for. Having someone’s charred remains thrown into one’s face may seem reason for outcry, but I didn’t have the heart to tell them that most of dad ended up on me, in me, and in the boat. At least he’ll get to make more Alaska fishing trips. 

Mystic Waters Fly Fishing is Fred’s guiding business which is based out of Cooper Landing, Alaska.  He operates a special use permit in the Kenai National Wildlife Refuge allowing him to offer trips in the limited commercial use area of the Upper Kenai River from Sportsman’s Landing to Skilak Lake.  This is the premier (drift only) portion of the Kenai River offering consistent, quality fishing and outstanding scenery.

The natural colors and topography of the regional park in which LNL rests provide a welcome relief to the endless neutral-toned neighborhoods and shopping centers surrounding it. At first glance, the lake looks like a normal municipal lake, home to the usual warm-water suspects: bass, catfish, crappie, bluegill. In the summer, that’s exactly what it is. But in winter…well, winter is a whole other story. Between November and April each year, LNL stocks nearly 50,000 lbs. of privately farmed rainbow trout. This number does NOT equate to 50,000 fish (i.e., one-pounders). Every other week, the lake gets reinfused with a few thousand pounds of pink-sided beauties that average 3-5 lbs and get up to 15-lb trophy fish. 

The equation seems simple: stock large, gorgeous fish in a privately run county-owned lake, sit back and watch the cash roll in. I’m sure Bobbie Mendoza, owner of the lake’s fishing operation, certainly wishes that were true, but her story and the lake’s have been nothing short of a rollercoaster ride. 

Beginning in 1994, Bobbie, her then-husband, and a few business partners set out to establish a premiere fishery (trout in the winter; bass, cats, et al. in the summer) in the heart of suburban Orange County. After several years, operations were going successfully enough for Bobbie and her husband to buy out the partners and maintain the fishery as a family-run business. Divorce resulted in Bobbie being the sole proprietor of the fishery, and the fishery being the sole source of income for Bobbie and her children. But, LNL weathered the transition, and Bobbie pushed on successfully. About three years ago, LNL was at the peak of its game. Huge, beautiful, aggressive, hook-jawed rainbows were arriving from Utah to stock the lake, clear water made small midge fly fishing unstoppable, and the lake was breeding a whole community of fly fishing enthusiasts. Then, our friendly state government decided to step in. 

While the fishery was growing, so were the planned suburban communities around the lake. Million-dollar homes now line the ridge, staring down upon the lake like gargoyles perched atop a castle wall. These expensive homes equal high tax revenue for the county and state. So, when homeowners complained about the lake’s aeration system being too noisy (the aerators were basically four jet engines mixing oxygen into the lake to meet state’s criteria for dissolved oxygen (DO) levels), the state wisely brought both sides to the table to arrange an agreeable compromise. Yeah, right. The government required Bobbie to remove the entire aeration system and put in a new system at her own expense, which of course led to more problems. The new system pumps air into the bottom of the lake, which is quiet, but as it bubbles to the surface it stirs up lake-bottom sediment. Water clarity took a nose dive. 

The poor visibility effectively killed small-bug nymph fishing on the lake. Now, the fish have to rely more on smell than sight to find a meal; fine for bait casters, but a major

setback for fly fishermen – unless you want to start rubbing garlic on your pheasant tails. 

And the state wasn’t done yet. For years, Bobbie had been trucking in unique rainbows from a farm in Utah. These fish were truly rare beauties because the owner of the farm had devised a miraculous method for sterilizing the trout without interfering with their spawning instinct and the physiological changes that accompany it. The result: aggressive fighting, beautifully colored ‘bows with the males sporting the distinctive hook jaws of wild fish. They were still the bread and butter of LNL….until the state decided to step in once again – this time for whirling disease. 

Whirling disease is a vicious parasite that attacks young trout, spreads easily, and can devastate an entire watershed or fishery. The parasite imbeds itself in the cartilage and bones of young fish before that cartilage hardens as the fish mature. Once infected, the parasite causes neurological damage and skeletal deformities (often causing the fish to swim in circles – whirl). Ninety percent of young fish die, and the few that survive to adulthood have significant skeletal deformation. Why then did the state decide to do tests on pristine adults caught in LNL? Why did they throw their test samples into a dirty slop bucket (not exactly sterile and scientific) for shipment upstate, where the samples were tested behind closed doors? Why wouldn’t the state trust Utah’s test results of the farm where the fish are raised? Why wasn’t there any sign of whirling disease among the juvenile fish at the farm? The state offered Bobbie no good answers to any of these questions, but they did have two things to say: we can’t double check the results because the tests are too expensive, and no more Utah hook jaws. Bobbie now stocks large, beautiful rainbows from a farm in Northern California, which are still thoroughly impressive fish, but to this day she speaks fondly and with deep nostalgia of her bygone beauties. 

Though the luster of Laguna Niguel Lake has diminished in recent years, the lake still offers the opportunity for a unique experience and the promise of big fish. Heck, in what other metropolis can you catch trout more reminiscent of Sitka than suburbia? But leave the little bugs at home; you’ll want a strong stick, sinking line, and big, bright streamers. If your family doesn’t share the same passion for fishing, that’s not a problem. The park surrounding LNL is a hub for family activities with popular walking trails, playgrounds, fields, and picnic areas. And of course the shopping centers around park offer countless retailers, restaurants, and movie theaters. 

Urban expansion has reached the point that fishable waters often require lengthy drives to the city’s distant outskirts. Aware of this trend, a regular suburban family set out to create a world-class fishery in the heart of SoCal’s urban sprawl. Through commitment and perseverance, they realized their vision, creating a mecca where wild-like trophy trout stalked the shallows, bending rods and blowing through backing. Despite meddling by the powers that be, Bobbie Mendoza and LNL have blazed a trail and shown the extraordinary potential for incorporating quality fishing back into the urban environment. 

Check out LNL at www.lagunaniguellake.com.