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On Sale - January 6, 2026
February-March 2026 Issue

Jerk Changer

Tying and fishing a fly with jackknifing, dramatic side-to-side darts and pauses.

Fly Fisherman February-March 2026 Issue
The Jerk Changer draws strikes from any predatory fish. Here, Blane Chocklett shows off a Canadian pike caught on a black Jerk Changer. (Oliver Sutro photo)

My friend Nick gave me a call the night before and said, “It’s happening now.” I packed my gear in the truck and set my alarm for 3 A.M. I had a four-hour drive to meet Cory and Nick, so I didn’t get much sleep that night.

The drive was broken up by a few phone calls from the guys. Nick said he was using a variety of swimbaits, glide baits, and jerkbaits to get bites from Chesapeake Bay giants. He described the large area we would be covering by blind casting, and cautioned that we’d be looking for “just a couple bites.” That’s something I’m very used to from years of playing the muskie game. You must trust in what you’re doing and believe in the process. 

Nick was catching fish with conventional baits, and I brought with me 8- to 12-inch Hybrid Changers and Jerk Changers. I started with a 12-inch black Jerk Changer with a Scientific Anglers Sonar Titan Full Intermediate line. Even though we were fishing in only 4 or 5 feet of water, it was stained so you really couldn’t see what was going on below the surface. There would be no signs of these giant fish.

We started on a flat adjacent to a channel, which together formed a byway and a large feeding area for predatory species. I used long strips and even longer pauses, which allowed the fly to glide and then hover between each strip. On the next strip I knew the fly would turn and glide in the other direction. I was prepared for a long grind that day, but within the first 30 minutes I felt the slightest tick in my line. This is a very common feel with large gamefish—it never ceases to amaze me how a bite from such a big fish can feel so slight, as the fish merely envelops the fly...

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>It was 1982. A convention of middle-aged men wearing mustard plaid convened at 7 A.M. in an elementary school cafeteria in suburban Maryland. The cafeteria was the biggest room in the school. It was the site of an annual fly-fishing exposition, and my fat

Diamond in the Rough: Lefty's Favorite Place to go Bass Fishing was the Androscoggin in Maine

It was 1982. A convention of middle-aged men wearing mustard plaid convened at 7 A.M. in an elementary school cafeteria in suburban Maryland. The cafeteria was the biggest room in the school. It was the site of an annual fly-fishing exposition, and my fat

Dust billows behind us as Catherine Smith and I speed along the freshly graded gravel road, winding deeper into a narrow valley crowded with tall ponderosa pines. After miles of seemingly endless forest, we crest a rise and suddenly find ourselves crossing an open prairie, strangely devoid of the dense pines that, from a distance, give these hills their characteristic dark color and their Lakota name, Pahá Sápa: The Black Hills.

The Black Hills: The Lakota Called them Pahá Sápa, We Know them as a Fly-Fishing Nirvana

Dust billows behind us as Catherine Smith and I speed along the freshly graded gravel road, winding deeper into a narrow valley crowded with tall ponderosa pines. After miles of seemingly endless forest, we crest a rise and suddenly find ourselves crossing an open prairie, strangely devoid of the dense pines that, from a distance, give these hills their characteristic dark color and their Lakota name, Pahá Sápa: The Black Hills.

Imagine building a fishing lodge by hand, 35 pieces of lumber at a time, with each load transported by float plane. You're in the middle of a national park, up a mud-slick hill from a weed-laden lake, building on uneven terrain that turns into a muddy tundra bog when it rains—and it rains more days than it doesn't. The nearest town is inaccessible by land, a 20-minute float plane ride away. There are no roads, no infrastructure, no other people for many miles.

Starting from Scratch: Building an Alaska Fishing Lodge by Hand in a Roadless Wilderness

Imagine building a fishing lodge by hand, 35 pieces of lumber at a time, with each load transported by float plane. You're in the middle of a national park, up a mud-slick hill from a weed-laden lake, building on uneven terrain that turns into a muddy tundra bog when it rains—and it rains more days than it doesn't. The nearest town is inaccessible by land, a 20-minute float plane ride away. There are no roads, no infrastructure, no other people for many miles.

Standing at the edge of a riffle in Section One, a few miles below Palisades Dam, is my good friend Ron Miller. His eyes are locked on a large rising trout, feasting on hatching Pale Morning Duns in the beautiful afternoon sunlight. If I told him his hair was on fire, he wouldn't hear a word I said—he is that focused. He makes a precise cast and gets a good drift above the feeding fish, only to have it ignored. Continuing to study what precisely it's feeding on, he decides on a different bug.

The Migration: Guardians of the South Fork

Standing at the edge of a riffle in Section One, a few miles below Palisades Dam, is my good friend Ron Miller. His eyes are locked on a large rising trout, feasting on hatching Pale Morning Duns in the beautiful afternoon sunlight. If I told him his hair was on fire, he wouldn't hear a word I said—he is that focused. He makes a precise cast and gets a good drift above the feeding fish, only to have it ignored. Continuing to study what precisely it's feeding on, he decides on a different bug.

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