If you’re planning to chase bonefish in the Caribbean, the Turks and Caicos Islands (TCI) may not be the first destination that comes to mind. It also may not be at the top of the Google search results as you start planning your next warm weather vacation with the family. But if the idea of having some excellent saltwater fly fishing options available during your next family vacation sounds appealing, TCI should be high on your short list.

Whether you are looking to sneak in a quick do-it-yourself afternoon session, wading the flats while the kids hang out at the pool, or you’d prefer to spend an entire day casting from the bow of a skiff, TCI offers quick and easy options to scratch the angling itch without taking you far from your beach chair or breaking the budget. The Turks and Caicos Islands may be the best kept secret for the saltwater fly angler on a family vacation. 

The Turks and Caicos Islands is a British Offshore Territory comprising two groups of islands that sit atop Caicos Bank, east of Cuba and south of The Bahamas. Of the Caicos Islands, Providenciales (with its world-famous Grace Bay beach) is by far the most popular for family vacations. There are plenty of activities, restaurants, and accommodations ranging from budget friendly to luxury. My family and I took our first TCI vacation nearly a decade ago. Explorers at heart, we have generally avoided the resorts, instead indulging our preference for renting houses or condos and embracing the ability to tailor our own experience. Our favorite over the years has been the Chalk Sound area, though the Leeward section of the island has seen development in recent years and has many good options.  

Several airlines serve Turks and Caicos Islands with regular flights into the area’s main airport on Providenciales (often referred to as “Provo”). Given the state of air travel these days, a direct flight is a good idea when possible. While both taxis and rental cars are available at the airport, consider renting a car if you are planning to do any exploring while in TCI; taxis can be expensive. Driving is done on the left, in British fashion, and isn’t as difficult as you might think.  No special driver’s license is required, but be sure to look to the right to check for oncoming traffic.

Resorts have their own excellent restaurants, but if you’d like to explore a bit (and you should), there are many restaurants in and around Grace Bay and several more within a short drive. Fresh seafood is always a good dinner choice. Catch of the day paired with an ice cold Turks Head beer is a fine way to wrap up a day on the beach, shopping, or fishing. For the true do-it-yourselfers renting a home or condo, local grocery stores range from upscale (closer to Grace Bay) to modest (further from Grace Bay) with relative prices to match.  

Bonefish are the focus of fly fishing on Turks and Caicos, though barracuda can also be found.  Guided fishing trips are mainly done on North Caicos Island, which is accessible from Providenciales by a short ferry ride from the Leeward ferry station. Ramsar Nature Reserve on the south side of North Caicos is a system of sand flats, mangroves, and channels. Bottle Creek and the East Bay Nature Reserve on the north side of the island includes five flats protected by small barrier islands. Both sides of the island hold schools of bonefish that see relatively little fishing pressure (over the course of several trips to North Caicos, I’ve only seen one other boat).  There are only a handful of fly fishing guides in TCI, though despite the limited number of guides, trip availability is generally good with reasonable lead time. Last-minute cancellations do happen, so if your schedule is flexible it is possible to find last-minute openings.  

Both sides of North Caicos are home to more than bonefish. In addition to the possibility of finding barracuda, you are likely to see turtles, rays, brilliantly colored box fish, and flamingos.  Most guides charge a flat fee for one or two anglers, so why not bring along a non-fishing family member for some sightseeing and photography? TCI fishing licenses can be purchased in increments of a day or a month, and are inexpensive. They are not available online but can be purchased at most marinas. If you happen to be on Provo, a good place to pick up your license is Turtle Cove Marina, a short drive from Grace Bay.

If you are not able to book a guide, have limited time, or would just rather prefer the challenge of stalking bonefish on your own, there are solid opportunities for self-guided trips on Providenciales. The best is Flamingo Lake, a short drive from the resorts on Grace Bay made by taking Venetian Road off Leeward Highway. There are several spots to park and simply begin wading steps from your car. While there occasionally are flamingos, there usually are bonefish.  The bottom is typical mud over hard sand, standard bonefish territory, and easy to navigate. Be on the lookout for schools of bonefish or cruising fish in singles and pairs. Locate holes and depressions in the bottom and you may also find fish as they tend to prowl these areas in search of crabs and other forage.

While this fishery doesn’t see much in the way of fishing pressure, bones are still bones, and in their shallow-water habitat they are generally skittish. When casting either from a skiff or while wading, try to make as little disturbance on the water as possible (e.g. try not to rock the skiff when casting) and keep noise to a minimum. A fast-action 8-weight rod with a floating tropical line is the standard setup, but don’t be shy about stepping up to a 9-weight to deal with the wind if necessary.

Fly selection for TCI bonefish doesn’t need to be tedious; these fish don’t see many flies in general. If you use darker-colored flies for overcast days and lighter-colored flies for sunnier days in any of the standard bonefish patterns (Gotchas, Bonefish Bitters, Crazy Charlies, etc.), tied sizes 4-6, you won’t be far off. Because TCI bonefish don’t see many flies, presentation is probably more important than pattern, so solid saltwater casting skills are a must.

I recommend plenty of casting practice ahead of your trip. Wind is always a factor, and slack in your cast is your enemy, so strong casting fundamentals are a must. Opportunities at bonefish happen fast, and if you’re not prepared for them, you’ll spend most of your time watching fish swim away. Being able to quickly deliver a fly at a variety of distances with a minimum of false casts will allow you to take advantage of these often fleeting opportunities.

When planning a guided trip from a skiff, practice quickly changing direction and delivering a cast just as you will need to do when your guide calls out a direction and distance. It’s always important to be aware of both wind direction and the location of your guide with respect to your backcast. The ability to make casts from both your dominant side and non-dominant sides is key, as is the ability to deliver a cast in both the forward and backcasts. Having a strong grasp of these skills will not only increase your chances of catching bonefish, but also keep you and your guide safe. An otherwise good trip can go wrong in a hurry if you inadvertently hook yourself or your guide with a weighted crab fly. I’ve pulled more than a few flies out of myself and/or my clients, and it’s always at least an awkward moment and at worst a trip to the local ER.

When delivering your fly, find a spot 8 to 10 feet in front of fish that are on the move, and aim for it. Leading the cruising fish with plenty of distance will avoid spooking your target and allow that fish to stay on its line. Even a well-placed fly may need to be repositioned if your target changes course. If that’s necessary, make as little disturbance as possible as you get your fly out of the water. For every bonefish we see, there are likely many others we don’t, and carelessly ripping line out of the water could send an entire school racing for cover in the mangroves.

Once your fly is in sight of a cruising bone, create lifelike action by slightly twitching the fly.  When it’s clear the fish has locked onto your fly, begin to strip quickly and smoothly, keeping the fly moving without hesitation just as a crab or shrimp would do if fleeing for its life. As in most saltwater fly fishing situations, strip setting is the name of the game. Continuously stripping the fly keeps the fish’s predatory instinct engaged and the fish in pursuit of your fly, so even if you think the fish has eaten your fly, keep stripping. Once you feel the take, strip again to set the hook before raising the rod tip to fight the fish. When guiding freshwater anglers on saltwater trips, I often suggest keeping the tip of the fly rod in the water as they retrieve their fly. Muscle memory from their normal trout-set can be difficult to overcome, so the added resistance of lifting the tip of the rod out of the water can sometimes mean the difference between hooking a fish and disappointment.

Our most recent trip to TCI happened during our town’s public school February vacation. That’s a great time to break up the long grey of winter here in the Northeast with some sun and warmth. Despite the popularity of the week, we enjoyed uncrowded beaches and restaurants.  The fishing was great, too, at least part of the week. Bonefish spawn by forming large offshore aggregations, often during or near new moon periods from late Fall to early Spring. During this time schools of bonefish truly can be here today, gone tomorrow, and such was the case during our trip. The southern flats of North Caicos were teeming with bonefish early in the week, while later that week (coincidental to a new moon) the flats of Bottle Creek on the north side of the island were nearly vacant. As I lamented that situation to my cab driver on the way back to the ferry landing on North Caicos, he casually said, “They went to the ocean to wash their roe.”  That local knowledge lines up with what we know about bonefish spawning patterns. As he drove the cab away, I made a mental note that bonefishing TCI in February, while a nice winter break, could yield unreliable results. The decision to return in May and try again was easy.

Over the years my family has enjoyed vacations on the Turks and Caicos Islands, and there’s no doubt others would, too, as there’s a little something for everyone, even some great fly fishing.  If time and budget allow, hiring a guide is a good option. You’ll cover more water and have a better chance of locating fish. If you have less time or budget, you don’t have to give up your fishing plans because there’s great bonefishing within a short drive that can be done very simply. The ease of access, lack of fishing pressure, and overall likelihood of success make TCI a great place to have your first bonefishing experience and a unique destination for fly anglers planning a Caribbean family vacation.

Bio: Captain George Sylvestre, CCI is lead guide and instructor at Sylvestre Outdoors, a veteran-owned, family-operated fly casting instruction and fly fishing guide service offering both saltwater and freshwater fly fishing trips from Cape Cod to the rivers of Massachusetts and Connecticut. He is a Far Bank Pro and saltwater fly fishing instructor. If you would like additional information on fly fishing the Turks and Caicos Islands, he can be reached at george.sylvestre@sylverstreoutdoors.com.

The post BONEFISH IN TURKS AND CAICOS first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post BONEFISH IN TURKS AND CAICOS 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.

—Carlos Castaneda, Journey to Ixtlan

On numerous fly fishing trips to Mexico over the past 13 years, I’ve brought home all sorts of souvenirs. But until a trip in March, I had never brought back toilet paper.

It’s called papél sanitário in Spanish, and back home in the United States people were hoarding it in panic as COVID-19 and lockdowns spread across the country. I had been chasing permit, bonefish, and tarpon for several days in rural Mexico. During nine days of fly fishing and travel in the Yucatan Peninsula, the novel coronavirus went from being a faint American concern to a full-blown national emergency.

Harboring fewer than 400 souls at the far southern tip of Mexico’s Caribbean coast, the small fishing village of Xcalak was arguably one of the best places to ride out a pandemic. My friends and I, however, were headed away from elective recreational seclusion and toward the forced isolation of quarantines and social distancing.

The only sure thing was uncertainty. But we had TP.

Return on Investment

The journey to Xcalak requires more work than similar Caribbean destinations, but the effort yields abundant rewards. From the continental United States it takes a flight, a rental car, a five- to six-hour drive, and two extra travel days to break up the drive to and from Cancun. The payoff is reduced fishing pressure, an opportunity for cultural immersion, and one of the best travel fly fishing bargains you’ll find.

Xcalak isn’t for everybody. Outside of fishing, diving, and snorkeling, options are limited. There’s no nightlife or kitschy tourist attractions. It’s as far from the all-inclusive resorts of Cancun as you can get, a place with off-grid accommodations where you won’t find air conditioning.

But you’ll discover countless miles of Chetumal Bay’s sublime saltwater flats with lightly pressured bonefish and permit. There’s also easily accessible fishing along the Caribbean coast, where the planet’s second-longest barrier reef protects the beach from heavy surf. Brackish lagoons with tarpon and snook present additional opportunities. Independent guides run trips out of the village for a fraction of what you’ll pay in other popular destinations. Anglers interested in blazing their own trail will find some of the most accessible do-it-yourself saltwater fly fishing prospects on the Yucatan Peninsula.

I found Xcalak (pronounced ISH-kah-lahk) in 2007. I booked a half-day guided trip with Captain Victor Castro, who no doubt needed all of his skill and patience—as well as a measure of lucto lead a rank neophyte with a borrowed 8-weight to his first bonefish. It was the first evolutionary step toward a fixation with Trachinotus falcatus, commonly called “black-tailed devils,” or by their Spanish name, palometa, but sometimes known by more contemptuous monikers like “f****** permit.”

On the Road

Our crew flew into Cancun on a Friday afternoon. Lee Reddmann, an accountant with fly fishing obsessive disorder, and Casey Hughes, a trout fishing guide who represents several outdoor-industry companies, arrived with me from Little Rock. Michael DeJarnette, a friend since childhood, came in from Park City.

With the back of our rented Dodge Caravan looking like a mobile fly shop, we took off on the hour-and-a-half drive to Tulum. Unless flights arrive before noon, it’s best to break up the trip from Cancun to Xcalak. The route consists mostly of well-maintained federal highways, but animals, pedestrians, and long stretches of remote roadway can make nighttime driving sketchy.

The stop in Tulum leaves three-and-a-half hours of driving for the final leg to Xcalak. It also serves as a traveler’s decompression chamber, where the city’s bohemian ethos and tourism scene offer a transition zone between regular life and Xcalak’s extreme isolation.

We found food trucks and filled up on nachos, quesadillas, and empanadas, a solid base for multiple rounds of various social lubricants. Things got fuzzy after we drank the pox (pronounced poash)—a traditional distillation of corn, wheat, and sugar cane that’s like Maya moonshine. The shamans used it to connect with the spirit world; we used it to disconnect from the actual world.

Fortified by coffee the next morning, we headed to the Chedraui supermarket for food, beer, and booze. Xcalak only has a couple small stores and a grocery truck that delivers on a loose schedule, so it’s best to pick up provisions on the way down.

The road carried us through the heart of the Maya world. We passed the ruins at Muyil, a vestige of the Maya civilization’s bygone splendor and its remarkable achievements in astronomy, mathematics, art, and engineering. As we slowed down through small towns, their inhabitants were a reminder that the Maya still walk upon this big porous limestone slab.

About two hours after leaving Tulum, we stopped at the Pemex outside Majahual to top off the van’s gas tank, and another hour later we were looking at a big sign that read, “Bienvenido Xcalak,” where the Caravan’s tires rolled over the last patch of asphalt they’d touch for a week.

The Inside Scoop

Using a guide dramatically increases the odds of success in Xcalak. Local knowledge and experience aside, another factor is the accessibility afforded by their boats. While the wading DIY angler finds abundant opportunity around Xcalak, the guided fly angler can cover more water and reach otherwise inaccessible spots. Boats also make it easier to spot fish.

We arranged two boats for five days with Victor Castro and his crew at Osprey Tours (xcalak-flyfishing.com). More than a fishing guide, Castro has become a valued friend. We met him and his nephew Felipe Miravete at eight a.m. the first day. “Mucho viento” were Miravete’s first words, but the 15- to 20-mph wind wasn’t the only issue. Clouds obscured the sun and showed few signs of breaking up. The southern Yucatan was experiencing a norte, and while the cooler north wind and lower humidity made for great sleeping conditions, it would probably hurt the fishing.

Hughes and I climbed in Miravete’s panga and motored south, turning west into the Zaragoza Canal, a manmade cut connecting the Caribbean with Chetumal Bay about three miles north of Bacalar Chico, a narrow, serpentine waterway separating Mexico from Ambergris Caye, Belize. Miravete killed the Yamaha outboard on a massive flat within sight of the canal.

Although he stands barely 5 feet tall, Miravete’s eyes and intense determination make him a giant on the flats. He’s a jokester, usually smiling and laughing away from the water, but in the stern of a panga he takes on a resolute mien. With a light drizzle dimpling the shallow water, Hughes struck the trip’s first fish: a solid bonefish, macabí, that Miravete spotted in spite of the miserable conditions.

Sábalo Sorrow

The wind was still strong out of the northeast the next day, but we had sunshine. Hughes and I hit the water with Miravete again, making a longer run north in the bay. About 45 minutes after shutting down the motor, Miravete spotted two big, murky shapes swimming parallel to the boat at 75 feet.

“Big tarpon,” he said.

With a 10-weight rigged for the smaller tarpon we anticipated, we needed to scale up quickly. Hughes used a heavy leader from Miravete’s tackle bag, chaotically re-rigging in the floor of the panga.

“It’s like tying a knot with Weed Eater line,” Hughes said.

Pushing the panga with a pole fashioned from a sapling, Miravete chased the fish across the flat. Hughes fastened a red streamer from Miravete’s box to the leader and stepped up to the casting deck. Ten minutes and 400 meters after initially spotting them, the two tarpon were again parallel to the boat.

“Nine o’clock,” Miravete said. “Forty feet. Cast now.”

Hughes delivered the shot perpendicular to the pair, stripped once—and the line went tight. Miravete shrieked at the top of his lungs. Hughes strip-set with his left hand and then grabbed the rod butt with both hands to jam the hook deeper into the tarpon’s hard mouth. The fish ripped out the slack line and was on the reel fast.

The sábalo exploded out of the water, a writhing silver hulk, its scales reflecting the golden morning light. Hughes bowed to the behemoth, which looked to be close to 100 pounds. Seconds later the tarpon breached the turquoise water again. Less than 50 feet from the boat, it sounded like somebody shaking a bucket of silver dollars.

Hughes jumped the fish a third time. The line went slack. Hughes stood there silently shaking for several seconds before breaking his vigil of dejection. At a volume that could’ve been heard 25 miles away in San Pedro, Belize, he screamed an exaggerated version of the granddaddy of all profanities.

Miravete shared an observation in Spanish, but I waited several hours before translating for my despondent friend: In eight years of guiding, this was only the second time Miravete had seen a tarpon that big outside of the migratory runs in July and August.

DIY Dreaming

Back at our digs at Acocote Eco Inn, about 5 miles north of town, the satellite Internet allowed us to stay somewhat connected to news from home. The first sign of trouble came Monday, when the US stock market experienced its biggest daily point drop in history. DeJarnette, who works in global finance, skipped a day of fishing to deal with the fallout. But aside from that hiccup, we fell into a rhythm of fishing, eating, and drinking—followed by merciless trash talking.

We convened in Acocote’s palapa on the second night for Rob-a-ritas, proprietor and innkeeper Rob Mukai’s eponymous riff on the Margarita. It’s a tradition Mukai keeps so guests can meet and mingle, and it served as our introduction to new friends Bob Haines and Kaettie Wenger, who were down from Colorado for a month of mostly DIY fly fishing.

The couple’s success is an example of Xcalak’s DIY potential. Haines scored with a hefty permit from the beach north of the inn during our stay, and Wenger followed a few days later with an impressive bonefish. They also used stand-up paddle boards to fish the brackish lagoon on the west side of the beach road, landing multiple small tarpon in a single day.

DIY anglers also can fish Chetumal Bay. Xcalak sits on a narrow peninsula jutting south between the Caribbean and the bay, so it’s just a few miles from town to the bay’s eastern shoreline. With roads leading to a defunct ferry terminal and a rock jetty, anglers can park and wade miles of flats.

The Longest Silence

“What is emphatic in angling is made so by the long silences—the unproductive periods,” Thomas McGuane wrote. “No form of fishing offers such elaborate silences as fly fishing for permit.”

Decades after publication of The Longest Silence, McGuane’s words still ring true. The angler passes countless hours scanning the surface for the slightest sign of nervous water and straining optic nerves to scrutinize cerulean shallows. Long periods of inactivity are punctuated by ephemeral moments of exhilaration upon actually seeing a permit—and almost always are followed by pangs of rejection.

In three trips to Xcalak since 2018, I’ve spent about two-and-a-half weeks of my life in search of my first permit. I’ve had good shots at scores of them. I’ve turned them toward my fly. I’ve even vicariously felt the thrill of capture, watching Reddmann bring a permit to hand last year.

Although still feeling the effects of the norte, our third fishing day dawned with better conditions. Castro returned from hiatus to guide DeJarnette and me. We made a long run north in the bay but didn’t see anything for three hours, so we reeled in and ran back south to a flat on the east side of Cayo Chelem. Castro announced we would try for bonefish.

I spent half an hour in the bow and made a couple of casts to solitary cruisers that showed no interest. DeJarnette took the next turn as Castro slowly pushed the panga down the flat. It appeared as barren as anything we had seen—until suddenly it wasn’t.

“Permit,” Castro said, looking at the darker green water where the flat sloped imperceptibly toward the open bay.

I took my 9-weight with a tan crab from its holder and extended it toward DeJarnette.

“You take the shot,” he said.

I stepped up on the casting deck and stripped line off the reel so it piled next to my bare feet. A wedge of six or seven permit appeared, swimming toward us. My first cast was 60 feet at two o’clock, presented precisely and delicately. They ignored the fly but kept coming. The next cast, 10 to 12 feet shorter, landed 5 feet in front of the lead fish, straight off the nose of the boat. I made long, slow strips, the fourth producing resistance. I pulled back hard on the fly line, and it came tight.

The permit raced toward deeper water, peeling line off the reel as it ran toward a dark, rocky patch. I raised the rod higher and moved the fish. It swam right to left at 50 or 60 feet, and I saw two other permit from the school swimming next to it.

“Es el jefe,” DeJarnette said.

“Yes,” Castro said. “I think he is the boss.”

The permit swam perpendicular to the bow, stunning and glorious against the flat’s sandy white bottom. Castro eased over the side of the boat and followed the fly line to the leader. The startled fish surged and took back 40 feet of line, but two minutes later Castro ran his hand down the fluorocarbon leader and seized the fish by its forked black tail. I yelled like a lunatic and slipped out of the boat to release the fish.

We watched the permit swim slowly away, and I climbed back in the boat, my arms and legs still shaking. Sitting under the high noon sun with my friends—one since Little League baseball and one since my first trip to Xcalak—I recognized the value of long silences. Without the countless refusals and fruitless hours, the moment wouldn’t have been so potent. That it happened with my friend Castro elevated it to a transcendent realm.

Lessons Learned

By the time we packed the van on Friday morning to head north to Tulum, the stock market had experienced a second record decline, businesses and schools were closing, and toilet paper and disinfectants were flying off store shelves back home. The president would declare a national emergency a few hours later.

That evening, sitting in a Tulum bar and sipping mojitos made with freshly pressed local sugar cane, we speculated about pandemic life. The next morning we hit the supermarket and loaded up on papél sanitário.

Weeks later, it’s clear we didn’t have a clue. We didn’t know months would pass before we could sit down for a restaurant dinner, go to a movie, get a haircut, or work out at the gym, or that the words “social distancing” would become more common than handshakes and hugs.

But maybe there’s a lesson from McGuane, or at least a measure of comfort: Maybe this is the longest silence; with luck, then, what is emphatic in life will be made so by it.

Bio: Trey Reid has written for numerous newspapers, magazines, and websites, and is a former field reporter for ESPN. He works in public and media relations for the Arkansas Game and Fish Commission, producing and hosting the agency’s television show Arkansas Wildlife. He also hosts the outdoor radio show The Wild Side on 103.7 FM The Buzz in Little Rock, which can also be heard as a podcast. 

Photos: Trey Reid, Michael DeJarnette, Bob Haines, Lee Reddmann, and Kaettie Wenger

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SALTWATER FLY FISHING

The post Journey to Xcalak | Saltwater Fly Fishing | Trey Reid first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Journey to Xcalak | Saltwater Fly Fishing | Trey Reid appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

Especially fish, which are harder to see than practically anything more corporeal than ghosts and leprechauns. Who hasn’t heard the defeated tone of a guide on the bonefish flats who realizes that no matter how many times he says, “Ten o’clock, Sixty feet, Three big bones tailing left to right,” his dimwitted sport will cast to the three mangrove shoots six feet astern?

But it isn’t entirely our fault. Prey species are forever contriving unfair ways not to be seen. Brook trout disappeared into the dappled green forest streams by evolving backs covered with forest-green dapplings. Bonefish got themselves chrome-plated to reflect the shining expanse of skinny tropical flats straight back into hostile eyes. Small soft creatures like herring flock together with thousands of other small soft creatures—all of them saying, “Eat them, not me,” and most of them getting away with it. Species that grow from toothsome young prey into large toothy predators look for hangouts where even larger and thoothier predators won’t prey on them.

Take striped bass and flats, for example. When stripers were young and tender, ospreys and herons made skinny sunlit flats into dangerous neighborhoods. But when they reach a  certain size stripers no longer fear aerial assault, and the shallow clear flats are mostly free of the seals and sharks and stern trawlers and soft-plastic Slug-Gos that can make deeper, faster water nervously unrestful, even for a fifty-pounder.

As most saltwater fishermen know, striped bass are creatures the twilight, of movement, of tide rips and swirling bait schools and crashing surf. This makes striper anglers creatures of pre-dawn departures and midnight shoreline stumbles and of live-lining mackerel, deep-drifting eels, and tolling plugs the size of policemen’s nightsticks. Fly-fishing for stripers, like the striper itself, is pure brutality: heavy depth-charge fly lines and ginormous flies and rod-shattering strikes and enough adrenaline to turn a pack of PETA pacifists into foie-gras-eating ax murderers.

Which is why a rippled expanse of alluvial ooze overlain by a few feet of transparent seawater is about the last place a standard-issue striper fisherman might look for a striper, especially with the sun burning high in a cloudless sky.

But that’s exactly where we went looking for them, we being fish-mag editors Dave Klausmeyer and Joe Healy fishing with Eric Wallace and Mac McKeever on a skinny backwater flat on a bright sunny day—the very time when normal Maine striper fishermen were snoozing in the shade after having flamed out on a dawn tide in one of the big brackish rivers or along the near-shore islands, casting into the rips and the surf while jockeying for position with all those other boatloads of coffee-cranked striper fishermen casting into the rips and the surf.

Out there on the windless late-morning flats, it was just us and the sun and the seagulls and the gray stern granite and green pointed firs hemming a small secluded cove. Joe and I fished with Eric, one of only a few Maine guides who specialize in flat-fishing for stripers, and it was a dislocating experience. I’d look back from the postcard view of coastal Maine to see Eric up on the poling platform with his sunblock and sunglasses and, “Get ready, good fish at two o’clock about sixty feet off.” I’d narrow my eyes and roll them around, and slowly a striper would materialize. And then I’d snap out of my no-worries-mon Bahamian bonefish trance and launch a mighty dawn-patrol striper cast that hit the water like an osprey and scared the bejesus out of that striper, then we’d ghost along looking for another to frighten away, with me chanting under my breath, “I’m bonefishing for stripers, I’m bonefishing for stripers. Everybody say Aummmmm.”

Along with nurturing my inner calm, I was also trying to remember the mechanics of spotting fish. You do this, as anglers all should know, not by looking for fish—stripers, with their mirrored sides traced by waving lines, can be as invisible as baby bonefish even when pushing forty pounds—but by looking for the suggestions of fish. At a distance, you see not the striper but the impression of a striper: its shadow on the bottom, the flick of a fin, the flex of a tail, the dart of a jaw snarfing a green crab, grass shrimp, or sand eel.

Compared with the hyperactive tent revival of striper fishing in the surf, sight-fishing the mirrored flats is Zen: the quest becomes its own reward. Like dry-fly fishing, it’s a form of aesthetic self-denial that slows your pulse and makes you see.

But it isn’t a way to run up numbers. For the day, we each boated one fish and lost another. With a dawn assault on a big tidal river, that would be an official defeat. But for flats fishing in Maine it was a success—and possibly the birth of an addiction.

There’s always a genesis moment when something new materializes from the fog. Angers to the south wont see fly-fishing the flats for stripers as anything new—the big flats off Cape Cod’s Monomoy Island or Long Island’s Great South Bay have long been home to a minority cult of flats-fishers. But here in Maine, stripers on the flats have been pretty much invisible, and fishing for them the way they need to be fished for, which is to say slowly and carefully without even a trolling motor’s cautioning whisper, is beyond novel.

Mac McKeever, the senior PR wallah at L.L. Bean, is the first person I know to have done it., though I know other people who were rumored to have done it but didn’t want anyone to know. Like most significant discoveries, Mac’s was an accident.

“Ten or so years ago,” he said, I was pulling my skiff at a boat ramp, and a telephone worker was having lunch and asked how I did. I told him I’d caught a few fish here and there, and he said he was working high atop a pole at a nearby bluff overlooking a shallow white sand flat, and he’d seen loads of fish milling around in the skinny water. I went over there, and sure enough, the flats were haired over with the things—some big ones, too! I’ve been on them ever since, at first climbing atop coolers and then library step stools or teetering on the outboard’s cowling to try for a better vantage point to spot fish.”

Finally Mac got a proper poling platform made for his sixteen-foot Aquasport, and now he spends his days fishing the Pine Tree State Caribbean-style: long light leaders, little crab flies, and clock-face casting. “Pretty neat stuff,” Mac says. “Clear shallow water, light sand, and black-backed stripers hunting for crabs.” And a few—a very few—anglers on the flats hunting for stripers.

A year later, Jerry Gibbs and I met Mac at a different beach—his original beach, the lineman’s beach—at the leisurely hour of half past eight, a time dictated in part by the high-noon low time and more significantly by the sight-fishing necessity of high flooding sunlight. Which, as is typical with a trip planned well in advance, didn’t arrive.

With intermittent cloud cover and the hot southern breath of a looming storm, even Mac had difficulty spotting fish before they spotted us. Through the morning we saw more than thirty stripers, most past twenty inches and a few past three feet. I managed a cast to only one taking fish, and when he turned on the fly with his open mouth, he spotted the boat fished like a partridge. The lesson: flats-fishing for stripers is a chose-your-day kind of thing. If the weather’s right, you go; if it isn’t, you do something else. Unless you’ve driven 125 miles through coastal Maine tourist traffic to fish. Then, you go anyway.

And I learned another lesson: Stalking those fish and getting that single, turning, almost-a-take in skinny transparent water was as exciting as dragging a dozen depth-charged stripers from the foaming deep. Perhaps that’s a personal vision not everyone can see. But then, not everyone needs to.

A few weeks later, sparked by a near connection with what was here along, if only blinkered eyes could see, I revisited a few neglected flats not far from home, where, bluff-top observations with high-powered binoculars revealed drifting shadows too big to be mackerel and too reposeful to be sturgeon.

In just the right light, I could envision a big Hudson Bay freighter canoe ghosting along with its motor kicked up beneath a simple poling platform made from aluminum pipe bent in a friendly nearby muffler shop, a scrawny old man leaning on a long black push-pole and shading his eyes from the noonday sun. He sees something moving, eases the pole into its rest, and then slowly lifts his fly rod and casts.

It might be a good striper in my vision—I hope so, anyway. or it might be a stick of pulpwood drowned in the mudflat since river-driving days. It probably doesn’t really matter. In either case the electric anticipation is pretty much the same.

Bio: James R. Babb is editor emeritus of Gray’s Sporting Journal. He is the author of four collections of angling essays, the most recent of which is Fish Won’t Let Me Sleep (skyhorsepublishing.com).

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Acquiescence

The post The Vision Thing – James R. Babb first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post The Vision Thing – James R. Babb 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.

by Pete Barrett

Florida Keys guide and fly fishing pioneer Bill Smith is popularly credited with catching the first bonefish on a fly in 1939. There’s a photograph and witnesses to prove it. I’ll tell you the full story of Bill’s catch in a moment, but first we need to acknowledge several other fly anglers who accidentally beat Bill to the punch—but because they weren’t specifically targeting bonefish, their catches didn’t qualify as numero uno.

It seems all of the earliest on-the-fly bonefish catches were made by accident when anglers were fishing for snapper, snook, or baby tarpon. Because of their low-slung mouths, fly fishers of the 1920s and 1930s thought of bonefish as bottom feeders (true) that would only respond to bait (untrue), and so no fly anglers fished specifically for bonefish. It took about 20 years for the bonefish’s keen eyesight to be recognized and appreciated.

“LaBranche looked
incredulously at the
pork rind fly and
went into a tirade…”

According to George X. Sand in his book Salt-Water Fly Fishing, Holmes Allen of Miami caught a bonefish on the fly in 1924 in Card Sound, Key Largo. Allen said he was wading with a friend for snook about 100 yards from shore when “…this crazy fish shot out of nowhere, grabbed my fly and took off!” The fly was a crippled minnow feather streamer with a white head and red hackles, tied on a size-2 hook. Allen caught another bonefish in 1926. 

George Reiger in [italics] The Bonefish, [italics] his wonderful historical tribute to the gray ghost, documents that in 1926, Colonel L.S. Thompson of Red Bank, New Jersey, caught bonefish while casting a Royal Coachman streamer for baby tarpon on the flats near the Long Key Fishing Club. Other club members apparently did, too, but always as an incidental catch. 

Noted naturalist and South Florida fly fishing trailblazer Homer Rhode Jr. wrote to angling author J. Edson Leonard in 1949 that he had been catching bonefish for 15 years. That would put Rhode’s first fly-caught bonefish at about 1935. Rhode even created a special fly about which Lee Wulff would write, “The best fly I know for bonefish is the Homer Rhode Shrimp Fly.” It’s not known whether Rhode was sight-casting to bonefish or simply catching them by accident while he cast to other fish. 

Let’s get back to Bill Smith’s bonefish and a humorous confrontation with George LaBranche, one of the premier anglers of the 1930s and a resident of Islamorada. In 1938, while guiding George Crawford, an accomplished fly angler from Alaska, Smith struck out on baby tarpon. Feeling bad for his client, Smith asked a fellow guide, Leo Johnson, what he used to catch tarpon. Johnson’s “flies” were nothing more than a strip of pork rind wired to a hook, but this got Bill Smith to thinking. That night, in preparation for the next morning’s charter, Smith tied a simple white bucktail with a piece of wire attached to the hook to hold the pork strip. Hoping to catch a tarpon, George Crawford cast Smith’s fly, with a trace of pork added, and proceeded to catch two bonefish! 

The elated men placed the bonefish in a gunny sack and weighed them at the local Islamorada grocery store; the fish weighed 5 and 6 pounds. While the men were congratulating themselves, George LaBranche entered the store and asked about the fish in the sack. Smith proudly told him that they had caught a pair of bonefish on flies. LaBranche inspected the fish and then asked to see the fly, which Smith promptly showed him. LaBranche looked incredulously at the pork rind fly and went into a tirade, thoroughly upbraiding Smith because it wasn’t a “real” fly of hair and feathers.

Bill Smith’s legendary catch proved that bonefish could be cast-to and caught with the proper fly and retrieve—not simply by accident as was previously believed through the 1920s and ‘30s. Notice his fly, tackle, and boat—a far cry from what’s popular today. Thanks to Gail Morchower at the International Game Fish Association library for providing the photo.

Several months went by. Smith, still stinging from LaBranche’s reprimand, proceeded to tie some flies and went out alone in his outboard skiff to a favorite spot known as Little Basin, behind Islamorada. He cast to several fish, hooked one, played and netted it just as another guide, Bert Pinder, was heading to a nearby dock. Anxious to have someone witness the catch, Smith quickly followed Pinder to the dock to have him inspect the still-breathing bonefish and the regulation fly as evidence. A photo was taken of Smith holding the 8-pound bonefish, along with the fly rod and single-action fly reel he had used. Days later the photo appeared in a Miami newspaper, and this fish became acknowledged as the first bonefish specifically caught on a fly—not by accident, but by casting directly to the fish.

Years later, in an interview with Bill Sargent, a noted Florida outdoor writer, Smith said he “…remembers that the fly had a yellow hackle, was tied on about a 1-0 hook.”  He named it the fly Salt-Us after one of his regular clients, a Mr. Saltus. The tying recipe included white bucktail and brown squirrel tail for the wing and a palmered yellow saddle hackle secured with red thread. Smith’s tackle was an 8-1/2-foot Orvis Battenkill rod, a Shakespeare model 1891 Russell reel, and an Ashaway GAF tapered fly line. 

Sand’s Salt-Water Fly Fishing relates another interesting fly-caught- bonefish story that took place in 1942, just after the attack on Pearl Harbor. Clarence “Barrel” Bowen, a good friend of Bill Smith’s, was about to be shipped overseas, and he asked Bonnie Smith, Bill’s wife, if she’d take him out to catch a bonefish on a fly, as Bill had. Bonnie had assumed her husband’s guiding duties while he was away supporting the war effort, and she took Bowen to a good bonefish spot. She later recalled, “We were back at the dock within two hours and Barrel Bowen had taken his first bonefish with a fly rod.” 

“We were back at the dock
within two hours and Barrel Bowen
had taken his first bonefish
with a fly rod.”

During the war, Bonnie Smith guided another young soldier, Jimmie Albright, and made it possible for him, too, to catch his first bonefish. Bonnie introduced Jimmie to her sister, Frankee, whom he married. With Bill Smith’s help, Jimmie became a legendary Florida Keys guide, and it was Albright who guided Joe Brooks to what is believed to be the first fly-caught tailing bonefish. That was in 1949. The following year, while fishing with Frankee Albright, the great George LaBranche chalked up his first official fly-caught bonefish (with Joe Brooks in the skiff as a witness). In 1950, Bonnie Smith guided Joe Brooks to his first permit on the fly.

Accidentally or on purpose, these early bonefish catches are all remarkable, and they helped to usher in the ‘bonefish age” of the Florida Keys. By 1950, new faces like Ted Williams, Stu Apte, George Hommel, and J. Lee Cuddy brought increasing fame to this astonishing gamefish, which continues to this day. 

Writer’s Bio:

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 Jupiter, Florida.

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The post Who Caught the First Bonefish on a Fly? first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Who Caught the First Bonefish on a Fly? appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

“The best fly I know for bonefish is the Rhode Shrimp fly which is made of three hackles wound around the shank of a No. 1/0 hook with three hackles going out on each side of the shank pointing backward from the bend, a sort of forked tail. This fly has a lot of action in the water and I like it best in natural (or dyed tan) Plymouth rock hackles. Homer Rhode, Miami Beach Rod and Reel Club, Hibiscus Island, Miami Beach, Florida designed the fly.”—Lee Wulff, in a 1949 letter to author J. Edson Leonard

One of the most intriguing figures in the early days of saltwater fly fishing was a 6-foot-5-inch giant who wandered the wilds of the Everglades—often at night and usually alone. Introverted by nature, he lived a life deeply immersed in the natural world. He loved the creatures of the Glades and knew where they lived, how they conducted their lives and even knew their Latin names. He could catch the fattest snook with a fly rod or the biggest rattlesnake with his hands. The backcountry was his home.

Using a houseboat as a base camp, he spent countless hours in the Ten Thousand Islands, navigating the endless maze of mangroves and shell mounds. Had you encountered him back there, it’s unlikely you could have engaged him in lengthy conversation. He was to-the-point and self-contained. Still, even in the briefest exchange, you might have sensed he was someone special. And if so, your instincts would have been dead-on. Because the person before you was one of those rare people, totally in touch with the planet, a man that had devoted himself to the sun, the moon, and the rain.

Homer S. Rhode Jr. was born on December 10, 1906, in Reading, Pennsylvania, where his father was a local physician. As a young boy, Homer had many interests. During his school days, he was a member of the Gun Club and the Camera Club, and he would be a firearms enthusiast and a photographer for the rest of his life. He was also a versatile athlete. Homer played on the football team and the school’s championship baseball team. Later in life, he would even try out as a pitcher for the New York Yankees. In addition to team sports, he was a purveyor of the sweet science, and good enough to win a Golden Gloves tournament. Yet his favorite pastime was the one he practiced with his father and brothers. Near their Berks County home, there were numerous fine trout streams such as Little Lehigh Creek, Maiden Creek, and Manatawny Creek. It was something Homer, his father, and brothers took full advantage of—for in the Rhode’s household fly fishing was a family affair.

Just after 1925, the family moved to Coral Gables, Florida. It must have been a disappointment for Homer to leave behind the trout streams of his youth. Now outside his window were Biscayne Bay and the Everglades. Somehow, Rhode correctly recognized these waters for what they offered—a brave new world of fly fishing—and he immediately began tying saltwater flies. While there is no record of what his earliest flies looked like, they must have been effective. By 1930, he had landed a bonefish and a permit on a fly, making him one of the first fly anglers in the world to take either species.

Homer married in 1940. He and his wife, Verta, got a place in Coral Gables and quickly had a son, Homer III, and a daughter, Veva. At this point, Homer had lived in Florida for over a decade, time enough to gain an understanding of fly fishing in salt water. In those same years, he had also acquired an encyclopedic knowledge of southern Florida’s wildlife. Whether it lived in Biscayne Bay or the Everglades, he wanted to learn about it. And his fascination with the natural world was reflected in his home. In the yard, he kept raccoons, possums, and armadillos; in the garage, there were terrariums loaded with live snakes; and in the house, snake skins covered the walls.

As the 1940s ebbed, Rhode’s involvement in fly fishing increased. He taught a course in fly fishing at the University of Miami and had become a member of the famed Miami Beach Rod and Reel Club. The fledgling Wapsi Fly Company began marketing some of his patterns. But most important, from his vise had emerged two flies that would significantly influence saltwater fly design: the Homer Rhode Jr. Tarpon Streamer and the Homer Rhode Jr. Tarpon Bucktail. Both flies appeared in Joseph Bates Jr.’s 1950 book, Streamer Fly Fishing in Fresh and Salt Water. 

The Homer Rhode Jr. Tarpon Streamer is a simple fly, constructed with splayed hackle wings tied off the bend of the hook and hackle palmered around the hook shank. Rhode described his design rationale in this way:

“You will note that all of my neck hackle and saddle hackle flies are tied with very heavy collars. The divided (splayed) wing flies have the wings tied as far back on the shank of the hook as possible, and the collar is started at that point. This helps to keep the wing from wrapping around the shank of the hook and thus keeps the fly from turning or spinning, at the same time assuring a natural action. In more than twenty years of experimenting with salt water flies, I have found that these features cause fewer refusals, less mouthing of the tail and that I hook more and lose fewer fish. My flies are longer and larger than usual. The heavy collar is due to the fact that I fish very slowly, usually in very shallow water. The divided wing opens and closes like a pair of scissors, making the fly seem to breathe. The heavy collar vibrates when fished slowly, seeming to give the fly added life.”

Even a casual look reveals this fly to be the progenitor of a considerable number of conventional tarpon flies, ones still in wide use today. It is also the source of Chico Fernandez’s Seaducer.

The Homer Rhode Jr. Tarpon Bucktail is an uncomplicated fly as well. Made mostly of bucktail, it has a short tail off the bend of the hook and, tied in at the hook eye, a wing that slants back over the thread body. Joe Brooks acknowledged that he took this basic fly design, fashioned it in several colors and popularized it as his well-known Blonde Series.

Curious and ready to experiment, Rhodes continued to push at the boundaries of our sport. Beyond chucking feathers at bonefish, permit, tarpon, spotted seatrout, and snook, Rhode cast to mullet and snappers with trout-size fly gear. For snapper, he used scaled-down flies made of white or yellow polar bear hair and then attached one or two spinner blades up front. Working around mangroves and even over shallow reefs and wrecks, he refined his technique until he could take snapper successfully. His approach to mullet took a more radical venture into what one might call ultra-light saltwater fly fishing. Realizing that mullet were algae-eaters, Rhode understood his flies would have to be tiny. So he tied them on hooks down to size 16 in white, light green, yellow, and black and then attached them to leaders tapered down to 4X. His largest mullet was 5 ¾ pounds; it burned 150 yards into the backing while leaping like a demon. (It makes you wonder how many species we are overlooking even today.)

Although he was active on many fronts, a brand-new challenge caught his eye. The recently formed Florida Game and Fresh Water Fish Commission had decided to organize its first band of conservation officers. Wasting no time, he enrolled. And when the first graduating officers lined up for a class photograph, Homer Rhode Jr. was one of them.

Enforcing game laws in the Everglades was desperately needed, yet wandering in the backcountry without any real hope of backup was clearly a dangerous business. Back then, southern Florida was as lawless and untamed as any place on earth. Here, where the temperate zone meets the tropics, you had gators, crocs, snakes, sharks, and clouds of mosquitoes thick enough to choke a horse. Worse yet, hiding in the buttonwood hammocks were varmints of the two-legged kind. The Glades were infested with criminals. At any moment, you could be face-to-face with poachers, smugglers, moonshiners, or even murderers—none of whom wanted a lawman around. So it’s no real surprise that, while on duty, Rhode would find himself in a gun battle. A crack shot since a kid, he came out on top, yet in the process was forced to kill a man.

After that unfortunate incident, Rhode hung up his badge and spent the next three years fly fishing commercially for snook; it was legal at the time. Working the waters around Everglades City, Marco, and the Tamiami Trail, Rhode fished day and night, filling up a big wooden ice chest built into his car. He made two daily trips to the Miami market, selling his catch in at six cents a pound. That might not sound like much, but on a good day, he’d bring in half a ton. To do that with a fly rod speaks volumes about Homer’s skill, but his intimate knowledge of the natural world played a role, too. While driving the Trail at night, he would keep an eye peeled in his headlights for leopard frogs plastered to the pavement. Rhode realized that wherever the frogs showed up in number, the snook would be waiting in the water alongside the road. Stopping the car, he would jump out with his fly rod, all the while being careful: Rattlesnakes and cottonmouths were fond of the frogs, too.

Eventually, he took a job with Miami-Dade County. In an unfortunate accident, he was exposed to a powerful rodenticide. It damaged his nervous system, weakening his arms and legs and forcing him to retire with a disability. On the upside, it allowed him more time on his houseboat near Chokoloskee. Roughly 30 feet long, it was a rustic affair, with the only creature comforts being piles of books. Still, Homer loved this simple retreat, not only for the solace it offered but also for the freedom to spend unlimited hours exploring his favorite waters.

Homer Rhode Jr. passed away on July 7, 1976. The loop knot that bears his name is widely known, of course, yet the true extent of his contributions to our sport have remained largely hidden. To a degree, we can attribute that to Homer’s humble personality. Reluctant to be in the limelight, he deliberately kept himself out of it. Regardless, this much is clear: Homer Rhode Jr. was a pivotal player in the dawning days of our sport, and he richly deserves to be ranked as a pioneer and remembered as a man of many skills. He was a fly-rodder, naturalist, game warden, guide, amateur herpetologist, commercial fisherman—the list goes on and on. And because of this, it is clear that behind his quiet exterior there lived an exceptional mind. As the old proverb goes,  “Still waters run deep.”

The author would like to thank several members of the Miami Rod and Reel Club: Captain Dan Kipnis, Suzan Baker, Jack Holeman, Steve Roadruck, and Cromwell A. Anderson. He is also indebted to Gail Morchower of the International Game Fish Association, the late Lefty Kreh, and sporting book dealer Dave Foley. Above all, he would like to express sincere thanks to Homer Rhode Jr.’s son, Homer Rhode III.

Bio: Ed Mitchell is a writer, photographer, and lecturer with extensive fly fishing experience in fresh and salt water. He has written for all of the major fly fishing magazines and is the author of four books on the subject. Ed lives in Punta Gorda, Florida. His website is www.edmitchelloutdoors.com.

“One night Homer and I left his houseboat in a tin boat to do some fishing. Guided only by stars and the ink-black silhouette of the shoreline, Homer steered his boat through the labyrinth of the Ten Thousand Islands. Eventually we arrived at a spot loaded with snook. The following morning, back at the houseboat, I suggested a return trip. Homer paused and in a quiet voice said we couldn’t. He did not know how to get there in the light of day.”—Lefty Kreh, in interview with Ed Mitchell

HOMER RHODE JR. FLY RECIPES

Homer Rhode Jr. Streamer

Hook: Size 1 or 1/0 for bonefish, to 3/0 for tarpon.
Wing: Six saddle hackles tied divided (splayed) at the bend of the hook.
Collar: Three hackles wound from the bend of the hook toward the eye.

Notes: Also referred to in the literature as the Homer Rhode Shrimp Fly, Rhode dressed this streamer in a number of color combinations, including a wing of yellow, grizzly, and white hackles collared with yellow and white hackles; a wing of grizzly hackles and a collar of yellow hackles; yellow wing and collar; wing of white hackles and a collar of red hackles. Lee Wulff’s favorite version for bonefish was grizzly hackle in natural (pictured) or dyed tan for both wing and collar.

Homer Rhode Jr. Bucktail

Thread: Red.
Hook: Size 1 or 1/0 for bonefish, to 3/0 for tarpon.
Tail: White bucktail secured along the shank with thread.
Overwing: White bucktail, as long as the tail, tied in just behind the hook eye.

Homer Rhode Jr. Bucktail (Version 2)

Hook: Size 1 or 1/0 for bonefish, to 3/0 for tarpon.
Wing: Yellow bucktail tied in at the bend.
Collar: Three yellow hackles wound from the bend of the hook toward the eye.

Notes: Mr. Leonard’s book makes it clear that the tail and wings in the above two patterns were originally tied using polar bear (now endangered).

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The post Historical Figures in Saltwater Fly Fishing – Homer Rhode Jr. first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Historical Figures in Saltwater Fly Fishing – Homer Rhode Jr. appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

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The post I’m Not Hungry Today first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post I’m Not Hungry Today 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.