We usually rumble across the iron bridge, turn off the road, follow the bumpy ruts beside the field, and park Dad’s station wagon at the water’s edge to offload the canoe. But on this gray afternoon . . .
Read Morewilliam g tapply
“Bass-Bug Humbug,” by William G. Tapply
Written by: William G. Tapply
Bill Tapply had some awfully strong opinions about what makes a good bass bug.
Photo courtesy Vicki Stiefel
“It is with some degree of trepidation that I approach the subject of artificial flies [for bass],” wrote James A. Henshall in his Book of the Black Bass, “for I am afraid that I hold some very. . .
Read More“Fear and Loathing in Belize, Part I,” by William G. Tapply
Former Orvis Cleveland Fishing Manager Jim Lampros shows off a Belize tarpon.
Photo by Dan Davala
About four feet of Mason leader material was looped around Andy’s bent knee. He kept fiddling with the Mason and frowning at the book he’d propped open on the table beside his . . .
Read More“Trickle Treat,” by William G. Tapply
Written by: William G. Tapply
A tiny stream that holds native brookies is a secret to keep.
Photo by Zach Matthews
After living most of my life within earshot of highway racket, where city lights blot the stars from the night sky, I finally did it. I bought a little farm on a dirt road in the New Hampshire hills. My new . . .
Read MorePro Tips: Bill Tapply’s Pocket-Water Secrets, Part I
Pocket water isn’t as easy to fish as pools and glides, but it can be very productive.
Photo by Sandy Hays
Written by: William G. Tapply
Here the river surges over and around boulders the size of Volkswagens. The churning whitewater roars in your ears. It buckles your knees. It wants to knock you over. Around the bend, . . .
Read More“Literary Treasures” by William G. Tapply
Bill Tapply fishes one of his beloved Montana spring creeks.
Photo via williamgtapply.com
“The literature of angling falls into two genres: the instructional and the devotional,” wrote William Humphrey in his satirical little novel My Moby Dick. “The former is written by fishermen who. . .
Read More“Trout Eyes,” by William G. Tapply
Sometimes, seeing is believing.
Photo by Sandy Hays
The Bull Shoals dam was holding back water, and the White River was running low and slow and clear. Local trout maestro Wayne Reed had led John Barr and me through some woods to a . . .
Read More“Porcupine Brook,” by William G. Tapply
Finding a wild-brook-trout stream by accident is the best part about wandering through the woods.
Photo by Phil Monahan
I happened upon Porcupine Brook while exploring some promising woodcock cover last October. Burt, my Brittany, had wandered off, as he often does, and when I could no longer hear his bell. . .
Read More“(Dis)comfort” by William G. Tapply
Written by: William G. Tapply
Bill Tapply fishes a Vermont brook-trout stream in the summer of 2008.
Photo by Phil Monahan
[Editor’s note: When I was the editor of American Angler, I had the pleasure of working with William G. Tapply for ten years before his death in the summer of 2009. He was far and away the best writer I have edited, and we developed a friendship around our shared angling and literary interests. He wrote books and articles on fishing and hunting, as well as great mystery novels that often featured fly-fishing. Bill’s wife, the author Vicki Stiefel, has graciously allowed me to reprint some of his columns and articles here. If you are not familiar with Bill’s work, I encourage you to check out his website and the links below. Many of the books in Bill’s list here are out of print, but it is well worth your time to run down copies, which can usually be found online. I’ve included links to the Amazon pages for each book. ]
Phil and I were sitting on the back bumpers of our cars, breaking down our rods after an afternoon of so-so fishing on the Deerfield River in western Massachusetts. He held up a bottle of. . .
Read MoreGlo Bugs, Tunafish Sandwiches, and Other Inert Materials
High noon on the Bighorn. The August sun was blazing down from a cloudless Montana sky. By midday, the pale-morning-dun hatch had petered out, so Andy and I pulled our drift boat against the bank and tossed the anchor up into the grass. I sat in . . .
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