I’ve fly fished in many places around the world, from Tierra del Fuego to Alaska, and I love it all. But when it comes to my favorite place to fly fish, it would be, hands down, the Everglades.

It’s not just about the snook, the redfish, and all the other wonderful fish that live there. It’s also about the wading birds, the beautiful shallow flats with the fluctuating tides, the red mangrove trees along most of the shorelines, the other menagerie of trees, plants, and flowers, and so much more. I love that world. I love brackish water—I feel it runs through my veins.

It’s no coincidence that today I live about 90 minutes from the Everglades—and go as often as I can.

After spending so much time in that world through the years, I have accumulated a large collection of brackish water flies. And I’m often experimenting with some new fly in an effort to learn more. To me that is very exciting.

But as much as I love trying different flies, the truth is that I only use a handful most of the time. And these favorite flies were not chosen just because fish like to eat them; other conditions requiring certain qualities are even more important.

A fly that is lighter and or more aerodynamic, for example, is usually easier to cast, which makes it easier to make accurate casts to tailing fish or long casts when necessary. 

Trout on Chernobyl Crab

Certain areas in the southern part of the Everglades, like Flamingo, often have a lot of floating grass. In those conditions, a fly with a weed guard is of the essence. When fishing a shoreline, a weedless fly also does not get caught as often on branches when we miss. You just slowly retrieve your fly, jumping it from branch to branch, and then softly drop it on the water. It works quite often. So even in areas that do not have as much problem with floating grass, such as Chokoloskee in the north, I still use weed guards. Actually, most of my brackish water flies have weed guards. And if I encounter situations in which I don’t want the weed- guard, I just cut it off.

Muddy waters reduce a fish’s visibility to see prey (or a fly), so it’s important to use a fly that the fish can see or feel. For fish to see it better, a dark color or black fly can make a big difference. To help the fish feel it, a bulky fly that pushes water as it’s retrieved is easier for a fish to sense through its lateral line. A bulky black fly is a great choice in muddy waters. I like to add a bit of flash to these dark flies, preferably in gold, purple, and green, saving silver flash for light-colored fish patterns.

Often when fishing shorelines, you’ll get 99 percent of the strikes within a short distance from the edge. You want to retrieve slowly for the fly to stay in the hot zone as long as possible. The fly I often prefer here is one that breathes and wiggles at the slightest movement from your stripping hand or rod tip. And while there are several materials that will accomplish this very well, my preference usually is marabou. 

As a rule, the snook and redfish run bigger in the northern portion of the Everglades than in the southern portion. For southern areas such as Flamingo, my flies run about 3 inches or smaller—unless I’m blind casting in off-color water, when I’ll go with a bigger fly. Up north, my flies run from 3.75 to more than 4 inches.

These scenarios, however, are generalizations; there are always exceptions. But these rules work well for me—not only in the Glades, but also in similar conditions further north in Florida, and anywhere else redfish live.

Marabou Madness

For a long time, I had an idea for tying an all-marabou Sea-Ducer. Then, while working on my redfish book around 2011, I finally put a No. 1 hook in the vise and started to tie one. After a few weeks of trial and error, I had a fly I liked. The tail was a whole marabou feather, stem and all, with a bit of flash. The head was marabou feathers wrapped around the shank.

In the water, the fly breathes—even standing still. Indeed, I’ve taken many fish that ate the fly when I wasn’t moving it. When stripping it straight, with no action, it’s alive as it moves. And when working a shoreline, I can keep the fly breathing, wiggling, acting alive, while moving it very slowly, thus staying in the zone close to the mangrove roots longer than with many other flies.

For a while, I only fished it in all black, and caught all the gamefish in the Glades. I loved it. Then I went to other colors, like white with a red head, all chartreuse, and more. The black pattern now has a purple hackle. Another great color combo has been all tan with a pink hackle. Last year, fishing with Captain Steve Huff, I sight casted and landed a 20-pound snook with that color. I had tears in my eyes when I held him for Steve to take a photo. I was that excited.

Today, my friend Chris Dean ties them for me—from small ones just over 2.5 inches on a No. 2 hook to more than 4 inches on 1/0 hook. He ties them in a variety of colors, mostly with a bead chain, but sometimes with lead eyes. The small sizes are also great for baby tarpon. The Marabou Madness is my favorite fly for the Everglades.

Borski’s Chernobyl Crab

For many years I have been using Borski’s Chernobyl Crab to fish the Glades. The deer belly hair on the head does two things that I love: It lands quite softly on the water—in spite of the fact that I use large bead chain on this pattern—and the deer hair pushes water that the fish can feel as you retrieve the fly. It was designed to ride inverted, with the point of the hook up. And using mono for a weed guard is perfect for an inverted fly. For me, the fly imitates a shrimp hopping. I don’t know what redfish think it is, but they love it. I use the fly in all tan or all orange, which is my favorite. If you want to fish the fly deeper, it works great with lead eyes. There are always a few Chernobyl flies in one of my Everglades fly boxes.

Puglisi baitfish patterns

I’ve used these patterns to catch fish in fresh water, brackish water, and blue water—from black bass to snook to blackfin tuna. As you retrieve it, the combination of a great translucent silhouette and the large eyes makes it look very realistic. In the Everglades I use the white body with a green or brown back when the water is very clear, and the purple and black pattern in muddy or low-visibility water. The sizes I use most are from 2.5 inches to 4 inches. In areas where the water is very clear and the snook and baby tarpon are spooky, I generally pull out a small Puglisi baitfish pattern in white with a green or tan back, and use a 12-foot leader and a 6-weight clear floating fly line. This combo is deadly in those conditions.

Clouser Minnow

Designed by Bob Clouser, this fly can do almost anything, but I generally use the fly when I want it to go down. It is great with big bead-chain eyes. And if I need to go deeper, I use lead eyes. I also use this fly when fishing a sinking line. The classic pattern was tied with bucktail in white and chartreuse, and I like it just fine that way. It’s an excellent imitation of a minnow and many other juvenile fish. In the Everglades I use a Clouser to fish deep shorelines, potholes, and the mouths of creeks and rivers— often with a sinking fly line. Bouncing the heavy Clouser on the sandy bottom of beaches can be deadly.

The Sea-Ducer (and his cousin the Crystal Shrimp)

The hackle body and tail of a Sea-Ducer are constantly moving and breathing, whether you retrieve it or let it sit still for a second or two. The bulk of the hackle pushes water when retrieved, helping attract predators when they feel its presence. The fly is always seducing, always working for you. I’ve caught big snook in the Glades and big dolphin in the ocean with it. 

Around 1995 or so, my son Stephen, who tied lots of my flies until he went to college, came up with a variation of the Sea-Ducer that I ended up calling the Crystal Shrimp. He wrapped heavy cactus chenille on the shank of the hook before wrapping the feathers. The result was a fly that has a bulkier body to push water and more flash on the head. It also sinks a bit faster. The fly has produced lots of fish when you need the fly to sink more in the flats but you don’t want it to sink head first.

Dave Denkert Shrimp

Dave’s Little Tan Shrimp

Every time I go fishing with Captain Dave Denkert, this little tan fly is on at least one of his fly rods. Dave says he and his clients have caught every gamefish in the Glades with it, and it’s mostly what he uses. I’ve caught many fish myself. You watch it moving through the water, and it’s a very good imitation of a small shrimp.

The fly is small, with a No. 4 hook, all tan with painted bars and a little bead chain. It weighs nothing, and it’s very aerodynamic, so it’s easy to cast, even with your lightest rods. It’s perfect for tailing fish in shallow water. And yes, it’s very simple, but sometimes those are the best flies.

Hot Lips Snook Fly

Hot Lips

Nothing is more exciting to a fly fisher than the surface strike on a loud popper. But when fishing the flats, and especially in clear water, a popper would scare fish right and left. It’s too loud. And even if you retrieve it slowly, it still scares fish. It doesn’t belong there. But don’t despair; there is a great fly for those conditions.

The Hot Lips, created by Captain Steve Huff, is such a fly. Made with feathers and bucktail for a tail, and a foam body, this fly lands softly on the water, so it doesn’t spook fish as heavier surface flies often do. And it’s not hard to cast. 

When retrieved, the little mouth up front makes just the right amount of noise. It’s like a shrimp on the surface. When a fish takes it, the soft foam feels more realistic than most flies. It’s chewable. I find fish keep it in their mouths much longer than a popper, so you have a better chance of hooking up. The Hot Lips is also quite durable. I’ve caught many snook, baby tarpon, and redfish with the same fly. And after a good rinse with fresh water, the fly is still in my fly box waiting to fish again.

Just remember to use monofilament leader and especially mono bite tippets with this pattern. Fluorocarbon, with a much higher density than mono, will pull the surface fly down and ruin the action.

Snook on Hot Lips fly

Worm Hatch – Northeast – Striped Bass

Tarpon Cockroach – One of the Best Tarpon Flies of All-Time

10 must have flies for saltwater fly fishing

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The post Go-to Flies for the Everglades by Chico Fernandez first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Go-to Flies for the Everglades by Chico Fernandez appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

by Trey Reid

We left the dock at 6:30 a.m., a relatively late departure by the standard we had set over the previous four days of fishing around Ambergris Cay, Belize. By any definition, the trip was already an unqualified success—so productive that it’s awkward even now to recount it. I had landed four permit and recorded two Grand Slams—the most productive saltwater fly fishing trip of my life—and my friend John Bracey, with whom I fished most of the week, had caught his first two permit, the first coming on the same day as his first tarpon and closing out a Grand Slam. Over a breakfast of San Pedro Jacks and fresh mango, we agreed that we couldn’t complain if we didn’t catch a single fish on the last day, a sentiment we shared with our guide as we idled away from the dock.

“Everything today is gravy,” said Captain Gordy Marin, who had guided us all week and who was now steering his boat, Silver Ghost, beneath the Boca del Rio Bridge in San Pedro.

We idled out of the river channel into the lagoon on the west side of town, rounding the southern point of Turtle Island before heading north on the bay side of Ambergris. Ever vigilant, Marin scanned the turquoise waters as we glided across the surface. We slowed to an idle upon reaching an area where we’d found permit the previous afternoon. But the fish weren’t there, so we continued northward to another flat next to a small island. Marin pointed out a school before the boat came off plane.

Nervous water sold out the school, which materialized fully in copious dark shapes and random silver flashes. Tips of dorsal fins and tails punctured the gently rippled surface less than a hundred yards from the boat. Bracey scrambled over the panga’s starboard side as the anchor found purchase on brilliant white sand. Marin eased into the water behind him, and they made a quick but cautious approach to get ahead of the blithely feeding school.

Bracey had several good shots about 75 yards from the boat before the school made a hard right turn toward the rising sun—well above the horizon now but still low in the eastern sky. Their course was bringing them straight toward me and the anchored panga. I pulled my 9-weight from the rod holder and stripped line off the reel as I climbed out of the boat and scurried into casting position.

The school was moving right to left about 50 feet in front of me, and it was massive. I laid a Raghead Crab in front of the lead fish and slowly stripped it. Nothing. I sent another cast into the front-left portion of the school and made long, slow strips. They were on it, turning hard to track the fly straight toward me. My heart rate accelerated with every inch of the gap they closed: 30 feet … 25 feet … keep stripping, man … 20 feet … eat it, you bastards!

I imagined a watery demise, being overrun by a school of a hundred feeding permit, flogged to death by black tails, puffy lips sucking on the remnants of my floating corpse on a Belizean flat—poetic retribution, perhaps, for the zeal with which I’ve pursued their kin. But with just a few feet of fly line outside the rod tip, the school slowly peeled to its right and reversed direction.

“Let’s go find another school,” Marin said.

We barely had time to plane out the panga before another big school appeared a few hundred yards north of where we had just been refused.

Ignominy and Incredulity

I’m not sure it’s possible to feel guilty about catching fish, but I came close last April in Belize. I still struggle to describe the sensation; a lingering fear of misunderstanding and wrong assumptions about my motivations makes me hesitant even now to mine the experience too deeply.

Like most permit anglers, I’m familiar with failure. I live in landlocked flyover country, more than 1,000 miles from the nearest permit water. As my evolution as a saltwater fly angler has progressed, I’ve spent a considerable amount of money and time with modest returns in the way of permit. But that changed drastically—and dramatically—during five days in northern Belize.

I landed a permit within the first hour of fishing on the first day of the trip, and I was truthfully content not to catch another fish all week. But the fishing only got better. Two days later I watched Bracey catch his first tarpon, a hefty resident fish in the 50-pound range, and then I subdued a similar fish an hour and a half later. A few hours after that, I climbed atop Marin’s poling platform to behold him and Bracey wading toward a school of permit under a leaden sky. Minutes later, my friend was admiring his first permit, which was also the final element of his first Grand Slam. Certain that I’d have to experience that rare thrill as a vicarious witness, I was surprised when Marin told me to grab my fly rod and get my ass in gear to intercept the school again. After two missed eats in quick succession, I was hooked up to my second permit in three days. Thirty minutes later, I was overjoyed to catch a scrawny bonefish that gave me my first Grand Slam.

We were breathing rarefied air, but I wasn’t reticent about sharing tales of our good fortune with friends back at El Pescador Lodge. I had never tasted this kind of angling success, and I was inebriated by the mysterious elixir. So this is what success feels like?

The next day, elation almost imperceptibly gave way to ignominy and incredulity. We started early again, and I was treading water to take a picture with another solid tarpon before the San Pedro waterfront was fully awake. Bracey and I both landed bonefish before lunchtime as we awaited our turn to board the permit carousel on the flat where we’d both caught them the previous day. The word was out among Ambergris guides, and the school was getting pounded, with guides lining up their boats to have their anglers take turns wading onto the flat.

Marin had seen enough, so we left to look for less-pressured fish, finding them a few miles away. Bracey hooked up on his first cast to a school of big permit, but the fish slipped the hook 30 seconds into the fight. Marin spotted another school a few minutes later, and we waded toward them under the bright midday sun. They ignored the first presentation, but after my second cast and a few long, slow strips, the line came tight. It was my third permit of the week, a bruiser leaning toward 25 pounds, and it capped a second Grand Slam. Bracey caught the day’s second permit just a few minutes later, and I added my second of the day and fourth of the trip before we headed back to the lodge.

I was ecstatic, but conflicted thoughts crept into my head. This isn’t supposed to be happening. Is this what impostor syndrome feels like?

Bracey, who’s unflappably modest, must’ve felt something, too. “You know, maybe it’s getting to the point that we shouldn’t say anything about this when we get back,” he said. “I mean, if somebody asks for details about our day, I’m not gonna lie about it. But maybe we shouldn’t volunteer anything.”

Moonwalking up the dock was out of the question. Until it wasn’t. But we were the first boat back to the lodge, and only our wives and Marin witnessed my shameless spectacle. Just getting it out of my system, you know. And we still had one more day of fishing.

So much gravy

It was the last of five days on the water, the last Friday of the month, the day before a new moon. Permit were everywhere, but we hadn’t yet fed one despite several good early shots. That was about to change.

Marin got the boat well ahead of another big school. More than a hundred strong, it was pushing northward parallel to an uninhabited cay. We dropped anchor in knee-deep water and all three bailed out of the boat to ease into position. Bracey hooked up quickly, line peeling off his reel as the rest of the fish stayed tightly together and slowly reversed course via a wide arcing turn in slightly deeper water. Marin and I took off to intercept the school, and there was no easing into position this time. We rushed southward, sporadically sinking into loose silty pockets in the sand. I covered the hundred yards through thigh-deep water and sucking mud in a time best measured by a sundial, my heart pounding from a combination of exertion and excitement, but we were in position.

I cast in front of the school at a perpendicular angle. It wasn’t my best presentation, and Marin made sure I knew that. The captain and I had reached a shaky détente by the last day of the trip. He had revealed himself as a demanding young guide on the first day, brash almost to the point of insolence at times. But he had put us on the fish, and we were improving as a result of his prodding and pressure. He wanted perfection and expected at least something approaching excellence; mediocrity was intolerable. “I’m not gonna lie to you,” he said. “That cast wasn’t good.”

I reminded him that I was literally twice his age, and that I didn’t usually run the 100-meter dash in water and mud before casting to a school of a hundred permit.

“It’s not easy to catch permit, man,” he said. “You got to work for it sometimes.”

Fair enough. We quickly went back to work, getting into another school, or maybe the same school, a few minutes later. Marin got in on the action and doubled with Bracey, and I brought the morning’s fourth permit to hand 15 minutes later. My second fish of the morning gave us five before 9 a.m. And it was all gravy.

“Yeah, man,” Marin said. “But we got so much gravy, it’s gonna get so deep it’s gonna cover up the turkey.”

Our metaphorical gravy, a fly fishing dream made of glimmering slabs with forked black tails, indeed grew deeper. We spent the next four hours chasing two big schools of permit that roamed back and forth along the cay, wading into the water for stealth when we could and casting from the bow of Marin’s panga when there wasn’t time to scramble over the side. Together, we hooked six more permit, bringing five to hand. The sixth should’ve been landed, but it was part of a triple hook-up that Marin lost in his zeal to make it a quadruple.

I hooked up with a dinner-plate permit from the front of the panga during the day’s last frenzy, jumping over the port side to fight it while Bracey crawled over the starboard gunwale to chase a portion of the school that veered right when it split in two. Marin also waded into the fray, grabbing one of my rods and sending a cast toward the part of the school that lingered with my fish. He stripped and set the hook on Silver Ghost’s tenth permit of the day. Meanwhile, Bracey covered about 150 circuitous yards through soupy sand, still in the game, advancing and retreating, drifting and dancing in all directions as the permit dictated. He had numerous good shots that didn’t yield eats. “Run, John,” Marin coached and cheered. “More right, man. More right. Go, John! You can do it, man! I trust you, John. Run, John!” I couldn’t hold back laughter. Or my opinion, yelling, “Don’t die, John!”

Now a dozen yards left of the boat, I kept the smallish permit tight but wasn’t rushing anything—if I’m being honest, to prolong the chance of a triple hook-up. Bracey’s effort was rewarded, and line surged off of his reel as the day’s 11th permit bowed the rod. I gulped from the cup of permit glory, taking in the spectacular sight of three fly fishers with bent rods, pulling against fastidious fish and long odds. I was still incredulous, but no longer sheepish. I reckoned that I had paid my dues in money, sweat, time, and disappointment. It’s supposed to be fun, and right then, I couldn’t imagine it ever being better.

Marin broke my reverie when he shuffled back to the panga, still fighting his permit, and grabbed another fly rod out of the rod holder. “What the hell are you doing?” I asked. “I can’t help it, man,” he said. “I’m greedy.”

Our cocky young guide tucked the fly rod with the fish tethered to it between his thighs and laid out a long cast with the second spare rod. It was too much gravy. The quadriceps method of fighting permit caused tension on the line, and Marin’s fish broke off. Bracey and I landed our fish, kneeling down in the water to release the fish together as Marin snapped a photograph.

I might never pass this way again. I certainly don’t expect to. And that’s okay. I’m Southern; I know a thing or two about gravy—it’s delicious, but too much of it isn’t good for you.

Topwater Permit

Ruben Martin’s Epoxy Crab: Permit Fly

Fly Fishing For Permit & Bonefish in Tulum, Mexico

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The post Permit guilt, creeping conflict, and fly fishing ecstasy in Belize first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Permit guilt, creeping conflict, and fly fishing ecstasy in Belize appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

by Joseph Ballarini

On my first cast to a bonefish, on Biscayne Bay near Miami in August 2008, I hooked up.

We rolled out of Black Point Marina, into a skinny-water eel grass flat that was as smooth as melted glass. The sun was starting to surface in its awesome orange glow, illuminating the horizon. We saw spiders the size of birds high up in the mangroves in the early morning light; there may have been a bird caught in one of the webs. What am I doing here?

We traveled by canoe through a very small creek. It was shallow, muddy, smelled like sulfur, and there were lots of bugs. What was I thinking this morning?

The creek fed into a small cove named Black Point about 10 miles south of Miami Beach. As I was admiring the sunrise, just as we entered the creek mouth onto the flats, the guide whispered, “See them? There they are!”

I was nervous—very nervous. I had just started fly fishing after being a bait chucker since age four, and frankly, my fly casting wasn’t good. “I’ll get you closer,” the guide said. “Get ready to cast.” My heart was racing at about 120 beats per minute. I felt my palms getting sweaty, and the grip on my cork handle started to loosen. The cork was indented from the raw pressure of my grip, but it just didn’t seem tight enough, so I just kept squeezing. My body felt heavier, and there was little I could do about it.

“Twelve o’clock, about 45 feet. See them?”

I did. There were six or seven big bonefish right in front of me—tailing. I’d never seen them tail at such short range. This was my chance to catch my first bone on a fly. I was excited, and I could taste success.

I completely flubbed the first cast, throwing the fly about 20 feet short and about 30 feet to the left of the school. I picked up my line with a water haul, which at that moment I really didn’t know existed. Somehow, maybe with the adrenaline or just plain luck, I fired a 40-foot laser into the center of the small school of tailing bones. I saw a flash of silver and heard the guide scream, “He ate it! Set it! set it!”

Huge Fish and a Bad Knot

I pulled back on the line and set the hook on a roughly 7-pound bonefish. My rod bent like I had never seen it bend—because I had never had a fish of that brawn on it before. With the reel screaming, the mighty bone pulled off about 150 feet of line in a blazing initial run that only took seconds.

“You are the luckiest guy in the world,” my guide bellowed. “No one catches a bonefish on their first cast.” Technically, it was my second cast, but it didn’t matter. As quick as the fish was hooked, it was gone. My knot gave way, leaving a pig-tailed leader shooting back at the canoe. I quickly retrieved my line, and the guide grabbed it for a closer look.

“You need to check your knots, man,” he said. “You just lost a huge fish because of a knot.”

I had a pit in my stomach, and for the first time since I was four years old, I didn’t want to fish anymore. That was probably good, because there weren’t any more fish that morning. I felt like a complete failure, but there was a part of me that thought I could do it again. The optimism kept me coming back.

Finally, near Matheson Hammock in Miami, it happened again. It was the same scenario,

but I had been fishing without a guide for about a week. I launched my kayak from the public beach on a pebble shore which wasn’t far from a channel. It was overcast and warm for the time of year, the tides were very dramatic, and there was rain on the horizon. Only lightning would make me leave the flats, especially after waking up at 4:30 a.m. to get on the water by sunrise. But indeed, there was lightning amid the raid on the distant horizon. I didn’t have much time. My favorite 8-weight was ready, handle at my feet with the tip off the bow. This time I tied my own leader and checked my knots twice. I even tied my own fly, Peterson’s Spawning Shrimp, my go-to bonefish fly at the time.

While poling my kayak over a deep boat channel, I saw something in the distance. There they were—six or seven bonefish tailing in about a foot of water on an eel grass flat. They were fat and happy. It almost looked like the same school as that first connection, but the chance of that was virtually nonexistent.

Here we go again

I pole with a rope looped around my wrist. The rope is tied to the anchor line, which allows me to loop the rope around my push pole and gently drop it behind the kayak to drag behind my vessel, well out of the way. I pushed hard one more time to get into a better position.

I looped my rope, dropped the pole, picked up the fly rod, and attempted to visualize my attack.

This time I was ready. Calmer, more experienced, and a much better caster, but still no bones to date, so the nervousness persisted to a significant degree. In this moment, you just accept the tachycardia and sweaty palms, knowing that the hunt is on.

I began my cast, very sloppy and too fast on the backcast, which seems to be the norm while casting when fish are actually present. I threw a 35-foot lob that hit the water like a rock, just to the right of the tailing fish. Fortunately, they were just starting to move right. Sometimes it’s better to be lucky than good.

There was almost no light, so little that I was surprised I saw them in the first place. I couldn’t see what was going on, but before I could react, something took the fly, and a fish was on.

Again the rod had a ferocious bend and a crazy bounce. But this one wasn’t as big as that first hooked bonefish. It took off into the boat channel that I had just crossed, and before I knew it, it was well into the holy crap part of my backing. Over 250 feet of backing was gone, and at no point did I have any control of the fish.

Then it stopped suddenly. My heart sank as I thought the fish was lost. In frustration, I began to reel as fast as my hand could move and watched the kayak start to drift toward the direction

of the fish’s run. It was still on. In a few minutes I had retrieved my backing and was back to fly line, but at that point the resting fish recovered.

Another screaming run began and soon put me back into holy crap territory. I noticed that the lightning, which had been far off on the horizon, was much closer, and rain began

to fall. I was standing on a kayak in Biscayne Bay in a lightning storm fighting a bonefish that just wouldn’t make it easy. I debated whether I should break it off and head for shore, but my ego got the best of me, and I refused to let it go. I was tired of failure and frustration, and I was going for broke. Succeed or die trying, which in retrospect was incredibly stupid.

I started to pressure the fish hard. Really hard. I was expecting him to break off at any moment and become another “almost” story. To my amazement, however, he began to wilt. He lost his mojo and any desire to fight. Again, my heart raced. I could taste success.

Within five minutes, my leader was to the tip, and I had a bonefish—my first bonefish—to the

side of the kayak. He had surrendered. Soaking wet from the rain, not remotely concerned about the lightning, I pulled him out of the water, so excited that I dropped my rod in the

water. But it didn’t matter.

There it was—mirrored silver scales, blackish green stripes, unrealistic pink lips, and my

Peterson’s spawning shrimp stuck in its top lip. It was slippery, slimy, and stinky, but it was a bonefish, caught on a fly, finally, in my hands.

It was glorious. The most beautiful fish I had ever seen. I just stared at it, taking in the details for too long before realizing it was raining hard, there was lightning nearby, and this poor bonefish couldn’t breathe. I lunged for the camera for a quick photo, but to my dismay the battery was dead. Adding more insult, I dropped the fish in the water and stepped on the fly. I can be such a bonehead.

One rookie mistake after another. But after months of frustration, repeated failure, and countless hours of research and investigation, I had just caught my first bonefish on a fly. I soon realized this was more than an obsession. Perseverance in the face of constant failure and determination to succeed had turned my obsession into a healthy addiction.

I still had so many questions. Why was it so hard to find good information about fly fishing in salt water? Why did it take me more than six months to land a bonefish when I’d been

fishing my whole life? Where are other places to fish? What other species are as challenging? Where can I get really solid advice and real data? I didn’t have any answers. Then it hit me. I’m a bonehead … a fly fish bonehead.

A quest in earnest

While heading back to my truck, riding the high of catching my first bonefish on a fly, lingering questions substantially limited my joy. My father had me out fishing since I was four; it was something I had been doing my entire life. Why did I have such a hard time catching a bonefish?

Was this the pinnacle of my fishing experience? Are other fish going to be as difficult?

What other fish are out there?

Well, I found other fish, plenty of them: tarpon, permit, snook, tuna, shark, barracuda, billfish, and roosterfish. There are milkfish, trevally and queen fish in Australia. There are fish similar to permit in Asia, as well as a fish in the Indo-Pacific called snub-nose pompano. Hawaii has giant bonefish. There are many targets for fly anglers. Each one requires a fair amount of knowledge and competence.

So my search for competence began, emphasis on “search.” There were hundreds if not thousands of websites for fly fishing. To my dismay, most of them were utterly useless. I found plenty of dead links and lots of self-serving information that was just trying to sell products or book a trip.

My research and quest for knowledge was stymied by a glaring lack of good information. I wanted data on species, migration patterns, typical foods, which flies mimicked which foods, destinations, weather conditions, and tides. It was stuff I couldn’t find without reading hundreds of pages and rooting through piles of garbage. The internet was full of information that was mostly unorganized, incomplete, and inaccurate, and there were a lot of people masquerading as authorities.

I remember searching for “bonefish fly” and getting results for nymph fishing in Pennsylvania.

Trout fishing is fun, but I wanted to learn about saltwater fly fishing and get better at it.

I wanted to learn how to fly fish effectively in salt water for the top ten or 15 species. One fish in six months—that’s not fun, but it was a learning process. I was done putting in time and paying dues. The addiction had taken over now; I wanted to hunt for fish, not information.

For the next 18 months, I researched saltwater fly fishing information and began to create database. I fished with every captain that I could from Florida to the eastern Caribbean, from California to Australia, and made notes and took photos and video. My travels took me to the Florida Keys, Panama, Costa Rica, Mexico, California, Australia, the Bahamas, the Windward Islands—anywhere to learn. And I did just that.

I practiced casting and specific techniques for casting in wind and less desirable conditions. I began studying the art of fly tying and collected flies from all over the world.

My science background enabled me to search data, organize it, and understand it. It became more of a study of the species and the ecosystems that they inhabit rather than a fly fishing study. If you understand the behavior of the fish, then you understand how to target and hunt for that fish. If you know a species’ migration patterns, for example, why would you need fishing calendar?

I gathered a lot of solid knowledge from all of that traveling, as well as many tips and tricks, and most important, an understanding of how to read water and how to read fish. During my travels and time on the water, perhaps the biggest thing I learned was that our waters are in trouble. It was all too common to hear captains talk about how plentiful the oceans used to be.

Seeing debris washed up on scenic Caribbean beaches and even in Biscayne Bay, polluting the system and endangering the wildlife, was troubling. Rips and scars in the sea grass and on manatees from the carelessness of recreational motor boaters. It’s just a matter of time before it’s all gone.

Every time I go out fishing on the kayak, I come home with a bag of trash. Not my trash, but trash that was floating in our water that I collected for proper disposal. I can’t tell you how many beer bottles, plastic bags, and chunks of Styrofoam I’ve collected.

I found that not only was I becoming a knowledgeable fly fisherman, but also an informed and very concerned guardian of the ecosystems the fish inhabit. I wanted to make people aware of the problem and do something to help support the trusts that study and protect the waters and species.

And so it began

This was the catalyst for Flyfishbonehead. “Hunt for fish, not information.” That’s catchy, but there’s a bigger goal. Let’s create awareness of dangers posed to our ecosystems. Perhaps we can create a global network of members, and maybe this network can make a difference.

What if I could create a website with accurate, organized information that promotes the sport of fly fishing in salt water and supports the charitable trusts that support the ecosystems?

So I did.

In 2010, I started organizing my database and planning a website. I had thousands of photos and hours of video: tuna, blue marlin, sailfish, roosterfish, all kinds of sharks, striped bass, weakfish, bluefish, tarpon, bonefish, trevally. I had so much information to sort. It was overwhelming at first, but after a few years and many terabytes of storage, it’s now somewhat manageable. And I’ve kept fishing and traveling.

My friends and fishing buddies were initially a bit concerned about my “addiction.” They later recognized that it had become a healthy outlet for the good of the sport and the environment,  and they began to help. Like old college buddies chanting “chug, chug, chug,” they kept me moving forward and contributed as much as they could, and in 2011, we created Flyfishbonehead.com and Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

Little did I know how insanely difficult it was going to be to launch a website and magazine. With so many details, countless considerations, photos and videos to edit and process, writing copy, and verifying copy to ensure accuracy, there wasn’t enough time in the day to get everything done. We wanted it to be great; everything had to be perfect. But it didn’t work out that way.

We were almost a month behind schedule, and due to some major obstacles and a few failed designs, it was another year until Tail Fly Fishing Magazine launched in August 2012 during the beta trial of Flyfishbonehead.com.

In September 2012, the beta tag came off, and Flyfishbonehead.com was finally officially launched. My addiction was fly fishing for bonefish, but now it has become fly fishing and also making sure future generations of fly anglers get to enjoy the same waters and experiences that we now enjoy. Perhaps together, as a global fly fishing community, we can even make it better.

I still remember catching that first bonefish. Almost getting struck by lightning. Dropping a Sage rod in the bay. Stepping on the fly and hooking my foot. I’m a bonehead….a fly fish bonehead. You’d think that would’ve been enough to make me quit. But addiction is a very strange thing.

Reflections from the Mill House Podcast

Alive & Well in the Florida Keys

Chico Fernandez joins Tail Fly Fishing Magazine

The post Addiction first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Addiction appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

Worm “hatches” draw attention from fly-rodders from all walks of the sport. They are enormously appealing to freshwater anglers because of the similarity to dry fly hatches adored by trout fishers; for many of these folks, worm events are the only saltwater fishing they consider all season. But the worms interest salty fly-rodders as well—lots of them.

School fish under 30 inches can become maddeningly difficult in the midst of a worm hatch, challenging even the veterans. But despite there being no guarantee the event will even unfold as anticipated on any given day, worm hatches consistently draw daily gatherings of like-minded anglers simply for the camaraderie of fishing with on-the-water friends.

Similar to dry fly fishing, these are entirely visual events. The riveting nature of technical fly casting to surface-feeding gamefish cannot be overstated. Northeast worm events attract attention from many game species, including striped bass, bluefish, and hickory shad, and they represent a premium angling opportunity for fly-fishers.

Cinder Worm Spawning Dynamics

Let’s clarify a common misunderstanding up front: The cinder worm event is a spawn, not a hatch. The label “worm hatch” is a misnomer likely derived from its similarity to insect hatches common in fresh water. Despite the unpredictable nature of the worm event, there are environmental and meteorological factors that clearly influence cinder worm spawning. From an angling perspective, the overall quality of the event depends on two elements: the timing and intensity of the spawn and the arrival and number of migratory gamefish. Some years, the worms conduct their mating ritual entirely ahead of the migratory stripers’ arrival, with little interference from them.

Cinder worms are not commercially important, so there’s relatively little scientific information on their life cycle and habits. But here’s what we know based on years of anecdotal observation. Like all living creatures, they have preferred habitats and need particular environmental conditions to flourish. In general, they prefer clean, relatively shallow (10 feet or less), protected coastal waters, such as quiescent harbors, bays, salt ponds, estuaries, and along the flanks of slow-moving coastal rivers. They appear to prefer full ocean salinity, rather than brackish environments, and they like soft, fertile sediments such as mud and silt, opposed to coarse, granular strata like sands and gravels. Similar to freshwater insect hatches associated with portions of distinct rivers, certain inshore locations sport renowned cinder worm populations. Fly anglers know them well: Rhode Island’s salt ponds, the rivers and bays along the Connecticut shoreline, the many salt ponds and creeks associated with Massachusetts’s Cape Cod and Islands, many of Long Island’s bays and estuaries, and certain of Maine’s coastal rivers and bays.

So what ignites the spawn? As with all cold-blooded marine life, it’s principally water temperature. Conditions for worm procreation are more delicate than with warm-blooded animals that can regulate their body temperatures. With sedimentary creatures such as worms, favorable spawning conditions become even more complex—the bottom strata within which the worms reside must also attain a suitable temperature.

What influences temperatures within the cinder worm’s habitat? The sun? The moon? Is it ambient water and tidal flow? To some extent, it’s all of these. There’s a widely held notion that worm spawning is governed by moon phase—the full moon, in particular. The full and new moon phases are associated with larger tides that result in greater tidal flow and exaggerated water levels (higher highs and lower lows), influencing both sediment and water temperatures. For example, extra-low tides enhance sediment warming, especially when occurring on sunny days. Conversely, increased water levels and tide flow may retard sediment and water warming, especially during cool, overcast periods. Water column and sediment temperatures, however, are overwhelmingly governed by solar radiation and daily weather.

Based on years of observation, the magic conditions that ignite and sustain worm spawning appear to be when sediments and waters approach 60 degrees Fahrenheit. Worms begin to appear with sediment temperatures in the upper 50s, with associated surface water a couple of degrees warmer. With springtime solar radiation increasing daily, water temperatures accelerate across the 60-degree mark during the event, generally ending up in the low 60s by the end of the spawn.

Despite these observations, the belief in full moon magic persists. Consider that annual cinder worm spawning can occur over as little as one week, or it may stretch as long as three weeks, depending on prevailing weather. Even with a week-long event, there’s a 25 percent chance the full moon will occur sometime during the spawn. The longer the event persists, the more likely it will coincide with the full moon at some point. It’s wild when it does overlap with the peak of the worm’s ritual—a rising evening moon illuminating a surreal swarm of frenzied worms dimpling the surface adds immensely to the already eerie experience. I have had stellar worm fishing through the new moon, the full moon, and during both quarter-moon phases.

After the event has seasonally commenced, there’s no guarantee of daily consistency. Day-to-day weather plays a huge role in the event’s intensity and progression. Anything that disrupts gradual warming into the low 60s will slow or even shut down the spawn. Cold fronts, heavy rains, and cool weather out of the east have the potential to derail the event for a day or two. Ideal spawning conditions do not unfold concurrently throughout a given worm location with uniformity. It’s important to understand that the action moves about an estuary or salt pond throughout the event, materializing in certain areas as suitable conditions prevail, then subsiding and commencing elsewhere in the pond or bay, as prime spawning conditions are attained in those areas.

Worm spawning has a beginning, a middle, and an end—both daily and throughout the seasonal event. It generally starts out slowly with a few worms surfacing here and there and intensifies to a crescendo, and then gradually subsides to its conclusion. At the start of the seasonal event, the first few days often have weak worm showings. The same is true from the daily perspective—the early stages are generally sparse with worm activity and then build in intensity before declining to a trickle. At its peak, the number of worms per square foot of water surface can be staggering. This worm density heavily impacts the quality of fishing and your angling strategy.

While most locations present worm spawns commencing in the evening with action continuing well into darkness, other areas offer late afternoon activity that runs until the sun goes down before dwindling to a stop—another example of the mystery associated with these nebulous events. Local knowledge is invaluable when fishing unfamiliar waters; tribal insight is readily available through online resources and area tackle shops.

Unique Event, Unique Approach

As is often the case with small prey, sheer numbers and density can render a match-the-hatch approach ineffective. We see this during intense freshwater hatches and elsewhere in salt water when vast schools of small bait, such as anchovies or juvenile menhaden, are corralled and blitzed by gamefish. The essential problem with all of these situations is the same—getting your fly noticed among throngs of naturals. For worm swarms, simple strategies can overcome this problem.

First, success in worm events hinges on relative numbers rather than absolute quantity of prey. If there were 1,000 worms available and one feeding striped bass, our odds of catching it would be much lower than in a scenario of 1,000 worms with 1,000 stripers feeding on them. This example is exaggerated, but it illuminates the point: Many anglers do well early and late in worm events, both daily and seasonally, when worm numbers are low and their ratio to  gamefish numbers is also relatively low. The deck becomes stacked in the angler’s favor. At the event’s onset and conclusion, when there are hungry fish and relatively few worms to go around, your fly is much more likely to be taken.

Stripers have extremely good vision, and when pursuing easy-to-capture prey like worms, they can take their time and be careful and selective. During the latter portions of afternoon hatches and throughout evening hatches, however, the fish often take flies more readily and appear to be less leader shy. I believe this is simply because they don’t see hooks and leaders as clearly in low-light conditions, making these periods more productive.

Angling Tactics

Worm events can be challenging, but with common sense tactics tailored to this event—and attention to detail—you will succeed. It’s most important to know that no one kills it every time in worm events. Everyone has their share of good days and bad days, with plenty of average outings in between.

For tackle, 7- and 8-weight rods are ideal for the small flies and light winds commonly encountered during the worm spawn. And they’re a lot of fun when playing the 20- to 30-inch stripers typically encountered. There may be larger bass in the mix, but there are far fewer of them, and they’re statistically hooked much less often. Floating lines are standard, along with light 8- to 12-pound-test monofilament leaders, which supports presenting tiny, lightweight flies to fish sipping naturals within the surface film. Light leaders enable more lifelike fly movement with delicate worm patterns. Fluorocarbon is an option, but I believe it’s unnecessary during low-light conditions—it also sinks, while mono floats. I often employ a two-fly rig (fishing two flies on a leader) as it’s a simple way to increase your fly’s presence in the worm swarm, effectively putting another good card in your hand.

Feeding is not random. By paying close attention to the surface boils, anglers can determine where small schools of stripers are slurping worms and the direction they’re moving. This enables you to position yourself within presentation range of where the fish have been surfacing, as well as anticipate where to present your fly when they reveal themselves within range. Gauging the path of the fish and leading them with your cast is usually more successful than randomly tossing at surface boils that have already occurred; you want to enable the fish to spot your fly ahead of them and swim to it naturally. With all the worms in the water, getting takes remains a game of percentages, regardless of the fly you are fishing. Persistently presenting your fly ahead of roving packs of fish—or within large clusters of feeders—increases your odds. Eventually one will mistake your fly for the real thing and take it.

When a fish does take your fly, resist giving a hard strip set. Worms are easy prey to capture, and the bass are barely sipping them. Instead, a slow draw coupled with a modest rod lift—a “trout set”—will seal the deal better than yanking the fly away from a casually feeding fish.

Flies for Worm Fishing

Many cinder worm flies have been developed. Every worm aficionado, it seems, has a unique pattern or two to their credit. It’s impossible to present them all in a single article, but by examining key pattern attributes, anglers can develop (or purchase) flies to establish their own favorites that they’ll fish with confidence.

I can’t overstate how fickle striped bass can become regarding what flies they’ll take—or not—on a given day. In general, flies that roughly match the length of the prevailing worms are a great starting point. During an evening’s fishing, worms may range from 1 inch to more than 3 inches. I generally shoot for the middle—2 to 3 inches. Light, delicate patterns that ride high in the water often perform well. If they have inherent wormlike movement, that’s even better. Keep in mind just how fragile the naturals are; scoop one off the surface by hand and you’ll see (cinder worms will not nip you, as other worm species can).

As for color, most proven patterns are in the pink-red-orange color band, but rust, brown, olive, and even white will take fish. I sense that the silhouette of the pattern against the water’s surface in the evening, and its movement, are most important to fooling fish. Dark (usually black) highlights are common at the tips of cinder worms and their imitations, but not all worms display these attributes, and I’m uncertain how vital they are to a pattern’s success. Closed-cell foam, popular with freshwater dry flies, can be highly effective in the composition of a worm imitation. Flies using this material ride on the surface film, creating an extremely enticing wake during the retrieve (credit this to Captain Bob Hines, a venerable Rhode Island worm hatch guide). Though cinder worms are not flashy, many reliable patterns do include delicate flash material, perhaps enhancing visibility to draw more attention. One worm pattern attribute I consider vital is a small, light-wire hook. Such hooks are sufficient to secure even a 10-pound striper, and with a sporting touch, these bass may be effectively landed with the 7- and 8-weight tackle described earlier. I prefer size-4 or even size-6 Daiichi or Tiemco hooks, and I’ve taken plenty of fish using flies dressed on size-4 or -6 bronze freshwater streamer hooks. Bronze hooks rust easily and have relatively short lives, but they make for delicate flies that ride high in the water and appear quite wormlike. I’ll take more hookups over durability anytime.

Until We Meet Again

When the cinder worm spawn is over, that’s it for the season. It will not recur weeks or months down the road. Toward the end of the event, waters that were alive with bizarre worm perpetuation and impressive predation gradually go silent—until the cycle repeats itself the following spring, when those same waters again come alive with cinder worms and striped bass, magnetically drawing a cadre of fly-fishers, many of whom reunite but once a year for this special event.

by Alan Caolo

Worm Swarming—At Long Last

Atlantic Striped Bass: Pisces in Peril | Mark White

That Albacore Season – T. Edward Nickens

The post Worm Hatch – Northeast – Striped Bass first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Worm Hatch – Northeast – Striped Bass appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

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The post Fly Fishing Magazine Preview – Tail Fly Fishing Magazine Issue 59 appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Life, Loss, and Skinny Texas Reds first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Life, Loss, and Skinny Texas Reds appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The Family Trevally

Terrors of the Pacific, Whatever Their Size

by E. Donnall Thomas Jr.

I was living in Alaska when Christmas Island—once known, if at all, as nothing but a remote speck of land in the mid-Pacific—began to emerge as a saltwater fly rod destination. One of the first lessons one learns upon arrival in Alaska is that going somewhere warm and sunny during the winter is more a matter of necessity than indulgence. For several years running I’d headed to the Caribbean, where I’d learned at least the basics of flats fishing for bonefish and other species. Traveling due south to Christmas by way of Hawaii sounded a lot easier than traversing the continent, and in the wake of glowing preliminary reports, a regular fishing partner and I signed up.

When the great British navigator Captain James Cook arrived at Christmas Island in 1777, he launched a skiff from HMS Resolution and sent it through the leeward gap in the reef to explore the atoll’s inner lagoon. His log reports that the crew returned with tales of abundant “crevallies”  (perhaps a clue to the origins of the name for our Atlantic jack crevalle). This was welcome news to a hungry crew eager for a break from salt pork.

Learn more about fishing for Trevally, and some of the destinations  Click Here to Subscribe or Pick Up the Latest Issue

The post The Family Trevally first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post The Family Trevally appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

Tying and Fishing The Everglades Seven

Go-to patterns for the Glades

by Chico Fernandez 

I’ve fly fished in many places around the world, from Tierra del Fuego to Alaska, and I love it all. But when it comes to my favorite place to fly fish, it would be, hands down, the Everglades.

It’s not just about the snook, the redfish, and all the other wonderful fish that live there. It’s also about the wading birds, the beautiful shallow flats with the fluctuating tides, the red mangrove trees along most of the shorelines, the other menagerie of trees, plants, and flowers, and so much more. I love that world. I love brackish water—I feel it runs through my veins.

It’s no coincidence that today I live about 90 minutes from the Everglades—and go as often as I can.   Learn more about fishing the Everglades Click Here to Subscribe or Pick Up the Latest Issue

Chico’s First Fly Pick is Marabou Madness

For a long time, I had an idea for tying an all-marabou Sea-Ducer. Then, while working on my redfish book around 2011, I finally put a No. 1 hook in the vise and started to tie one. After a few weeks of trial and error, I had a fly I liked. The tail was a whole marabou feather, stem and all, with a bit of flash. The head was marabou feathers wrapped around the shank.

Learn tie and fish The Seven Everglades Patterns  Click Here to Subscribe or Pick Up the Latest Issue

The post The Everglades Seven first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post The Everglades Seven appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

Part of Gartside’s genius was developing deadly yet easy-to-tie flies. His Gurgler and Slider topwater patterns became saltwater standards. Jack’s book Striper Strategies was described by reviewer Steve Raymond as “one of the most remarkable striper-fishing manuals to see the light of day.”

Gartside, who died in 2009, was one of a kind. He appeared on the cover of Fly Fishing in Salt Waters, making a cast while riding his large inflatable giraffe “Gerald.” When Lefty Kreh was asked his opinion of Gartside, he said, “His paint don’t dry.”

I met Gartside while helping at Robinson’s booth at a fly fishing trade show in Marlborough, Massachusetts. Robinson’s friend Dale Linder was also attending the show. Gartside was holding court, joking and tying flies at a nearby table. He invited the three of us to try fly fishing for striped bass when the weather warmed up.

On a bright June afternoon, we waded onto a Newburyport striper flat. Gartside caught one small schoolie after another while the rest of us got skunked. Not one to mince words, Gartside told me my retrieve resembled a motion he associated with self-gratification.

I was more concerned with the waves filling my boots. When I realized I couldn’t walk, I yelled for help.

“Don’t worry!” Gartside replied. “When your waders are full, you’ll reach neutral buoyancy.”

Linder had more humanitarian instincts. Luckily, he was also strong. He waded over and hoisted me up. I leaned forward and dumped out the water. I headed to shore on wobbly legs, telling myself, I don’t belong here. But we weren’t done. Gartside had another spot for night fishing.

The evening sun was slipping from from view as the tide came in. We stumbled through the grassy hummocks and sucking muck of a tidal flat and arrived at a point. Gartside walked out onto a rock jetty and started casting. Robinson, Linder, and I spread out along the shore.

I was using a borrowed 8-weight outfit heavier than anything I’d ever used. The sink tip and bulky streamer added another degree of difficulty, and I was hesitant to wade out very far in the dark, unknown waters.

I’d make woefully short casts, sit down on the sand for a while, get up, and do it again. I sweated, cursed, and caught nothing. Around 1 a.m., the agreed time to depart, I heard Robinson and Linder talking as they walked back up the beach. Then I heard a splash.

There was enough moonlight to see surface swirls of what I suspected were feeding fish. I slapped out another cast, stripped twice, and got a jolting strike. Slack flew up through the guides, but before I got the fish on the reel, a loop of line was yanked tight around my right index finger.

The rod was straight out now. So was my finger. Unaware of my predicament, Robinson started yelling, “Let the fish run, Jack! Let him run!”

I grabbed the line below the first guide, pulled, and got enough slack to free my trapped digit. There was a momentary tug of war, then the hook pulled out, and the line went limp. Robinson and Linder made a few casts, but the fish had departed to deeper water. As we reeled up to leave, Robinson said, “Well, at least you had one on.” It wasn’t much consolation.

We found Gartside standing where we’d left him. He had a fish taking drag, but it turned out to be an unremarkable striper, foul hooked in the tail. The walk back to the car held another surprise.

Gartside inflated a small rubber raft. I was puzzled. It looked like a child’s pool toy. But it became apparent that we’d need the damn thing to get back to terra firma. A wide ditch that was ankle deep on the way in was now a flowing canal. Gartside assembled a plastic paddle, handed it to me, and said, “We’ll go one at a time.” A length of thin rope was attached to the raft for retrieval.

Some experiences enlighten us. Others just remind us of the fragility of our existence. I paddled anxiously across the outgoing current as Gartside yelled, “Row a little faster, Jack, unless you want to go out to Plum Island!”

Here We Go Again

Fast forward to 2017. I’ve lived in Lakeville, Maine for 18 years. Ed Roberts, who I frequently fish with, lives half the year near Grand Lake Stream, a premier landlocked salmon fishery, and half the year in Florida. Both of us have more than 60 years in the rear view mirror, and like me, Roberts is originally from Connecticut. He’s a stalwart friend with a good sense of humor.

Among other things, Roberts time-shared a Battenkill River fishing camp with Joan and Lee Wulff. He made his living as a mechanical engineer, and he’s also an expert rod builder who works with bamboo as well as graphite. It’s not a cliché to describe him as young for his age. Forget white hair as a marker of senescence. For arm exercise, he does hammer curls with dumbbells I strain to lift.

When he captained an offshore sport boat on the Connecticut coast, Roberts and his clients fished for everything from sharks to yellowfin tuna. Now he fishes the flats when he winters in Vero Beach, Florida. He also spends a week in Rhode Island every summer, fly fishing for striped bass at night. He invited me to try it.

Wading the ocean after sundown? Fishing a channel coming out of a tidal marsh? I had my doubts. Roberts described a spot where he rarely encounters other fishermen. To get down to the water, he hangs onto a rope tied to the base of a tree. He says it’s easier than it sounds.

I was still hesitant, so he had me try the fly rod he uses; the action fit me to a T. He offered to build me an identical 9-weight. Okay, Ed, I’m in.

Into the Night

It’s June 2019—my third trip now. The long day’s drive from Maine includes the usual stop in New Hampshire for tax-free liquor. We arrive in Rhode Island late in the afternoon.

The house we rent, like our arrival routine, has become pleasantly familiar. Boxes and coolers are emptied into cabinets, drawers, refrigerator. The portable grill goes on the table out back. Tackle goes in the front room.

We sit at a small table on the front porch overlooking Narragansett Bay, decompressing from eight hours on the road. Roberts lights a cigar while I poke through fly boxes. We decide when to eat. After supper, we assemble rods, check tippets. Tackle goes back into Roberts’ SUV.

Fishing at night, we don’t attract unwanted attention to where we fish. It’s silly to think of other fishermen as interlopers, but our sense of ownership is reinforced by the solitude we have come to expect once the sun goes down. Half an hour before dark, we turn onto the familiar grass-crowned two-track. No one else is parked at the sandy dead end.

We suit up and walk in. Crossing the elevated field, we can see the incoming tide filling the back reaches of the marsh. Two herons stand motionless on a distant mud flat. The air still has the low-tide tang of salt and clean decay.

The coiled rope is where we left it hidden last year, tied to the base of a small cedar. The slope I once imagined as daunting is neither long nor steep. The rope is a convenience, not a necessity. Roberts gives it a test yank before we go down….

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Jack Gagnon was a monthly contributor and part-time editor for the Northwoods Sporting Journal (sportingjournal.com) in West Enfield, Maine for 15 years. His work has appeared in Trout, Fly Fisherman, Virginia Sportsman, Gray’s Sporting Journal, The Upland Almanac, and Sporting Classics.

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The post Striper Redux – Jack Gagnon first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Striper Redux – Jack Gagnon appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

But the North Pacific can be a fickle mistress, and the trick is to read her moods and accept her at her best. There will be days when that same dictionary doesn’t hold enough terms of endearment to do her justice—and this is one of those days, the pleasure of the moment amplified by the memory of the week before and NOAA’s prediction of the week to come. To have remained ashore this morning would have been churlish.

Yesterday’s wind has gone wherever it meant to go, and Clarence Strait rests as still as a backyard bass pond. Miles away to the east, the mainland Cleveland Peninsula appears to lie within easy reach of a canoe, although I know better than to try. Our skiff’s four-stroke outboard purrs quietly as a kitten, but the noise is still enough to leave me feeling vaguely embarrassed, as does the brief disturbance our wake creates when it slaps the nearby shore.

The silence that rises to greet us feels immensely welcome when I reach the point, cut the motor, and let the skiff slide to a gradual stop. Across the channel a northbound cruise ship glides along, bearing its own community of visitors determined to make Alaska feel as much like the places they came from as possible. Perhaps it’s best that way. Mid-channel, two purse seiners cross paths bound in opposite directions, each evidently with its own ideas about where to find the fish. That’s it. Otherwise, my wife, Lori, and I are alone on the water save for Kenai, our immense, seaworthy yellow Lab, standing at the bow like the figurehead of a Viking warship.

While Lori twists the tops off our aluminum rod tubes—we’ve learned to respect the vulnerability of unprotected fly rods in bouncing skiffs—I watch the shoreline slide along a hundred yards to starboard. I’ve timed our arrival to coincide with the morning low tide, but the currents and terrain are so complex here that one never really knows how the drift will behave until one can feel it. Easing gently back toward the mouth of the bay, I like what I’ve found. Strong currents make for difficult fly fishing.

Earlier in the summer, a mature bald eagle took possession of a tall, dead tree on the rocky point. The bird uses the tree not as a residence but as a vantage point from which to hunt. Now I watch it keenly as it lifts and sets off across the glassy water. Instead of stooping dramatically like an osprey, the eagle flies in search of fish as if it were making a bombing run, and after banking sharply a quarter mile offshore, it begins to descend. Then it hits the surface in an awkward splash and begins to struggle, talons locked upon something weighty.

The eagle cannot get airborne again—its wings are too wet, the load too heavy. But it isn’t giving up, either, and as it flaps laboriously back across the water toward shore, I spot the early morning sunlight flashing off something large and shiny in its grasp. It has caught a salmon that can only be a silver, and the fish was swimming close enough to the surface to be in reach of an eagle’s claws and hence a fly line.

Time to get ours in the water.

The vast majority of salmon taken on fly rods are caught in fresh water as they transition from the marine phase of their complex life cycle and move upstream toward the spawning grounds where they will reproduce and die. Fishing for them there is logical enough on many levels, ranging from the practical to the aesthetic. Rivers concentrate fish and identify prime locations to cast to them, and swinging streamers is a wonderful way to fish for salmon. Furthermore, the inevitable cycle of life and death never loses its capacity to impress as I watch it play out before me in real time.

Anadromous fish are at their best, however, before they begin to undergo the profound physiological and anatomical changes fresh water induces. Granted, “best” is a subjective term, but most anglers who have experienced salmon in the salt agree that they are more vigorous and challenging on the end of a line than they would be a few weeks after traveling up their natal stream. They strike harder, run more powerfully, and jump more frequently in the salt. They also taste better and are more nutritious, which may not matter to some but certainly does matter to coastal residents who have relied on salmon as traditional table fare for generations.

The rate of decline varies considerably by species. Pink salmon—the lightweights among the five salmon species in terms of both size and reputation as an angling quarry—can actually be a lot of fun as bright fish migrating along shorelines, but they require little more than a whiff of fresh water to start turning into the grotesque, dead-weight humpies that most experienced anglers would just as soon do without. These changes are usually apparent in pinks holding in the salt near a stream mouth even before they enter fresh water. Silvers and kings, by contrast, often remain bright and strong miles upstream from the sea, with considerable variation among drainages. I’ve enjoyed angling for those fish for decades—but they still weren’t as challenging on the end of a fly line as they would have been at sea.

Over the years, I’ve taken numerous representatives of the last two Pacific salmon species—sockeyes (reds) and chums (dogs)—on fly tackle in what was technically salt water, by which I mean that if I dipped my fingers in it and licked them my tongue would register “salt” in the impulses sent to my brain. Those encounters, however, took place in tidal estuaries. These intertidal zones are among my favorite places to fish for salmon, since the fish (save for the pinks) are still bright and beautiful, and while I’m catching them I can observe the diversity of wildlife that makes the marine environment so fascinating. If I’m in the mood for seafood, I can even wait for low tide and dig a bucket of clams before leaving. The technical aspects of the fishing, however, don’t differ all that much from what takes place farther upstream. So for the rest of this piece I’ll focus on what I consider one of North America’s greatest angling challenges: catching Pacific salmon on flies at sea.

First, a matter of definition: When I say fly fishing, I mean, well … fly fishing. I do not mean mooching with a fly rigged to a banana weight connected to a fly rod. I do not mean trolling a fly on a downrigger. It’s not that I’m a snob, and anyone who chooses to fish using those techniques is free to do so with no disrespect intended. I simply fish the way I choose to fish, and TFFM is a fly fishing magazine.

Geographically, I’ll focus on Alaska’s Southeastern Panhandle, for several reasons. Its all-but-infinite labyrinth of islands and bays offers complex inshore terrain that can concentrate fish and provide shelter from the open ocean. Every small community in the area offers access to good water, and most of them are interesting destinations in their own right. Salmon bound for streams all up and down the Pacific coast pass through these waters seasonally, so their numbers are not dependent on spawning success in any particular drainage in prior years. This kind of fishing requires a target-rich environment, and the fish are here. This coastline is spectacular, and diverse wildlife abounds. I used to live there and know the fishery better than a casual visitor can. With all this said, I readily acknowledge that the British Columbia coast offers the same benefits as a saltwater salmon destination.

As for the fish, I’ll concentrate on silvers and kings because they are the most rewarding, and their feeding habits make them a feasible quarry at sea—in contrast to chums, which feed largely on jellyfish, and sockeyes, which prefer zooplankton. We’ll go in chronological order beginning with kings, which arrive inshore earliest, even though they are significantly harder than silvers to catch on flies.

While some resident “feeder” kings can be found near shore throughout the winter, both the number and average size of the fish increase with the arrival of migrating kings, usually sometime in June. This schedule makes them the first of the Pacific salmon to arrive every year, as acknowledged in the term “spring salmon,” one of the king’s many nicknames. Peak king fishing usually takes place between mid-June and mid-July along the Alaska coast, with some variation by location and from year to year.

The hardest part of catching saltwater kings on flies is getting the fly down to the fish because they run deeper in the water column than other salmon species. A fast-sinking shooting head is essential, but a knowledge of local tidal currents is equally important. As with current in a river, the brisker the flow the harder it is to get the fly deep. I generally fish for kings within an hour of slack tide, either high or low, and avoid extreme tides all together. Casting “upstream” into the tidal current and allowing the fly to swing beneath the boat might not seem elegant, but it’s the most efficient means of getting the fly down to the 25- to 50-foot depth usually needed to reach kings.

Fly fishing for ocean kings is a bit like big-game hunting: A lot of time can pass between encounters with the quarry, but just one such encounter provides an immense sense of accomplishment and satisfaction. My best ocean king was a 40-pound fish I caught one morning near Sitka. I had previously lived for several years next to the famous Kenai River, where a king that size was just another nice fish. Although I’d taken larger kings on flies from the Kenai, none came close to inspiring the excitement of that fish from the Pacific. After a surprisingly subtle strike on my standard baitfish imitation, the fish cleared the water a half-dozen times as it ripped off 200 yards of backing into the channel. Then it reversed course and headed inshore toward a kelp bed that could have spelled disaster. Turning the fish put more pressure on my 10-weight than any tarpon, tuna, or giant trevally I’d ever asked it to handle. After all that, a prowling sea lion almost nailed the fish as it came to the net. That story illustrates why I’m willing to invest the time and effort needed to hook a king in salt water.

Silver salmon provide an interesting contrast to kings and are generally a much more fly-rod-friendly quarry at sea. While early returning silvers often overlap with kings, peak silver fishing usually takes place later in the summer, from late July until September. Silvers tend to be much more abundant, and when they’re there it’s not unusual to hook multiple fish on one tide change.

Silvers feed higher in the water column than kings, which makes them far easier to fish for with fly tackle. An intermediate sink tip line will usually suffice, and I’ve even caught them right on top with floating lines. I like to have a spectrum of line options available so I can reach fish at whatever depth they’re feeding.

Kings and silvers at sea both feed on a variety of squid, shrimp, and baitfish. They are rarely selective, and presentation at the optimal depth is always more important than specific choice of fly patterns. I do most of my fishing with a generic baitfish imitation that resembles a herring as much as anything else. Eyes and some flash are important ingredients in any pattern meant for saltwater salmon.

Any experienced angler can look at a salmon stream and identify likely places to start casting. The ocean, by contrast, is a huge place, and the challenge of locating fish there can feel intimidating. Anglers trolling with conventional tackle can cover a lot more water while prospecting for fish than we can casting with fly rods. But even if you’re not lucky enough to have an eagle on the payroll to do the scouting for you, there are some tricks that can help get you casting to productive water.

Terrain features like the rocky point I described earlier can concentrate fish migrating inshore toward their natal streams, and underwater humps—identified with the help of charts and a simple depth finder—attract baitfish and feeding salmon. Kings in particular will often congregate near dropoffs adjacent to kelp beds. The “fish finder” function on modern sonar can also be useful, especially for locating kings. Personally I’m averse to relying too heavily on technology in the outdoors, so I have never used it much for fish finding myself.

When I’m fishing with friends who are using conventional tackle, I often spend my time casting an 8-weight near the surface for silvers or pelagic rockfish until they start hooking kings. That tactic saves a lot of wear and tear on my casting arm, and I don’t regard it as cheating.

Relatively free of obstructions, the skiff’s forward deck makes the craft’s best casting platform. Ever the gentleman, I’ve ceded it to Lori while I do my best from the cluttered stern. Sulking at my side, Kenai makes it clear that he wishes we were duck hunting, but at least he knows enough to dodge the flying loops in my running line.

For 20 minutes, we drift along on the tide as casually as Huck Finn on the Mississippi. Then Lori whoops and Kenai rouses from his lethargy as a yard-long, mint-bright silver goes airborne beside the boat. I start to reel in frantically so that I can grab the net, but suddenly I’m hooked up, too. In contrast to kings, which can strike with a subtlety that belies their size, silvers often slam streamers hard. With my concentration elsewhere and one hand already reaching for the net, I might have lost my rod to this one. I’ve come perilously close before.

Chaos reigns briefly as the two fish circle in opposite directions and cross our lines while Kenai barks encouragement. But it’s open water, and save for one determined run by Lori’s fish for the nearest kelp bed, there is little room for error other than that of our own making. Ten minutes later, we’ve landed both silvers and are back at it again. Evidently we’ve found the fish, because Lori is hooked up again before I’ve found the drift I want. And so the action goes for nearly an hour until it stops as abruptly as it began—perhaps not to be repeated for the rest of the day, the rest of the week, or the rest of the season.

Who knows why? Mystery is just a part of the sea’s intrigue, and one more reason why I keep coming back.

Bio: A former Alaska resident who now lives in rural Montana, Don Thomas and his wife, Lori, have fly fished salt waters all around the globe. After growing up on Puget Sound and living in a coastal Alaska village, he has a soft spot for the North Pacific. Don’s and Lori’s work has appeared in numerous national publications.

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The post Chrome from the Sea first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Chrome from the Sea appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.