Today April 18^th, 2020, the Marco Beaches are closed. A few restaurants are serving to-go only and you can’t get to Ft Myers on Delta in the same day from here in Birmingham unless you drive to Atlanta. The return options are just as bad. So, let me tell you about Plan B. Start the day by checking your favorite Insta fishing posts. Most of those are posting reruns. Sort of like watching Gilligan’s Island. Watched a decent Costa Rica tarpon film this morning called, “The Jungle’s Edge”, posted by Venturing Angler. Thank you. This afternoon and after some honey-do’s I walked across the street to my fishing buddy mother’s house. She has an expansive front lawn. There I cast the 11 weight as if tarpon might slide down the cul-de-sac. Where’s the sun when need it. Stepped off 86’, my best. That’ll get you a whole lot nothing when the fish are really coming at you in a cross breeze and a bouncy chop. Not sure what the neighbors think.

Then I pulled out the Tail July/August issue out of the stack I maintain in my closet. I recalled a lobster tail recipe with fried plantain tostones that sounded yummy. Yep, that’s what it has come to. Cooking seafood recipes out of fishing magazines. My wife walks in from her own errands and curiously asks, “what’s this all about?” “It’s fishing week, baby” is all I can utter back.

She smiled as I scurried about in the kitchen about as well as if Andy Lee stepped down from the platform and handed me the push pole. We did manage to deliver a great meal, the two of us. Teamwork is always key when it is fishing week.

I am not sure tomorrow holds.

Leftovers, I guess.

S. Culp
Tail Subscriber

The post Plan B first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Plan B appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

I developed the Candy Corn Crawler primarily as a redfish pattern for Florida’s central coasts. Obviously its application doesn’t stop there. If tied smaller it can certainly entice some bonefish and even permit. Mixing up the colors on this fly can produce some very effective variants as well. I often tie it in Chartreuse/Olive as well as Purple/Yellow. This was the fly we fished the most during a recent trip to Louisiana last November.

Now that you have the down low on this pattern, here’s how to make them. Be sure to whip a few up and test them out in your local waters.

Candy Corn Crawler

Step 1: Stick an SC15 in the vise and lay down a solid thread base from the eye of the hook all the way past the hook bend.

Step 2: Use figure 8 wraps and underbelly wraps to secure the Double Pupil Eyes to the hook shank.

Step 3: Tie in a pinch of Orangutan Colored Pseudo Hair to the back end of the hook just past the bend.

Step 4: Tie in a pinch of Sand Colored Pseudo Hair directly on top of the first layer and secure it.

Step 5: Tie in 1.5” Sand Colored Foxy Brush right after the Pseudo Hair.

Step 6: Palmer the Foxy Brush around the hooks shank 3 times moving towards the eye of the hook and then tie it off.

Step 7: Cut the Foxy Brush and put a few thread wraps over the remaing tab.

Step 8: Select two Orange/Black Legs from the patch.

Step 9: Wrap the legs around the thread of the hook before tying them in.

Step 10: Tie the legs in right after the foxy brush.

Step 11: Trim the legs to desired length. I like them to be just a tad bit shorter than the length of the Pseudo Hair.

Step 12: Tie in Rust Colored 1.5” Foxy Brush.

Step 13: Palmer the Rust Colored Foxy Brush three times while moving towards the eye of the hook and then tie it off.

Step 14: Tie in Tan .5” Wooly Critter Brush right in front of the Foxy Brush.

Step 15: Palmer the Wooly Critter Brush forward and secure it up in font of the dumbell eyes.

Step 16: Trim off the Wooly Critter Brush and cover up the remaining tab.

Step 17: Select a short piece of 30 mono for the weed guard and crimp one end of it to help minimize bulk after it is tied in.

Step 18: Tie the weed guard in just in front of the dumbbell eyes.

Step 19: Whip finish the fly and cut the thread.

Step 20: Finish the fly by using Loon UV Thick to secure the thread wraps for a long lasting fly.

Jesse Males Bio: As a fly fisherman growing up on Florida’s Nature Coast, I had plenty of access to shallow flats to chase redfish, trout, snook, and tarpon as well as awesome river systems to fish for largemouth bass and bluegill. The more I fly fished, the more I saw the need to share my trips and info with other fly anglers. That led me to develop my main website www.backwaterflyfishing.com. This site serves as a blog as well as a hub for fly tying information and HD fly tying videos. I also run an online fly shop, www.backwaterflies.com, where fly anglers can purchase my favorite fly patterns, including the Candy Corn Crawler. 

Two and a half years ago I began an incredible journey by moving down to Costa Rica. Since then I have explored most of the country (aside from some very remote areas) and landed some amazing fish along the way. I currently run a guiding business here in Costa Rica with my good friends Micah Baly and Mark Evans. You can find info on all our guided trips at www.506outdoors.com. As for social media, be sure to catch up with me by following me on Facebook and Instagram at @backwaterflyfishing.

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The post Candy Corn Crawler first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Candy Corn Crawler appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

I first came into contact with triggerfish in the Seychelles in the early 2000s. At that time, most saltwater operations concentrated on bonefish, but a number of enterprising guides were beginning to target triggers on the fly, and they realized the value that triggers represented as a gamefish. Having spent much of my saltwater career fishing in the Caribbean at that point, my focus had been primarily bonefish and permit. I distinctly remember wading across a flat with my guide when suddenly that first orange spade started waving at me. I was about to move on, still scanning for bonefish, when the guide put a hand out to stop me.

“Trigger!” he pointed. At first was I confused, but then I realized he was indicating the waving tail.

In my naivety, I asked what it was and he reaffirmed: a titan triggerfish. I actually had no idea what one looked like, or even if they took flies. Little did I know another species obsession was about to be born. The guide switched out my leader to some 20-pound test and tied a small crab fly on the end. The fish was slowly feeding in and around a small white hole on the edge of a flat, happily tailing as it went. I found the movement of the tail rather mesmerizing; it seemed to flop around with not much purpose as the trigger rolled in the gentle current of the incoming tide. By direction I dropped the crab into the white hole and let it sink. Once it had touched the bottom, I gave it one short strip and stopped. The puff of sand was enough to attract the attention of the titan, and it came scurrying over to investigate. I gave a slow pull and felt the nip nip as it tried to pin the fly to the sand. On the next strip, about halfway through, everything went tight and I slowly lifted the rod while simultaneously giving the hook a short strip set. The fish charged off and I remember marveling at the power in such a small fish.

Triggerfish are, in my opinion, one of the most underrated fish to target on fly. If giant trevally are the bulldogs of the flats, then triggers have to be the Jack Russell: small, pugnacious, ideas far above their station, and even GTs will steer clear of them. Triggers have no qualms about attacking much larger fish, and any diver will tell you they are a fish to be respected, especially when they’re protecting their territory or their nests. This particular trigger was heading for the drop-off rapidly, and I knew if he hit the razor-sharp coral there the game would be over. I leaned on him sideways, applying pressure, and finally managed to put a stop to the powerful run and bring him under control. Shortly afterwards I was cradling my first trigger, and what a weird-looking fish it was!

Although fishing for triggerfish follows a pattern, each interaction with them is unique. Never was there a fish with such independent character. Fly fishing for them is a technical challenge not unlike permit, but they are far more attainable due to their more aggressive nature. If they notice you on the flats they are often unafraid and have been known to come and check you out if you are encroaching on their territory. To catch one you have to find the right water and tidal height to locate them, select the right fly, and present it correctly. Then actually hooking the trigger presents its own challenge with that mouthful of teeth. Lastly, if you hook one, they have a nasty habit of scurrying off into a coral hole as fast as they can and either cutting you off or refusing to come out. For the uninitiated, this can happen before you even realize you have hooked it. Some days they absolutely hammer flies, and then other days nothing you try works. It’s this challenge and frustration that, like permit, make them such a fascinating fly rod species.

There are essentially four species of triggerfish from the family Balistidae that we target on fly, and although there are many more, most inhabit deep water. On the flats we find the titan (also known as moustache or giant triggerfish), the yellow margin (also known as the peach face triggerfish), the Picasso, and the gray. The Picasso is very small, a palm-sized one being a trophy. Generally in the Pacific and Indian Oceans we are targeting the titan and yellow margin and in the Caribbean the not-so-colorful  gray triggerfish. The  gray triggerfish is really only just beginning to be targeted.

Aside from their bright and colorful markings, triggerfish are defined by their almost human-looking teeth secured to incredibly powerful mandibles that make up a large proportion of their body. The triggerfish uses these hydraulics to quite literally bite coral, revealing prey underneath. You therefore do not want to get your fingers or peripherals anywhere near these snapping jaws for fear of losing digits. Almost as bizarre as its toothy maw is the ability of its eyes to rotate with a high degree of freedom; similar to a chameleon, it can look in different directions simultaneously.

Next is the trademark trigger in the dorsal fin that the fish can lock in place. This mechanism can make prying them out of coral holes particularly difficult. Although the colorings of each species are very different, on the flats it is their tails that make them so distinctive as they hunt. The titan has a large orange tail with a black band across it and a flat spade end. The yellow margin has a crescent-shaped tail outlined with yellow. The tail of the gray triggerfish is gray, although sometimes it looks like a small black flag. The Picasso is too small to tail and is normally found in very skinny coral areas.

To find tailing triggers you need to be in the right depth of water. In most reef systems they feed actively in that short window as the tide starts to push, allowing them access to the rich feeding grounds along the edges of the flats. They are particularly fond, it seems, of areas that have white holes and broken coral around which they can hunt, but also bolt into if they are alarmed. They also like the reef edge itself. The opportunity to stalk tailing fish therefore can be short, as they are harder to find once the water reaches a certain depth. On the whole they won’t make their way farther up onto the flats like bonefish and permit, instead preferring to remain near the coral edges. This is not always the case, however, and sometimes they will appear in odd places, or you will find them chasing each other when one encroaches on another’s territory.

Once you have spotted your tailing trigger what is the method of attack? To target triggerfish a 9-weight setup is the best, although in some instances you might get away with an 8-weight. The 9-weight is the perfect blend of lightness of presentation combined with the backbone to be able to apply pressure if the fish heads for the reef edge or a large coral head and you don’t fancy swimming to pry him free. Fly choices, as always, vary depending on the bottom you are fishing on, but normally my go-to flies are shrimp patterns such as Itchy Triggers, EP Spawning Shrimps, and small crabs such as Gumby Crabs in deeper water. Flies need to be fairly light to give a gentle presentation, and a good hook is vital. The Itchy Trigger is tied on a thicker wire hook and survives well. Weed guards are essential due to the nature of where you are fishing, and they avoid much frustration. Your ideal leader will be a tapered leader of 12 feet in length, 16- to 20-pound test. Nine feet is a bit short, and 15 feet can be tricky to manage with a shrimp fly, especially at close range.

You must approach stealthily, as triggerfish are alerted to your presence by crunching coral and water pushing from your legs. Tread as lightly as possible. There’s a fine line between being close enough for a comfortable and accurate shot, but not so close that you’ll spook it. Like all flats fishing, this really depends on your abilities. As with permit, your first cast needs to be your best, so gauge the distance by casting in another direction before you cast at the triggerfish. Some days they seem very skittish, others they’re totally emboldened.

Once you are in position, wait for the tail to come up before you make your cast. Not only will this give you the fish’s exact position, but also with its face buried in the flat the fish is less likely to become aware of your presence. You need to deliver the fly as close to its head as you dare and ahead of the direction it is facing. I know this sounds obvious, but when they are tailing they often roll around in the current and it can be very frustrating as they change direction just as you drop the fly. If the fish does not see the fly drop, then wait until the fly has sunk and the tail goes down before giving a long slow strip. This is normally enough for him to see the escaping crustacean and come rushing over to hit it. As soon as it comes over and tails on the fly, the fish is trying to eat it; so you need to give a short, sharp strip strike. The issue arises in trying to find a hook hold in that toothy mouth, so if you don’t go tight the fly will pop out. The big difference with a trigger and a bonefish or permit is that a triggerfish will continue to try and eat the fly, whereas other species will abort quite quickly. This prolonged game of cat and mouse can go on four or five times, sometimes even to the rod tip, which is why it is so exciting.

Continue with the slow draw, and as soon as you feel tension again give a short, sharp strip to try to set the hook. You may find that if you are not hooking up the fish may have destroyed the hook on the first attack, as they can completely mangle flies and even bite hooks in half. It is vital you don’t trout strike, or this will pull the fly away from the fish and leave it bewildered and suspicious. Triggerfish do have an amazing ability to backpedal in the water, so even when you think you have hooked it solidly you might end up with the fly spat back at you as they use the hook as a toothpick. I have had fish that have done this three times before I finally achieved a solid hookup.

If you have not hooked one before, you will be surprised at how powerful triggerfish are and how dirty they fight. They can swim on their sides in shallow water, and their first instinct is to head for deeper water and coral. This can be a depression on the flat or the reef edge. Either way, it’s not going to end well if you let them! As always in coral areas, keep the rod high during the battle, but apply as much side strain as possible to prevent it stuffing you in a hole. If this does happen it might not mean the end, as I have fished with a number of dedicated guides who pull out their goggles and go in after them. Even if they have locked the trigger, by touching the second spine on the dorsal it’s possible to drop the mechanism and pull them out by the tail. Be warned: He is going to come out really angry and will bite anything presented.

So where should you go to hunt for triggerfish? The prime spots are Christmas Island and the Seychelles. Some of the triggers on Christmas Island are the size of footballs, and I have been smoked good and proper on its expansive flats. You will find them on all the atolls of the Indian Ocean, and most guides in that area are well-versed in fishing for them. Some of the very best triggerfishing in the world is on the Nubian Flats of Sudan. Here, with a nearly nonexistent tidal fluctuation, you will find large triggers (some massive) tailing across the flats. Here they are the prime target, where ten shots in a session is not uncommon. You will also find  gray triggers on nearly all the reefs of the Caribbean, which have gone largely overlooked, except by a dedicated few, in favor of bonefish and permit. There are also some colossal specimens on the oceanside flats of Los Roques in Venezuela, and there are really good numbers in the southern Bahamas, such as around Acklins and Crooked Island. Here they can be targeted on white sand, which makes it particularly exciting.

So the next time you are wading across a flat in search of bones, permit, or GTs, if you see a waving trigger tail, I would highly recommend you go and have a crack. The visual element and prolonged interaction is highly addictive, and this is yet another species that can get under your skin. I have known many fishermen totally obsessed with them…. I am one of them.

Bio: Peter McLeod began guiding fly anglers for Atlantic salmon in Norway at the age of 16. He is the founder of Aardvark McLeod, international fly fishing specialists. Peter is the author of the acclaimed GT: A Fly-Fisher’s Guide to Giant Trevally (Merlin Unwin Books, 2016). For more information on fly fishing for triggerfish, you can contact Peter through www.aardvarkmcleod.com.

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The post Pulling The Trigger first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Pulling The Trigger appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

We at the magazine expect all of our contributors, when they get an assignment, to devote themselves to the project. When I assigned Mark White the task of writing a feature article on gyotaku artist Dwight Hwang (Issue #41), I knew he’d devote himself to it. I’d known Mark for a couple of years before I was involved with the magazine, so I knew he was enamored with all things Japanese. Mark had trained in the martial art of aikido for the better part of 30 years and spent several years running his own dojo (which is how we met). He had done sumi-e painting as well as nature printing, and he liked to drink expensive sake—so I knew this assignment would be right up his alley. And I knew Mark was itching to publish a feature article in a national magazine. In all, I felt pretty confident about giving him the project.

Frankly, I wasn’t really surprised when Mark turned in an excellent feature. I wasn’t even that surprised when Dwight Hwang produced our most striking cover to date (black and white—who knew?).

But what happened next, I never saw coming.

I was at home one weekend afternoon in August when I got a text from Mark. It was a photo of a man’s bare back with a tattoo of a Dwight Hwang print on one side: The Boil, a tuna chasing a flying fish out of the water. It was one of the prints we had used to illustrate the feature. The tattoo was beautifully rendered, but it was fresh; it had that raw, painful look.

“Holy crap!” I texted back. “Who is that?” It still hadn’t dawned on me. In that moment I was thinking that maybe Dwight had shared the photo with Mark, that one of Dwight’s fans had paid him the ultimate compliment.

“It’s me,” Mark wrote.

“Are you serious?”

“As a heart attack.”

I called him.

“What on Earth possessed you to do this?” I refrained from adding, At your age. After all, there can’t be many people who decide, at age 62, to get their first tattoo—especially if they work in healthcare, as Mark does.

Mark explained that he and his son, Nate, had been planning to get a tattoo together for a while, but he wasn’t sure what he should get. Then the article came out. That cinched it. One Saturday morning found them at Ruby Red Ink in Achushnet, Massachusetts. Nate got a tattoo of a hibiscus in memory of Mark’s deceased mother, who had loved the flower. Mark was in the chair a bit longer—over three-and-a-half hours.

“Can’t imagine what that must’ve cost,” I said.

“Put it this way,” Mark replied. “For what I paid for this tattoo, I probably could have bought the original print.”

Although there’ll never be any question that Mark will devote himself to his work, I’m going to have to be careful about what projects I assign him in the future.

Tattoo: The Boil, rendered by Jared Ponte of Ruby Red Ink in Acushnet, Massachusetts, from an original gyotaku print by Dwight Hwang.

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The post Devotion first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Devotion appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

Anyone who’s pursued bonefish in the Florida Keys long enough has great stories to tell of these extraordinary fish, famous for their size and for the extreme challenge they present. All of these anecdotes are amazing, and as exaggerated as some may seem–I was skeptical when I first heard them, anyway–after nearly 20 years of fishing there I’ve come to believe just about anything I hear of these fabled creatures. As the late Billy Pate noted, “The bonefish here are big, and they all have names.”

The Keys do have a healthy bonefish population; however, there are fewer fish here than in other destinations, such as the Bahamas or the Yucatán. Veteran Keys anglers are far more preoccupied with size than they are with numbers. These seasoned bonefish anglers do not seek the schools of fish commonly found in other destinations; instead, they carefully stalk large and difficult singles and doubles (fish commonly in double-digit territory), calibrating their expectations to perhaps just six or eight encounters per day. Managing a few fish over a week’s wading the hard oceanside flats is an admirable accomplishment.

Nearly every bonefish I’ve taken in these hallowed waters has been while fishing on foot. Pursuing them from a poled skiff, however, is the best and most productive approach, especially when accompanied by a native guide who knows this fascinating archipelago. But despite the challenges, I savor wading for them.

Big Keys fish are sometimes found tailing in thin water, particularly early or late in the day when wind, tide, and temperature conducive to that behavior prevail, but most of my success by far has come while working deeper grass flats. As with permit fishing, the combination of added depth and darker bottom demand stronger light in order to see fish at a reasonable distance for presentation. I’ve spent lots of time stalking these fish in water from above the knee to perhaps thigh-high, but every so often I stumble upon a big one in very shallow water commonly associated with smaller 2- to 4-pound fish. These fish are ultra-challenging: They demand your A-game.

I typically wade out to a strategic position ahead of fishable light. As visibility increases with the rising sun, I intermittently wade down-sun very slowly, frequently remaining motionless (posting-up) for long periods to allow encroaching fish to swim silently into view. The approach is similar to what whitetail deer hunters refer to as “still hunting.” A typical Keys’ day winds down around 1:00 p.m. as shoreline waters approach 90 degrees and become too warm for bonefish activity. To save valuable time, I reposition by leaving the water, which enables brisk, stealthy moves to alternate sites on the flat, or a rerun of a juicy stretch without alarming any fish in the area. A second round of activity may unfold with a rising late-day tide and the sun off the water as sunset approaches.

Toward the end of the morning’s fishing on a hot day on Ohio Key, I egressed the water to reposition for one last run down the flat. Hustling to get back to deep water with what little time was left, I wasn’t paying much attention to the pockmarked coral bottom that bordered the flat along the water’s edge when I was stopped dead in my tracks by a golf-ball-sized burst of marl that caught the corner of my eye.

The ensuing adrenaline wave that flushed through me sharpened every sense–I looked hard, but saw nothing more….

A minute later a second puff appeared–about 10 feet uptide of the first– but still I could not decipher a bonefish. The white coral was dusted with bright marl that filled the coarsely pockmarked bottom like confectioner’s sugar, creating a numbing reflection off the bottom in the blazing midday sun. Not so much as the tip of a tail scratched the surface. I hunched low and cautiously moved up the shoreline to stay abreast of this phantom fish. Finally, about 30 feet uptide of the marl that initially captured my attention, a vapid ghost materialized as it worked its way like molasses over a patch of sparse brown grass. It was a very long bonefish.

Crouched low at the water’s edge, I quickly changed to a tiny, pale, unweighted fly to make the most of this opportunity and not spook this fish. I was fishing a 12-foot straight shot of 10-pound-test fluorocarbon and an 8-weight floating line.

Catlike, I continued up the shoreline, keeping my profile below the mixed-up vegetation immediately behind me, and I gingerly reentered the water well ahead of the big bone. With my focus riveted on this barely visible fish, I dropped to my knees about 20 feet off the beach and maneuvered from that position over jagged coral to get my shot–it was nasty.

Head-on distances can be difficult to judge from such a low position. Instead, I waited for a close crossing shot that allowed me a better feel for where my fly was positioned in the intense shimmer and gave me my best view of the fish’s response to my presentation. When the fish closed to within three rod lengths, I rolled out with a choked-up hold of the rod ahead of the grip, flicked a quick backcast and with a wide-open delivery I gently lobbed the tiny crab silently into the water about 10 feet in front of the fish and a foot inside its path.

The ensuing moments demand firm mental effort to remain calm and responsive … regardless how many big bonefish you’ve taken. My heart pounded as this fish approached. When it was a foot from where I sensed my fly had settled on the coral, I inched the crab with a single delicate nudge. With no change in speed, the bonefish veered ever so slightly in my direction and paused … but not so much as a tap or twitch of that long gray body.

This is a dicey moment with sophisticated bonefish and it was now my move. Rather than risking a brisk strip strike that would surely send this fish to Cuba if it hadn’t eaten, I opted for a slow, careful draw … and we were tight.

Hooking up with powerful fish at such short range often ends with a broken tippet the instant it begins, as fly tackle has little inherent stretch. A bonefish’s explosive response ignites far too quickly for human reflex; anglers must anticipate and maintain presence of mind to ensure quick, soft hands prevail that allow the fish to make it to the reel. I was prepared for a Category 5 response from this fish.

The bonefish’s reaction was immediately strange–a few headshakes followed by a short, tempered run that got it onto the reel … then a few more minor-league shakes. A second modest run drew just 40 feet of fly line from a light drag (I fish bones loose at the start and gradually tighten down as the fish burns out). At the end of that run, it shook its head some more and simply held its ground, much like a spring-run striper. Then–much to my surprise–it suddenly turned and swam right to me, as if surrendering without a battle. The bonefish casually circled in front of me before submitting to my legs on its side, mouth agape. Without removing the fish from the water, I cradled him upside down, wiggled the fly loose and set this strange fish on its way.

He lunged 10 feet and then resumed casually feeding. I was bewildered.

This was a very old bonefish–its shrunken lower tail lobe, worn ventral fins, and reddened belly made that clear. But even old bonefish are capable of fireworks when hooked. Its behavior was baffling–almost as though this wizened fish knew the routine, perhaps having been hooked, landed, and released many times during its tenure on that oceanside flat. Though this hefty bone never showed me my backing, it’s one of the most intriguing fish I’ve ever encountered … a fascinating interlude with a very old specimen of an ancient species.

Bio: Rhode Island writer and photographer Alan Caolo is the author of two books on saltwater fly fishing and has published in many of the major magazines, including Fly Fisherman and American Angler. We’re honored to welcome him to the pages of TFFM. You can visit Alan’s website at alancaolo.com.

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The post Acquiescence first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Acquiescence appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

After I saw the splendid and funny movie The Bucket List, I made my own list. It contained none of the unexpected yet beautiful things such as “Laugh until I cry” or “Witness something majestic” or “Climb a pyramid” that you saw in the movie. No, I am not that complex. In fact my list had only one item: Go bonefishing at More’s Island.

This is such a simple and uncomplicated thing that it will disappoint many who saw the movie, but those who fish for bones will understand.

People can’t even agree on how to spell the name of the island: Moores, Moore’s, Mores, or More’s, but they usually go for the last version. Those who have fished this out-of-the-way little Bahamian sandbar can, however, agree that it is a nautical version of Jurassic Park and probably the best place on the planet to find big unpressured bonefish.

We anglers search for mystical waters where our fate and our destiny might collide and we can latch onto the fish of a lifetime. We dream of the hookup that starts the music—a reel screaming like a Valkyrie—as we lose backing at a prodigious rate while, far in the distance, the line slices through the water leaving a roostertail of spray. We lust in our hearts for that Mr. Rocketman of a bonefish, a big-shouldered double-digit guy who will take the fly to another Zip Code before we turn him, bring him toward home, and then see him erupt in another run as powerful as the first.

For reasons I have never understood, our dreams often take us far from our home waters. It is almost as if the farther we go, the bigger we think the fish might grow. For some their dream waters are at Christmas Island or the Seychelles or some other God-forsaken place in the Pacific where the air fare to reach the nearest hotel would settle the debt of several third world countries. For others it is a remote part of Mexico or Central America; for still others it is the west side of Andros. All of these have been described in one publication or another as the best place on earth for bonefish.

Those who have fished More’s Island read all this hype, nod indulgently, and smile at their memories.

I have no memories, only stories that made me want to go to the island. One story was of three preachers who went there and within minutes one hooked a bonefish, the second a permit, and the third a tarpon—a grand slam from the same boat at the same time.

One of those preachers is a friend whom I know to be one of God’s good people, and I believe his story. I attributed the grand slam shot to the special dispensation allowed preachers; that was, until Paul Pinder, one of the most respected guides on Abaco, told of seeing a bone tailing in water too deep for tailing. Pinder stuck his push pole in the water where the bone had been and measured the depth at 27 inches. But bones don’t feed standing on their heads; they feed tipped over at an angle. Pinder figured the fish was in excess of 35 inches. He says schoolies on More’s Island average out at about 7 pounds—big enough that they often are mistaken for schools of barracuda—and that singles and doubles are well into the double digits.

I heard of one bone that greyhounded across the flats for more than 200 yards, then hung in a pool for five minutes, the fisherman unable to budge him, before the fish took off on another run that snapped the 20-pound backing. I heard of bones that are not the silvery ghosts one expects, but dark green marauders, unlike anywhere else in the Bahamas, that roam the flats as if they own the very sand beneath them.

I went to the Fish Hawk, an Atlanta fly fishing store, and mentioned all this to one of the people who works there. As I talked, his eyes darted nervously about the store toward other customers and then he leaned toward me, cupped his hand over his mouth, and whispered, “We don’t like to talk about More’s Island.”

All this caused me to enter More’s Island as the only item on my Bucket List, the only thing I truly long to do before I kick the bucket. Being of an anal temperament, I sat about to read everything I could find about the island before I went there.

Beyond nailing down the location, there wasn’t much. First, go to a map of Abaco, move your finger down to the south end village of Sandy Point, and then measure 18 miles on a heading of 330 degrees. There is More’s Island, a thumb print of an island with a population of about 1,000, most of whom live in the village of Hard Bargain. (You can’t make this stuff up.) The island is bordered on the east by flats and on the west by unknown ocean depths; the perfect combination for big fish who rise from blue water to feed in the shallows.

To understand why the island is so unspoiled you have to know that people on the island are primarily lobstermen or commercial fishermen. There is a single modest hotel and a couple of guides, but they are not dedicated guides with flats boats; they guide only if there are no traps to pull or if the fish are not running. And they use lobster boats to take out fly anglers.

More’s is not a hundred miles from Florida but getting there is not easy. You won’t find anything about the island on any Bahamian tourist web site. A Bahamian airline flies in once a day from Marsh Harbour, and a cargo boat from Nassau stops in once a week.

Fly anglers who know of More’s Island usually base on Abaco and make the 30-

minute run from Sandy Point early in the morning. The water is shallow—about 20 feet —and if the wind is honking, the trip is a boat ride from hell. Outboard motors in the Bahamas have only one speed—wide open—and this trip has shattered coolers and reduced big city fly fishermen to tremble-kneed droolers in search of a drink and a TV set.

So, unless an angler specifically says he wants to go to More’s, the guides of Abaco usually take their clients to hunt for big bones on the north or south end, or to find lots of smaller fish at the Marls in the middle of the island. It is simply too much trouble, except on a calm day, to go to More’s Island.

The two exceptions are Paul Pinder, who has fished More’s Island for the last ten years and knows it better than any other guide, and Clint Kemp, my preacher friend who has abandoned the pulpit for the poling platform. These two are the dynamic duo of fishing More’s Island and if you go with either one of them, know that good things are going to happen.

I was ready to go. From Atlanta I made arrangements through The Black Fly, a fishing store in Jacksonville, Florida, and the only place that specializes in fishing More’s Island. I would fish both with Clint and Paul. Four nights in a new Beach Club and three days of fishing. The stars were all aligned and the portents were good.

I picked May, usually one of the better months for fishing the Bahamas. But if, as the poet wrote, April is the cruelest month, then May can be a romping stomping bitch kitty. One Monday around noon I stepped off the aircraft at Marsh Harbour and found an overcast sky, 20-knot winds, thunder rumbling in the southeast, and a black squall line approaching.

“How soon can you be ready to fish?” Clint asked. He is as good a guide as he was a preacher, and he once had the largest church in Nassau. He can find bones as good as he could find lost souls. A hardcore waterman he is.

“We going to More’s Island in this weather?”

“No, we’ll go tomorrow. I know a place we can fish in the lee of the wind today.”

Soon I was on a western flat where I found bold and aggressive fish, that, when they saw the fly, bolted for it. Even though I was fishing a relatively sheltered spot, the wind from the southeast pushed over the island and down upon me, causing me to rethink my casting abilities. Eventually I put a fly in front of a big bone but when he turned and lurched at the fly, I stripped too fast and was successful in keeping it away from him.

Deep breath. Look over my shoulder at the weather. Recalculate the wind strength.

“Fish. Eleven o’clock. Forty feet,” Clint said, pointing.

I threw about 90 degrees across the wind and put the fly 10 feet in front of the bone. He attacked, and a few minutes later I had my first Abaco bone, about 3 pounds. Before the afternoon was over I had put a fly atop the head of several big boys, chasing them out of the neighborhood. I wasn’t fast enough on the trigger to get off a shot at several others, and simply couldn’t cast the 50 or 60 feet necessary to reach some double-digit guys. The wind was killing me.

Tuesday morning I awoke to hear the wind keening around the eaves; it was at least 25 knots and the rain was coming down sideways. Squall lines with thunder and lightning marched through one behind the other. We had a baby hurricane going. The only happy note was that the rain was warm. More’s Island was out, but I was going wading, my favorite way to bonefish.

Clint drove his truck along a flat that came right up to the road and when he saw fish emerging from the mangroves we waded slowly into the water and set up to ambush them. The wind was so strong that I was casting 90 degrees off the fish, but even so I caught a 2-pounder and a 4-pounder, both of which came up within 30 feet before I cast. I figured Clint was doing some heavy praying to get bones in that close, but he said the wind so disturbed the water that the fish couldn’t see us.

On the second fish, I was not checking the weather over my shoulder and suddenly felt several gusts and a squall line was upon us. The sky darkened, the wind rose, and we were lashed by the wind as I winched in the bone. Then we slogged back to the truck, waited out the squall, and were back in the water. The weather drove us back to the truck several more times. This was combat fishing at its best. But always in my thoughts was More’s Island. I had to check the island off my Bucket List.

Wednesday morning it seemed the weather had moved a bit to the east, enough so that Paul and Clint and I loaded and launched. Clint persuaded Paul to slow down but it was still a rough ride. Twenty minutes out and off to the east, only a mile or so away, the sky was black and squall lines paralleled our path. We could see More’s Island ahead, but then it grew dim in the fog and rain before it disappeared.

“Hear the artillery?” Clint shouted in my ear.

I nodded. Thunder was booming ahead and to our right, echoing over the sound of the engine.

Then Paul made a decision that showed mature judgment. He knew that I had come to Abaco to fish More’s Island, but he has the experience to know when his own judgment should override the wishes of a client. Rather than pressing ahead, he turned 90 degrees west toward a small island about three miles away; it was sitting there in bright sunshine, beckoning. Bahamians know the island as Gorda Cay, but the island is owned by the Disney Corporation, which renamed it Castaway Cay. Disney cruise ships stop there so those aboard can spend a day on a deserted island. Let Disney and the tourists call it what they will; it is still Gorda Cay and it is a fishery very much like More’s. No Disney ship was anchored there today and there would be no tourists in kayaks slopping about in shallow water.

We coasted to a stop atop a flat that seemed endless, stepped out, and almost immediately I hooked a 3-pounder. I was astonished when Clint grabbed the line, hauled in the still-rambunctious fish, and released it, saying, “There are too many big ones out there to bother with this little guy.”

Seconds later he said, “Ten o’clock. Sixty feet. Four fish coming straight at you.” Because of the wind I waited a few seconds, always a tricky proposition with vigilant bones. At 40 feet the fish veered away but were not spooked. I put a fly in front of them and all four charged. But then a bigger fish came out of nowhere, pushed them aside, grabbed the fly, and I was off on a Gorda Cay sleigh ride. I held the rod aloft and listened to the sweetest music on earth. Five minutes later I landed a 7-pound bone.

By now the clouds had thinned to the north and I could see More’s Island. “Do the fish up there fight like this one?” I asked Paul.

He paused a long moment and I thought he was not going to answer. Then he said, “A 7-pound fish on More’s fights a lot harder than a 7-pound fish here.”

Damn!

I caught two more bones, then waded up a creek where I stood atop a mogul as a school of about 100 bones circled me. Paul saw four permit and we chased them for two hours, getting multiple shots, but, as often is the case with permit, they were too persnickety to take the fly.

Then I went back to wading and saw a half-dozen sets of doubles, all of them well into the double digits. Most were too far away, but I did manage to land a fly atop the head of one of them. I was amazed at both the number and the size of the bonefish on this remote little island and told Paul I had never fished such a place.

“Gorda is sort of like More’s,” Paul said. “It’s not bad here.” He looked at the threatening sky. “Maybe we can get up there tomorrow.”

Mid-afternoon we boarded the boat and over my shoulder I watched More’s Island until it disappeared below the horizon. “Tomorrow, I’m coming,” I said to myself.

If the weather had been bad all week, on Thursday it was terrible. Not even Paul and Clint, who will make the crossing in weather that would keep 40-foot boats in the harbor, would consider launching. On Friday when I left for Atlanta it was still raining. I wondered if the sun would ever again shine on Abaco, and I wondered if some things are too magnificent to put on a Bucket List; that either they happen in a tumble of serendipity or they do not happen at all. I believe that if you want something to the exclusion of all else, you rarely receive it, but in the process you learn how ephemeral are the things of this world and you make some kind of spiritual progress.

I understand that I may have gained more by not going than I would have by going. But yet, there are days when I close my eyes and see More’s Island shimmering in the haze, low and green, and I long to be casting to that mythic fish cruising those mythic waters.

Bio: Best-selling author Robert Coram has penned seven novels and nine works of nonfiction. He’s perhaps best known for his military biographies. Robert lives on, and fishes, the Georgia coast. You can visit his website at robertcoram.com.

Why fish get on skinny flats

North Andros – From Top to Bottom: PART 1

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The post Bucket List Bonefish first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Bucket List Bonefish appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

What fish? you may ask—well, I’ll tell you. What say you to flounder the size of doormats? How about bright blue and copper tails of redfish, making the subtlest of disturbances in the flooded swaths of spartina grass? Perhaps one should mention the seatrout: silver, speckled, dog-toothed rockets absorbed with the single and singular task of murdering hapless marsh baitfish in the channels and open pools one happens upon paddling between the islands.

One is surrounded by life in the marshes of Lowcountry South Carolina—a million subtle but obvious lives and past lives. That’s what makes it so compelling. I’m never just fishing here; I’m immersed in the current of cultures going about their business. Perhaps it’s the feeling of enjoying something fully without really mattering to it. Perhaps it’s the indifference of Mother Nature that makes saltwater fishing so enjoyable. Big white cranes staking out their tidal rivulets for mullet, dolphins breaking the surface in the bays, fiddler crabs moving in and out of their burrows in the pluff mud—skating through in my kayak does little, if anything, to interrupt their daily machinations. Then there’s the acute spirit of all that’s come before—new oysters beginning life on the shells of the dead, listing pilings rotting away as the only remaining evidence of a home that couldn’t withstand the proximity to the impartial ocean, a barnacle-covered rope washed up on a bank that used to tether a forgotten crab trap, the nest of a fish hawk that may be revisited and rebuilt next year, or may be passed up in favor of a new tree with a better view of the food supply below.

Food of past and present is another inescapable flavor of the Lowcountry. Everywhere I turn, I’m reminded of food in one way or another—not least the complex food web I paddle into while fishing, forcibly pushing my way into the daily life of a redfish by replacing one of its mud-minnow meals with a mud-minnow imposter, like a bakery delivering a Styrofoam display birthday cake instead of the real deal. But marsh food chain aside, the omniscient industry and end-product of food culture can be viewed from water or land, canal or road, skiff or truck. Should I ever drive over the Intercoastal Waterway without seeing shrimp boats at rest below, waiting for the next early morning mission, it would be as if life had ceased in South Carolina. Without charter boats filled with tourists jigging for flounder—though not necessarily my idea of great sport—the tidal byways would seem empty, dead, wrong.

Past and present traditions of eating the region’s food are intertwined with the cultures, the heritage of the Lowcountry; perhaps none is as important as that of the Gullah. Communities of slaves brought to work the rice fields of the sea islands—isolated from much of the mainland, resilient in health and in spirit, and persevering in preserving a deep connection with their African heritage—they developed a unique culinary oeuvre rooted in creole elements, fresh and seasonal seafood, and rice. The proud heritage is preserved to this day; among other places, it’s on display in force at Gullah Grub, a standalone restaurant in an old two-story southern house on St. Helena Island near Beaufort, South Carolina. You don’t go to Gullah Grub for hip gastronomy, self-absorbed alternative takes on southern classics, or a cloth-napkin dining experience; you go to have seafood and barbeque done simply, perfectly, honestly, and traditionally. The barbeque is smoked with wood, the cornbread is baked fresh, and the rice is steamy and rich. The crab soup and gumbo ensure every single ingredient has a distinct voice while retaining the bold chorus of their combination. And, if you’re lucky, you may meet Bill Green, proprietor and chef and compulsively beaming icon of Gullah culinary spirit.

And that’s just one restaurant. Seafood joints line the shores here. That’s not unique to South Carolina, of course, but the seafood immersion here seems more complete than in other places. I can fish my way through the marsh to the open channel, paddle behind the shrimp boats, and pull up to a dockside crab shack. U-catch to wholesale to retail and back again, all in a single tide cycle–pretty darn good!

The specialties at seafood shacks or restaurants in the Lowcountry are numerous–as regional food goes, the Lowcountry isn’t a one-trick pony. The she-crab soup soothes with smoothness, richness, and sweetness; the hushpuppies are crisp on the outside, gooey on the inside, and heavy on the onion; and the Lowcountry boil–shrimp, potatoes, corn, and sausage steamed in Old Bay and dumped out on newspaper–must be eaten with one’s hands.  If the food coma doesn’t get you, you can fish around the tide cycle in the Lowcountry—never is there a dull moment in the marsh. Work flooding grass for feeding redfish winding their way onto the flats with the incoming tide; move to seatrout in flooded bays; swing creek outflows for flounder on the outgoing; or fish wide, expansive flats for laid-up schools at low tide. And that’s just the fishing; I’ve not even mentioned throwing crab traps, jigging for seabass, or collecting your own bucket of oysters.

And there are hazards, to be sure. Most are related to oyster shells or the thick, sucking mud–sometimes both. There was the time my most gung-ho of fishing companions, R., pitching soft plastics into a tidal creek, stepped in mud up to his knee, and after a protracted struggle to extricate himself, came up less one sandal. Between him and more solid land sat menacingly stood oyster bar, which he attacked with one shod foot only. Needless to say, he left blood tracks on the floor of the rental house that night. There was a lot of blood. (And the poor guy was already a tad low on blood as it was, having just gotten a large tattoo of a redfish tail on his chest a few hours earlier, which he commemorated by hooking and landing a 40-pound beast in a golf course pond.) On another occasion, I left my buddy C.—I’m beginning to think he actually seeks out fishing misery—for all of 15 minutes to return to find him poling his kayak through mud and oyster shells from which most of the water had already departed, taking on the consistency of rapidly congealing soup.

Tribulations and triumphs of a day spent in the Lowcountry marshes create an appetite that can only be satisfied by the food of the area. It’s that cycle of life that refreshes and delights. The rewards for a day of fishing are not only the sights and sounds of the marsh, but also the spirit of cultures that have come before and persevere still; it’s not simply the bent rods and the eagles nesting on little grassy islands, but also the oysters I’ve collected myself, grilled in the half shell with a bit of butter.

James P. Spica Jr. is a regular contributor to Tail Fly Fishing Magazine

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The post Eating the Lowcountry first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Eating the Lowcountry appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The autumn window opens around Labor Day, highlighted by a welcome drop in humidity and a perceptible cooling of daybreak temperatures. The hint of summer is still there so the fishing is comfortable, unlike late fall, when chilly mornings at Montauk in the surf leave fingers numb from gripping the fly rod and stripping line. Down along Jupiter’s beaches the cooling temperatures bring shivers to the pre-dawn magic hour.  Whether you fish Rhode Island, Cape Hatteras, or West Palm Beach, autumn will hold court until sometime in early to mid October, when fall barges in late in the month with rude, blustery winds. 

The fish get charged up in autumn as masses of baby bunker, silversides, herring, and mullet  drop out of the shallow coastal bays and rivers and begin to migrate in waves along the beaches. The ocean-going bait will often stop off with side trips inside coastal inlets to rest before continuing their journey. Striped bass; weakfish and bluefish; and tarpon, jacks, and snook down south; follow the bait buffet, which draws them from their summer haunts in the shallow bays, sounds, and rivers.

Fly-rodders are often amazed at the intensity of the fishing on one day, supremely discouraged the next as the bait and gamefish flee from one area and move on to the next. The bait, and gamefish like striped bass, may hold for several days until a weather change gives them a nudge to get back on the migration schedule.  A few gamefish will hold over for a week or so in one location as they seem to wait for the next wave of bait. 

Some of the best autumn places to fly fish are just inside inlets, like the entrance to the Manasquan River in New Jersey, or Sebastian Inlet in Florida, but there’s a mental game to be played out every morning. Some days the bites come rat-ta-tat-tat like a machine gun, one fish after another striking the fly, while another day is nothing more than practice casting. There’s no substitute for perseverance; those who fish the good spots every day will be rewarded with plenty of fish, while those who wait for the next fishing report will only score if they luck into a school. Each day is full of promise, yet tempered with nice surprises and occasional disappointments.

Some fly anglers get the heebie-jeebies and move around a lot in autumn, searching the beaches and inlet jetties for signs of bird play or tell-tale flashes of splashing water as gamefish chase bait to the surface. Driving quickly from spot to spot, these anglers often miss the action, relying instead on a buddy’s cell-phone call to alert them to a blitz that more than likely will vanish before they get their truck into gear. Being anchored to one beach or wading spot with no sign of life can be a fool’s errand, but persistence and working a spot thoroughly often pays off with more bites in autumn than running and gunning from one beach spot to another. If there are signs of bait, it’s probably a good idea to work that spot hard before deciding to move. 

The boat fly angler has many more options and after thoroughly working one spot, can quickly move to another, jumping one by one from one area to another until finding the right combination of bait, temperature, water clarity, and eager-to-bite gamefish. It’s a fishy game of hop scotch, played out by carefully working tides and times at each location before moving to the next.

Until he passed away back in 2009, Jack Gartside was an icon at Northeast winter fly fishing shows, and he loved to talk of his autumn adventures.  A quiet guy, he sat at his tying table working his magic with thread, feathers, and hair, and cheerfully shared his experiences with anyone who paused to strike up a conversation.  Although he primarily fished Massachusetts for striped bass, especially the rich waters around Boston, many fly guys from other coastal regions eagerly took notes while he talked about his fishing adventures in the autumn season, and they applied Jack’s techniques to their local waters. Jack was always generous with advice with a wry sense of humor that always made other fly fishermen smile, yet his funny quips had a serious purpose and helped make his points about the fly fishing tips and techniques he was handing out. You had to pay attention.

Jack liked to catch fish on the surface for the visual appeal and excitement of the topwater strikes, even if it meant catching fewer fish. He once said, “The best time to find fish feeding on the surface seems to be from three hours into the falling tide until dead low; and then the first three hours into the rising tide.” Jack believed that the current was strongest at these times, and this helped to concentrate the swirling pods of bait, which in turn lit up the appetites of striped bass. “If this period occurs in the early morning or late afternoon, so much the better,” he said, and that’s why so many of the best striped bass fly fishermen fish at these times. 

A big box of flies is not needed for autumn.  If you’re like Jack, you know a few surface flies will fool plenty of fish.  For quiet waters inside inlets, around marshes and salty creeks, bridges, and shallow sand bars, the Gartside Gurgler is a top contender. But these aren’t the small Gurglers of summer. Step up to a 1/0 or 2/0 long-shank hook and tie them with either bucktail for the tail, or with long flat-wing-style saddles for a long profile. The long saddles swing and weave behind the foam body with an enticing slow-motion dance that can really drive striped bass nuts.

For the quiet backwaters of autumn an oversize bright chartreuse Gurgler is a favorite that gets the attention of northeast striped bass and southeast Florida snook.  It’s a great pattern for early morning and at dusk when its gurgling action pulls striped bass out of the marshes.

In shallow water an intermediate line and Clouser Minnows are favorites for September striped bass, but in deeper water I often use an intermediate line with a 350-grain sinking head and with a bright-colored floating running line, like the Sci Anglers Mastery Express I’ve been using for quite a few years. The bright orange floating section allows me to visually follow the line direction, and I can even detect strikes as the running line twitches when a bass takes the fly.

A great surface popper is Bob Popovics’ Banger.  Snappy twitches with the line hand make it pop, while slow pulls make it slurp and slide.  Most fly guys with a “feel” for creating a lifelike presentation use a combo of both retrieves to fool eager bass.  A little trick is to cut the face of the popper on a shallow slant so it spits more water. The slant-cut foam body can also be rotated so the angle faces downward, creating a sort of swimming lip. With short twitches of the line the lip dives the Banger down an inch or so, creating a struggling action that bass can’t ignore. 

Surface strikes are very cool, and at dawn and dusk small striped bass will often feed so aggressively you can rack up a good score of a dozen or so fish in an hour, but if you want bigger fish get the fly down below the surface. The big girls won’t usually expend too much effort to chase baitfish on top, nor will they compete with the quick-moving younger bass, so a deeper presentation is needed to get a response. 

An extra plus for the Clousers is the jigging action on the retrieve. The up-and-down motion of the Clouser creates a more active presentation than a simple suspending fly, and the jigging action is enhanced if the Clouser is tied on a jig-style hook, like the Owner 5317 Wide Bend hook.  Other good flies for a jigging action are patterns tied with a weighted head, like the ubiquitous Popovics’ Jiggy, which is a perennial favorite. Fly patterns with jigging actions are often ideal choices for shallow-water weakfish or sea trout, and just as in spring, some decent-size tiderunners will show up in autumn. 

Live baitfish don’t always aggressively hop around, and if you watch them carefully from a dock or bulkhead, they swim with a relaxed motion, at times appearing nearly motionless in the water unless attacked. That’s why some fly-rodders prefer the suspending presentation of a fly pattern that can pulsate with a snake-like action. The Bucktail Deceiver looks so amazingly lifelike with a swimming action you’d swear is a real bait fish. Another good choice is the Tabory Snake Fly with a bulky deer-hair head that also pushes water.  Both patterns can be tied small to imitate a silver-dollar peanut bunker, or large like a 12-inch herring, or in between to perfectly duplicate a 6-inch mullet or a pilchard. In shallow surf they’re a perfect choice with an intermediate line, but can also be fished very deep on full-sink or sink-tip lines. 

Back bay or surf, other good patterns include Polar Fiber Minnows tied high-tie style, any roundish silhouette baitfish tied in bright and dark colors with Enrico Puglisi’s EP Fibers, and several lengths and colors of Surf Candies.  There are infinite variations of these basic patterns that can be tied to imitate every baitfish that swims the coast. 

North or South, surface action or deep, along the beaches or in the back bays, autumn delivers superb fly fishing choices all along the East Coast. 

Pete Barrett has been fly fishing in salt water since the 1960s. He was a charter boat skipper for 30 years, and he was on The Fisherman magazine’s editorial staff from 1973 until his retirement. Pete has published over 1100 magazine articles and is the author of five popular books on angling. Pete is a Florida representative for the International Game Fish Association, and he’s currently an active member of the Atlantic Salt Water Flyrodders and the West Palm Beach Fishing Club. Pete lives in Juniper, Florida.

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The post Amazing Autumn Fly Fishing first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Amazing Autumn Fly Fishing appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The mythical Clouser minnow. It’s a unicorn when tied in white. This is a fly that is much more than the sum of its parts, a classic over/under fly designed by the living legend Bob Clouser himself.  They are beasts at catching fish. This fly design may be responsible for catching more fish than any other pattern in the world. Bob designed a fly that is easy to tie, tough and incredibly versatile. He designed a fly that could catch literally almost any fish that is reachable by a fly and is effective in both salt and fresh water. When the correct materials are applied in the right proportions to a hook they become something almost magical, a juggernaut amongst the legends. The Clouser dives down, jerking violently to the surface when stripped. It seduces fish into violently striking with its wounded bait fish action.

Quick think of a fish. The Clouser can catch it.

Recently on a trip to Mexico for a wedding, I was able to escape for half-a-day to explore some rumored flats right in the hotel district of Cancun. I strung up my 8wt., tied on a unicorn and headed out to the flat I had located with some internet research a few days before. With my white Clouser sailing away, I moved across the flat. Boom, my line goes tight, the first victim to the Clouser’s deadly allure is a blue runner. I want his big cousin to come to the fight. The Clouser gets a little beat up but looking good and is still in for another street fight. We push on.

Within a few minutes the second fish is on the hook. The unicorn displays its mythical powers over fish as a barracuda slams into the fly. My 20 lb. mono is surely no match for the teeth of this ferocious predator. Adult barracuda have a striking power greater than some sharks. The unicorn takes this in stride and lip hooks the toothy rocket. A short fight, some nice jumps and the barracuda comes to hand. Second species today

I continue to cast toward the flat’s edge; the tide has not risen enough to bring the fish up onto the super shallows. My Clouser is now significantly shorter as the deer hair didn’t fare well in the scrap with the cuda. I curse not using super hair. Bruised and beaten up, about 20 minutes later another predator grabs hold of the legendary Clouser. This time a yellow fin mojarra is hooked. I inspect it and pull my beat up fly out of its strange mouth. Lots of moving parts! A picture or two and it’s another smooth release.

At this point in the game you can hardly recognize the fly as a Clouser. I think about changing. I open my box… argh! Wrong box. All I have are Deceivers. Stubbornly, I continue with my beat up fighter. I still want to catch fish!  “Only a few more casts until I will head home,” I tell myself. I cast way past a few. No bites or action for a while and I start to think about my long bus ride home and why I didn’t bring more Clousers. I continue to fish. All of a sudden on a strip, my lines comes tight. The Clouser has done it again! As I fight the fish, I’m trying to guess what it is: horse eye jack, pompano, blue runner? Who knows what I will find on the end of my line. Attached to this worn out old Clouser comes a yellow fin jack, a small one no doubt but my best fight of the day. My fly is spent.

The legendary Clouser has taken its licks today seducing four species into striking. With her dance, she slips through the water teasing and aggravating fish. I will take the Clouser far. Plans are already in place for the next trip. I will travel to Scotland.  I am tracking down the 36/0 hooks and super hair in four foot lengths, my custom 26 wt. rods are being made as we speak. Once and for all I intend to prove the existence of the Loch Ness Monster. The Clouser can do it!

Until next time, do yourself a favor and tie on a Clouser Minnow.

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The post The Magical White Clouser first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post The Magical White Clouser appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

by Kristin Kovalik
Photos by Turneffe Atoll Trust (Chris Corbin and Kristin Kovalik)

Would you do it if it was easy?
If you’ve fallen in love you know it’s not always easy. But does that stop you from doing it? We fall in love with people, activities, pets and places. The memories and feelings remain long after the first encounter. If you’ve been to Turneffe Atoll in Belize you know what I’m talking about. The place is magical and not just because you can chase bonefish, tarpon and permit all day and not see another angler. The place is magical because it exists.
You fall in love with the beauty and the quiet. Turneffe has a way of making you pause, slow down and really feel the heartbeat. That feeling is a connection between the human spirit and the natural world and we’re hard wired to protect what we love.

The Price of Beauty
Located off the coast of Belize City, Turneffe Atoll is surrounded by the Caribbean Sea and at 30 miles long and 10 miles wide, it is Belize’s largest Marine Reserve. The Atoll has well-developed reefs along its entire margin while a network of highly productive back-reef flats, creeks, lagoons and lush seagrass beds string together islands and cayes of mangrove forests and white sand beaches. Ultimately it was the human experiences and connections with Turneffe’s beauty that led to the formation of the Turneffe Atoll Trust (TAT), the only non-profit organization working to protect and conserve the Atoll. Sustainable management of the fishery has been the highest priority and in 2009 TAT led an effort to pass Catch and Release legislation protecting the three main sport fish; bonefish, tarpon and permit. In 2012 TAT championed the Marine Reserve designation and the Turneffe Atoll Management Plan. Now the organization is expanding its conservation program further. Why? Because everything that makes Turneffe special to sport anglers, divers and snorkelers is also attracting developers. Despite the lack of modern conveniences on the majority of the Atoll, development pressures are increasing. Irresponsible and destructive projects like mangrove deforestation and dredging is threatening the health of the Atoll. Mangroves, seagrass and back-reef flats are interdependent and particularly sensitive habitats which act as fish breeding grounds, as well as habitat for juvenile and adult marine species. These habitats must be preserved in order to sustain Turneffe’s ecological and economic value. Doing nothing is not an option.

‘Tan saafly better than beg paad’n

To stand softly is better than to beg pardon (prevention is better than cure) is a Kriol saying in Belize. And a motto that TAT can relate to. Earlier this year TAT worked with ecotourism operators at Turneffe and the Belize Federation of Fishermen to formalize the Belize Fishermen and Ecotourism Alliance. Craig Hayes, owner of Turneffe Flats Lodge and founder of Turneffe Atoll Trust said the time was right for these two groups to come together.
“Both entities rely on healthy habitat and effective management to sustain the fishery and economically thrive. With commercial fishermen bringing local expertise and influence, and ecotourism bringing international connections and potential funding, this should be a symbiotic relationship. The time is right to work together as one voice to leverage our resources and support greater habitat protections at Turneffe Atoll.”
A partnership with the Alliance will be critical as TAT begins to legally challenge projects at Turneffe that don’t follow proper development guidelines and Belize’s environmental laws. The Alliance will help TAT educate stakeholders including fishermen and decision makers, and advocate for increased habitat protections. Easy work? No. Work that’s needed when it’s time to protect what you love? Absolutely.

The Lobster and the Conch
While fly fishermen from all over the world visit Turneffe and spend long days searching for tailing bonefish and permit, artisanal fishermen ply the waters searching for finfish, conch and lobster. For generations, livelihoods have been made or lost by fishing and Turneffe has been a major contributor to Belize’s economy and commercial harvest.
Turneffe Atoll has historically been known as one of the primary production areas for the Caribbean spiny lobster (Panulirus argus) and to a lesser extent, the queen conch (Strombus gigas). The two species form the most important components of the Belize fishery, representing over 90% of the total harvest in 2008, and an export value of US$10.3 million. However, as the numbers of fishermen increase, the harvest pressure is increasing too. Maintaining, or better yet enhancing, Turneffe conch and lobster populations is critical to the well-being of commercial artisanal fishermen and the economic cvalue of the fishery.

Prior to 2015 no adequate information existed on the queen conch or spiny lobster stocks at Turneffe Atoll, but that changed when TAT worked with a team from Montana State University to develop the first-ever comprehensive baseline survey and monitoring plan for queen conch. TAT’s priority for 2016 is to again work with the team from Montana State University and fill the information gaps by conducting a comprehensive baseline survey of spiny lobster at Turneffe. Findings will not only have applicability to conch and lobster management at Turneffe but throughout Belize and elsewhere in the Caribbean.

As Pablo Neruda wrote in his poem On the Blue Shore of Silence I need the sea because it teaches me. I don’t know if I learn music or awareness, if it’s a single wave or its vast existence, or only its harsh voice or its shining suggestion of fishes and ships. The fact is that until I fall asleep, in some magnetic way I move in the university of the waves.So the next time you find yourself fly fishing at Turneffe, taking in the beauty of the sea, allowing it to be your teacher and feeling that connection, the kind of connection that makes you fall in love with the natural world – take a moment. Ask yourself, what am I doing to protect what I love? What can I do to make sure the beauty and the magic remains for others so they too can feel the love?

Turneffe Atoll Trust has launched a two year campaign to raise awareness and funding for the protection of Turneffe Atoll. For more information about the conservation programs mentioned in this article and to financially support the efforts to keep Turneffe a healthy saltwater fishery and beautiful place visit www.turneffeatoll.org

READ MORE CONSERVATION BLOG POSTS:

LAB GROWN TUNA?
DECLINE OF THE STRIPED BASS
BONEFISH AND TARPON TRUST SYMPOSIUM 2017

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The post Turneffe Atoll, Belize first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Turneffe Atoll, Belize appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.