Published
Featured

Flyfishing the South Fork of the Snake River

Written and photographed by Mary L. Peachin
Vol. 30, Vol. 9, June, 2026

During late May, while flyfishing on the South Fork of the Snake River, cutthroat trout were spawning. Other species swam deep requiring us to nymph with our flies. Hooking a trout before my expert guide, Buck Leonard, could shout “take” made the thrill of catching and releasing trout even more exciting. During three full days of fishing, of the 52 trout I released, I would succeed beating Buck’s “take “command to the hookup only four times.

We drifted through canyons edged by volcanic basalt,  swift running water  canyons were edged by willow, birch, aspen, and cottonwood. We felt so lucky to see a moose drinking along the river’s bank, sandhill cranes grazing, bald eagles, colorful mergansers and mallards appearing to be in mating season.

Most of our releases averaged 12 inches, a brown was 16 inches. Fishing over a holiday weekend, the river was busy with most of its campgrounds filled.

Buck Leonard has been guiding for the incredible Lodge at Palisades Creek for 25 years. A devoted family man, Buck knows every nook and granny of the river’s four drift fishing sections.

Buck has his own fishing slang using “rope” for line, “take” for hook.  He taught me to water load the line or “plop and go” to get further distance as well as to add a “single haul” to increase the distance of my cast. He taught me to identify the similar species of hybrids and cutthroat trout, the latter by its orange color rimming its mouth.

The South Fork of the Snake River does not hand out fish. It makes the angler work for every clean throw and angle. The trout  decides by the presentation whether to eat or slide back into the current. That’s part of its appeal. The river’s reputation attracts fly fishers from all over the country.

We launched at one of four drifts for a day long float. The South Fork is broad but deceptive. At first glance it looks manageable, almost gentle. When you begin drifting, the boat passes many side channels, shelves, submerged rocks, and conflicting currents exist within a single bend. Guide Buck Leonard is constantly adjusting. Good guides on this river earn their money every hour.

The first trout came fast. The fish was not large by South Fork standards, maybe sixteen inches, but it fought with the speed and attitude that make native cutthroats memorable. It cartwheeled once, ran downstream, then turned broadside into heavy current. Cold water fish are built differently. They feel stronger than their size.

Nesting bald eagles has not yet hatched their eggs. We were excited to see a moose lumber from the trees to drink from the river as our boat drifted silently past. The moment lasted  fifteen seconds before the animal disappeared back into the cottonwoods.

Lunch was served on a gravel bar beneath steep hills covered with sagebrush and scattered pines. No staged gourmet production. Just delicious sandwiches, chips, homemade cookies, fresh fruit from a lunchbox, along with a cold drink. Buck checked leaders, while I gazed at the beauty of the river.

The best fish of the trip came from a side channel that looked too shallow to hold much. The trout drifted beneath overhanging trees and disappeared before swimming into faster current. Buck follow it downstream until reaching calmer water. The fish finally surfaced beside the boat, a heavy cutthroat with its identifying bright orange slashes beneath its jaw and thick shoulders from feeding in current. It measured just over twenty inches, large enough to remember without exaggeration.

What separates the South Fork from many destination rivers is not simply its trout size. It is the combination of scenery, technical fishing, wildlife, and unpredictability. Some famous rivers become  polished, crowded, and easy to summarize in brochures. The South Fork still feels operational, offering a challenge to fishing. Guides row hard, anglers adjust constantly. Weather can change by the hour.

Driving back toward the lodge, the river disappeared along the road. Only occasional reflections from side channels showed where the current still moved through the valley. Tomorrow we would launch our drift boats again. Buck would repeat his same routine. I would convince myself that the next bend held the biggest trout in the river.

On the South Fork of the Snake River, that possibility always feels believable.

Published
Featured

Haida Gwaii: Returning to One of the World’s Greatest Salmon Fisheries

Text and photos by Mary Peachin

Vol. 31, No. 5/6 February/March, 2027

Some fishing destinations get checked off the bucket list. Only a few encouraged a return to refill the bucket. For me, the West Coast Fishing Club on Langara Island, at the northern tip of Haida Gwaii, British Columbia, is one of those rare places where the quality of salmon fishing and the excitement never fades.

Having been fortunate to fish remarkable waters around the world—from the South Fork of Idaho’s Snake River to piranha in the jungles of the Amazon, there remains something magical about the rugged Pacific surrounding Haida Gwaii. Any return feels like coming home to a wild environment, one where bald eagles soar overhead, humpback whales spout and surface without warning, and every strike on the rod has the potential of being a tyee, a 30+ pound Chinook, considered the fish of a lifetime for many anglers.

The journey itself is an adventure. Flying into Haida Gwaii leaves civilization behind as forests stretch endlessly toward rocky shorelines lashed by the Pacific Ocean. The remoteness is part of the appeal. These nutrient-rich waters lie directly on the migration route of Pacific salmon, creating one of North America’s finest saltwater fisheries.

The West Coast Fishing Club has perfected the art of combining first-class hospitality with serious fishing. Guides know every reef, kelp bed, tide line and current seam. Their experience allows even first-time saltwater anglers to feel comfortable while still challenging experienced fishermen searching for trophy Chinook.

One thing I’ve always appreciated is how every morning begins with optimism. Coffee comes early, weather reports are studied carefully, tackle is checked one last time, and then the boats head toward legendary locations with names every returning guest knows—Cohoe Point, Lacy, Andrews and the Fish Bowl.

Nothing compares with the initial powerful run of a Chinook salmon. The rod bows toward the water, the reel screams, and every thought is focused on staying connected to the fish.

Although Chinook are the stars early in the season, Haida Gwaii’s excitement changes during summer months. Coho salmon arrive in larger numbers, providing fast action with their spectacular aerial jumps, blistering speed, even an option for fly fishing. There are also Chum and Pink in the later summer months

Fishing is only a portion of the experience. Haida Gwaii’s scenic ancient Sitka spruce forests appear untouched by time. Stellar sea lions bark from rocky outcrops. Tufted puffins and rhinoceros auklets dart among fishing boats, while bald eagles appear to eye a fish meal from tree branches. On many days humpback whales surface nearby, their massive blows visible long before they appear.

For someone like me, who has spent decades writing about outdoor adventures, destinations like this provide more than photographs. They provide stories.

Conservation has also become an increasingly important part of the West Coast Fishing Club experience. Large Chinook—especially trophy fish over 30 pounds—and large and small halibut are now released.

As an outdoor writer and photographer, I always leave with memory cards full of images, but my favorite souvenirs remain the moments impossible to photograph.

Fishing trips are often measured by the size of the catch, but the best adventures are measured by the memories they create.

For me, West Coast Fishing Club has never been just another fishing lodge. It has become part of my life’s journey. Every visit leaves me with another unforgettable salmon, another remarkable photograph, another friendship, and another story waiting to be told.

At this stage of my life, I treasure places that still make me feel the same excitement I experienced on my first trip. As our boat rounds the point each morning and the Pacific stretches to the horizon, I still feel that anticipation. Somewhere below, another fighting Chinook is waiting.

I’ve traveled the world in search of extraordinary adventures, yet I always find myself drawn back to these waters at the edge of Haida Gwaii. Wild, beautiful, and unpredictable.

The fish are incredible, the scenery is unforgettable. But it is the experience—the people, the wildlife, and the thrill of another screaming reel—that keeps calling me back. There will always be another chapter to write from the remarkable waters surrounding Langara Island.

Published

Snorkeling with Whale Sharks in La Paz, Mexico

Text and photos by Mary L Peachin
Vol. 30, No.11/12
August/September, 2026

Searching for whale sharks consumed twenty years of scuba diving around the world. My first brief siting was in rough water conditions in the Galapagos, two brief sitings. It was not until my Chicken Diver buddies shared a summer whale shark migration in Holbox, off the Yucatan, that I fulfilled my quest. Returning the following summer, after my story had been published in Undercurrent, thousands of snorkelers (scuba not permitted) and boats from as far as Isla Mujeres.

Then I heard about the juvenile migration in La Paz. I took the short cut by crossing the CBX bridge from the United States into the Tijuana airport. Again, I enjoyed an unbelievable experience, then again spoiled it by writing about it. As the whale sharks became increasingly popular, the Mexican government became very possessive of sharing its treasured possession with tourists. It was possible for them to close La Paz Bay without advance notice. They overlooked eager snorkelers who had spent money and traveled thousands of miles. Volatile windy conditions around the large bay also created days of closure.

After two days of tarpon fishing in Florida, Zachary, my twenty-year-old grandson, asked me if he could go on another adventure. I knew just the right place! La Paz! To make it even a grander experience, my son Jeffrey joined us. What more could a grandmother ask for, sharing whale sharks with her children.
My first view of La Paz had been from the window of my Cessna T-210. The Sea of Cortez welcomed me from the air. A scenic town, the La Paz malecón curves along the water with sculptures, palms and benches, fishermen mend nets at dawn, pelicans hover with patience searching for their next fish. La Paz invites you to slow down, to breathe, to explore.

But, I had brought my family to see the whale sharks, of course. That is certainly La Paz’ attraction. I did not realize how much the city would matter—the desert hills leaning toward the sea, the quiet confidence of the people who live alongside these waters, and the way Mexico has chosen to protect something enormous and fragile at the same time.

On the morning of our first snorkel, we gathered at Baja Charters’ marina before the sun had fully warmed the docks. Their catamaran was spacious, plus came with a chef that whipped up some awesome guacamole. We would travel by skiff, wearing life jackets, to get permission from the Federales. The skiff was modest, practical, with a shade canopy and a ladder that had seen thousands of challenging climbs back aboard. Our guide gave a calm, but firm briefing. There would be no chasing, no touching, no crowding. Masks, snorkels, fins—check. Respect—non-negotiable.

When the first whale shark appeared, it was not the shock I expected. It was a calm recognition, as if the sea itself had decided to show us one of its deepest treasures. The animal moved with a grace that belied its size, mouth open as its baleen filtered plankton, the largest shark drifting just below the surface. Its polka-dots and stripes, which made it adorable, overcame any sense of trepidation.

We slid into the water two at a time. The sea closed around me, chilly and clear. The sound of the boat faded into a hush broken only by my breath through the snorkel. Then there it was—closer now, impossibly large, yet entirely gentle. Swimming alongside a whale shark is an expectation that no one expects, especially for twenty minutes. More typically, they swim away. The time it glided with us reminded of its scale in a humbling way.

I kept my distance, as instructed, concentrating on staying with the slow, but powerful swimmer. That is part of the discipline here: you adapt to the whale shark, not the other way around. As it glided forward, its eye rolled slightly, not in alarm, just awareness. There was no sense of fear or acknowledgement. I felt like a guest who had been granted a brief, generous welcome. Time does strange things in moments like this.

On another day, the wind was blowing, the waves were choppy with poor visibility. Amazingly, the Federales gave us permission to go the the whale shark park. We strained to watch one whale shark after another. Each was different—patterns unique, movements subtly their own. We spent our time making efforts to stay out of their paths. Between swims, we shivered on the boat. Our experience had been just plain awesome.

What struck me the most was how deliberately all of this was managed. The permits, the limited number of boats, the rules enforced without exception—it all just happened to work for us. Mexico has chosen stewardship over spectacle here, and it shows. The whale sharks are not props. They are residents, seasonal migrants with rights that outweigh our desire for the perfect photograph. When conditions change—if visibility drops, if too few are present, if the sharks show signs of stress—the operation stops. Full stop.

That kind of control requires patience: trust that visitors will return even if they do not “get their swim,” the ideal that protecting the animals will protect the experience in the long run. Standing on the deck, wrapped in a towel, we almost froze to death for this experience. The privilege of being here is earned by perseverance.

Later cruising by catamaran along the desert island of Espíritu Santo, its cliffs glowed in the afternoon light. Frigatebirds traced lazy arcs overhead. The water near the rocks was so clear it felt like floating over air. Here we were able to observe sea lions focused on extending their fins above the water for warmth. I thought about how rare it is to see conservation practiced not as an abstract policy but as a daily habit—guides modeling behavior, visitors following suit, nature responding in kind.

When we returned to La Paz, the city again welcomed us. We walked the malecón as the sun slid behind the hills. Families licked ice cream cones, couples leaned into one another, the sea at nightfall was turning from blue to copper to ink. Dinner was delicious and unhurried. Conversation drifted from our incredible experience to the simple pleasure of being in La Paz.

I realized then that snorkeling with whale sharks here is not just about the animals, magnificent as they are. It is about a relationship—between people and place, between protection and access, between awe and responsibility. La Paz and Espíritu Santo offer a lesson in balance that feels increasingly rare.
If I close my eyes, I do not just see the enormous spotted back of the whale shark disappearing into the blue. I feel the stillness of floating, the measured cadence of breath, the quiet authority of rules that exist for a reason. I remember a city that moves at the pace of the sea, and a country that has decided some wonders are best preserved by asking us to be careful, patient, and kind.

And I know I will return—not to chase the moment, but to meet it again, on its own terms. Then again, maybe I will choose the opportunity to design another “grandmother adventure” for my darling children.