Author

Christine Peterson

Christine Peterson has written about wildlife, the environment and outdoor recreation as a journalist in Wyoming and across the West for more than a decade.…

  • TROUT Magazine Fishing

    A letter to my daughter

    By Christine Peterson Our feet fall a little to the right on the smooth, gray stones. We sit where glaciers once pulsated slowly over thousands of years. They grew and shrank, grew and shrank, slicing into the rock and earth with each movement, creating this valley and leaving behind a clear, rocky river.  All I…

  • Climate Change

    Cooling off coldwater streams

    Cooling off coldwater streams BY CHRISTINE PETERSON In an ever-warming West, hydrologists and anglers place hope in Mother Nature's refrigerator The creek running through Pam and Brian Robertson’s property wasn’t actually a creek. It was a ditch. A really, really deep ditch that funneled rushing runoff from the mountain to the Clearwater River each spring.…

  • Snake River dams

    Mike Simpson – Conserving the future

    Idaho Rep. Mike Simpson champions removing four dams on the Lower Snake River to save salmon, not because he fishes for them, but because he says it’s the right thing to do.  Since Idaho Rep. Mike Simpson’s dad died about 20 years ago, he’s been meeting his mom and two uncles occasionally at restaurants around…

  • Did the pandemic spark a fishing renaissance?

    Photo by Christine Peterson The brother and sister—ages 8 and 11—fired off one question after another. “What’s a sinker for?”  “What’s a bottom bouncer?”  “How does it work?” “What are we going to catch?” They’d never been fishing before. They wanted to know everything. Their instructor that day, my husband, put on his middle-school-science-teacher face,…

  • TROUT Magazine

    The beauty of close

    Sheer granite cliffs rose out of Lost Lake where I pulled my first small brook trout out of the water, an elk hair caddis in its mouth. Scarlet Indian paintbrush, yellow glacier lilies and purple elephant head padded the banks of the next lake like a cheery grandmother’s doormat. White and blue columbines clung to…