Fishing boats are fishing boats. Some differences in beam and length, draw and height, construction material and means of propulsion, but basically, they take you to the fish. But when it comes to fly fishing, there is a clear-cut difference between a drift boat on a trout river and a tarpon boat in the mangroves. On a tarpon boat, prayer matters—and the scars run much deeper.

We had just slid into the mangroves to a deep hole called “Ensenada,” searching for the first tarpon of the day, when a 5-foot crocodile surfaced beside the boat.

My host, Alex Hernandez, pointed him out and said, “I think that’s the one that bit me last year.” He rolled up his pant leg and showed the scar on his foot. “A client got his fly stuck on a root and I went in to get it, when something grabbed my foot. Fortunately, he was a small one and I managed to get out of the water before any real damage.”

He turned to the back of the boat. “Pechugo, show him your arm.” The guide at the motor pulled off his shirt to reveal a long deep scar that ran along his left arm. “A large crocodile came into the city via the storm sewer, so a few of the men went after it. It got Pechugo before they got it.”

The croc submerged and the water started boiling in the middle of the open area. Tarpon. “Cast! Cast!” As I flicked out a short roll cast, all I could think was: Don’t get hung up on a root.

A tarpon blasted out of the water and shook my fly with such a fury that the line flew up and wrapped around an overhead branch. He hung on this mangrove crucifix, quivering in the light and spraying silver water as the three of us scrambled to pull the boat over to the tree. I reached out across the water and saw the croc surface again. All I could think now was: Don’t fall in. I wasn’t ready for my scar.

When anglers go to the Yucatán in Mexico to fly fish, they usually fly to Cancun and head south, ultimately going to Ascension Bay for the Grand Slam of bonefish, permit, and tarpon. I’ve caught bonefish and don’t have the cast for permit (yet), so tarpon it was. For the best shot at those, you need to hit the mangrove forests that wrap around the northwest side of the Yucatán, from Campeche to Isla Holbox.

There are a few big and well-respected fly fishing outfitters in the area. Alejandro Hernandez owns and operates Campeche Tarpon, while Holbox is home to the well-known Alejandro Vega, aka Mr. Sand Flea. The crocodile and tarpon above were with Alejandro’s son, who was kind enough to offer me a free afternoon of tarpon fishing during the two days I was in Campeche. I knew I was in the right boat when I spotted the “No Bananas” sign stuck to the gunwale beside a plaque declaring that this boat carried HRH Prince Charles on a tour of the area.

But this isn’t their story.

I was in the Yucatán to fish with a guide some 400 kilometers away from Campeche and well west of Holbox. Someone I didn’t know and could barely find any information on. An independent guide unaffiliated with any of the big operations. A guy named Ismael Navarro. 

Some things get caught in our heads. I first read about Ismael years ago. Rhett Schober out of Akumal—who was very helpful to me when I DIY’d my first bonefish in Tulum—mentioned him in a small book on fly fishing the Yucatán. But that was it. No website, Instagram, or other online presence. Then, during the early days of COVID, I saw a post from Rhett: Just a little plea to help a great fly fishing buddy in Rio Lagartos. Ismael is not only a great guide, but he is a super kind and generous soul. Please help him out if you can. Health-related travel mandates were especially tough on the small villages, which were cut off from everything but necessary supplies.

Most of my fishing is DIY and happens in off-the-beaten track locations, so when I do use a guide, I gravitate to guys in similar settings. And I have to admit, I was intrigued by a fisherman named Ismael. The name of exiles and outcasts, sure, but with the ear of God. Ismael in Hebrew is God will hear. The Spanish translation is more direct: God listens. I’m not a religious man, but I’m open to the idea that, as there are no atheists in foxholes, there may be none in fishing boats, either.

Río Lagartos (colloquially, River of Crocodiles) is a small fishing village accessible by a single one-lane road. As with much of that coast, the area is afforded government protection in a series of reserves commonly known as “biospheres,” and the village sits in the middle of the 48,000-hectare Río Lagartos Biosphere Reserve, a combination of coastal dunes, mangroves, small deciduous forests, savanna, grasslands, jaguars, crocodiles, birds of every type—and an exceptional baby tarpon nursery.

After months of WhatsApp conversations with Ismael, my wife and I finally rolled into town for a couple of days of fishing. We arranged to meet at the Yuum Ha Hotel, and as we pulled in front, a friendly guy waved from across the street and walked over. I jumped out of the car to shake his hand and we started talking about fishing. It took about five minutes before I realized he wasn’t Ismael. His name was Frank. I thanked Frank for his time and walked to the hotel to find Ismael waiting. How do you tell if you’re with a smart guide before you get to the water? He makes sure your wife has a great lunch then tells her a stupid joke that makes her laugh.

Half or a quarter Maya, Ismael stood—and I’m being generous here—5-foot something, with the something being pretty close to zero. But in that tight frame, he packed a lot of big and generous soul. We felt like old friends as Ismael took us around to get groceries, beer, and fresh fish from a friend of his, and then he pointed out the direction of our rental house. He would meet me at 7 a.m. on the beach in front of our place—a much shorter trip for both of us.

Forty minutes later, we pulled up in front of our house; as we unloaded, a small gray fox crossed our path. I took this as good sign. The Celts believed the fox was a spirit animal and would guide you on your journey. But then I recalled that it was the journey to the afterlife.

The wind had picked up in the morning and the waves were a good meter high when I saw the blue-green fiberglass panga round the point and come in parallel to the shore, just outside the breaking water. As the boat passed, it swung a hard 90 degrees and came in straight, slicing through the surf to the beach.

Ismael hopped out and took my rods and gear as I clambered in and introduced myself to the guy in the back of the boat manning the motor: Carlos Sansores, 68 years old, sun-worn and wiry, that no-nonsense competence that all fishermen seem to possess. No crocodile scars that I could see.

We pushed off and headed back toward the protected lagoons of the village. The great thing about Río Lagartos is that you are fishing just minutes from the center of town. I never asked, but I’m sure there are a few “pet” tarpon that hang around the dock.

On the way, I mentioned the fox, thinking Ismael might have some Maya insight. “A grey fox is good, man. Or bad. Neutral. Yucatán is going to let you decide.”

Saltwater guides can be tough. I haven’t fished with many, but my first bonefish guide put a deep mark in my psyche with his exasperated, “There, they’re right there!” and “Oh, you blew that cast.” What should have been a good day of fishing and camaraderie quickly turned into me just running out the day. Then there was the guide who drove around in the boat for an hour, “looking for fish,” until he dropped anchor in the middle of a bay. “This should be a good spot.” He pulled out his spinning rod and started casting for his dinner. The bottom was 30 feet down, and I had a floating line set up for bonefish.

But at the same time, I appreciate the hard work involved in getting on fish and the fact that some clients can be total dickheads—overestimating their skills, bringing unrealistic expectations, and treating the guy working his ass off for him like shit. Or they’re real sweet and then drop the bullshit line about not being too concerned with catching fish and “just want to go fishing.” Let’s see how you feel about that at the end of a skunked day.

But I had met and worked with more good guides than not. Far more, in fact. The guys who go that extra distance to get you to the fish. The guys who understand that if we agree to bring together our expectations, mutual skills and desires, and work together, we are going to have a good day. It all comes down to the first fish. Successful guide/client teams are laser-focused on getting that first fish. Jokes are left ashore, small talk is cursory, and the prep in the boat is paramount.

Within minutes, we passed the breakwater and were in the relatively calm lagoon. I tied on a Puglisi Peanut Butter and Ismael tested it by catching the hook on the seat edge and pulling. Satisfied, he said, “Now we look.”

“What are we looking for?” Even though I had hooked a tarpon once before while fishing for bonefish, I had no idea how I did it.

“Silver flashes on the water. Rolling tarpon.”

Tarpon school, or just like one another’s company, and they take in air to supplement oxygen levels. It’s what allows them to live in brackish water with low dissolved oxygen levels. This means that tarpon will gulp air and look as if they are rolling at the surface.

Ismael jumped up to the casting platform as we slowly motored across the flat. I searched the sides looking for any disturbance on the surface when a shift in the wind carried the prayer back to me. Maybe the extra height of the platform didn’t just give him a viewing advantage; it also raised him to be that much closer to heaven. The prayer was low and under his breath as he scanned the water. My religious Spanish is pretty awful and much worse than my fishing Spanish, so I’m going to interpret badly, but here goes: “It is Sábado. Please let David catch a sábalo.” He repeated the prayer over and over as we crisscrossed the water until we spotted a reflective cut in the water about 50 meters away and Carlos turned the boat to position us upwind and poled in.

I pulled off my shoes as Ismael washed down the casting platform to prevent my line from picking up any debris. Then he walked me through his prep list: “Stand here. Point out 11 o’clock—good. Not too many false casts, but if I say “drop,” you drop. Strip like this. Set hard three times. Bow to the king.” I’ll add prayer to the list. And hope God is listening.

My first cast landed at the leading edge of the group of tarpon and we watched as a good-sized fish turned and followed. A moment later, a glint of silver and the living tug. “Set!” I yanked back on my line hand and felt the hook dig it. “Again! Again!”

Another two hard jerks and the fish was on. He let me know by slicing through the water and exploding out. There’s something humbling about being in the open water with a good-sized fish on the line. I’ve caught big trout on a wild stream, and standing on land, albeit under the water, I am rooted and powerful. I command a stream. And the trout knows he really doesn’t have anywhere to go. But in a tiny boat on the vast ocean under a seamless sky, I had no supremacy. The word I’m looking for is insignificant. Despite the gear of boat, rod, and hook, the fish is going to go anywhere he damn well pleases. The tarpon took air again, and I got out of my head and dropped the rod until I felt the fish re-engage. Three more jumps and it began to tire. I have no frame of reference for what constitutes large or small in a baby tarpon. I’m just going to say that it was huge. Ismael unhooked the fish and let it slip back in the water.

First fish to hand, we relaxed and circled them for the next hour. I must have hooked 15 and landed 10. Lost a couple of flies to what I was told were barracudas.   

The tarpon eventually moved on, and so did we. We found smaller groups and chased them. Or didn’t. During a slow time, Ismael took the opportunity to work on my double haul (tippet isn’t the only weak link.) He had me skim my back cast along the water’s surface then use the wind to push my forward cast. Nothing new about a Belgian cast, but it’s a technique I never needed on a trout stream when a low roll cast will work. He also tightened my timing and backcast feed. The 8-weight Winston came alive, and I gained an extra 5 meters. Good guides give you something that will help you catch fish in their boat; great guides make you a better angler.

We fished out the day, splitting our time between the open lagoon and the edge of the mangroves, until the boat dropped me off on my beach in the late afternoon. I walked up to the house for a beer and a cigar—and to reflect. My hands were tingling. We know what muscle memory is—repeating an action over and over until it becomes so ingrained in your body that the action becomes second nature. You don’t think about driving; you just drive. The same could be said about my new double haul. But there’s another type of memory that lives in the muscles: the phantom existence of an experience. As I sat on the deck and looked out over the sun setting on the ocean, I could feel the rod handle come alive in my right hand as my left tensed with the hard strain of a strip-set and a racing tarpon. I relived that electric connection between angler and fish as I fought those tarpon again in my mind. I think I even bowed a few times. My wife popped her head out to ask if I was okay. I was. Very much so.

Second days on the water are either not as good as the first or better, which is to say they are always different.

With weather threatening the next morning, we decided to skip the flats and go deep into the mangroves, where I quickly lost track of the sights and sounds of ocean and sky. The boat slid through an opening in the tight branches and we came out to a pool where we could see tarpon cruising underneath. Big tarpon. There was just enough room to throw up a high back cast over the tops of the trees, then let it drop and drive it forward. It was a sloppy, stupid cast, but it received an approving nod from Carlos. Not the fish, though. They ignored every fly. I would literally drag a fly in front of a fish—a twitch to the right and I could have snagged one—and it barely elicited a glance.

Ismael was in the back of the boat quietly praying again, as I sat up front watching the water and cutting up a mango with a small knife when I heard a tremendous crash behind me. I thought for certain that a jaguar had attacked, and I whirled with the fruit knife at the ready. A meter-long tarpon had leapt out of the water and landed in Ismael’s lap. He was fighting it off as it flailed around, its tail slapping him in the face. You want to test your mettle? Go a few rounds with a pissed-off tarpon in a boat. Ismael managed to get both hands underneath and heaved it over the side. We caught our breath and started laughing as another fish slammed into the side of the boat. Then another. Tarpon were attacking the boat.

Sábalo! The terror from the mangroves!

Just as quickly, they stopped, and we collectively decided to get lunch.

Ten minutes later, we were at the docks. The tide had gone out, so we pulled up on a newly exposed “beach” in the middle of the lagoon and ate while watching shorebirds work the wet sand.

I asked Ismael about his background. He is 44 and was born about 40 kilometers from Río Lagartos. Though he’s a fishing guide, he was a professional bird guide for an ornithologist for a time. One day, he was approached on the Río docks by the ornithologist looking for a turquoise-browed motmot. Ismael had no idea what the hell he was talking about, but he was game enough to try and find one. Within two days, the scientist made Ismael his assistant, and they began a multi-year professional relationship that took them all over the Yucatán in search of birds. I asked Ismael why he didn’t work for one of the big outfitters. Our feet were resting on edge of the boat as we enjoyed a beer. He smiled and pointed out a flamboyance of flamingos gliding overhead, pale scarlet birds against an azurite blue like a ‘50s postcard.

“Would you leave?”

My eyes drifted down to the band of dark green trees edging the deeper turquoise of the water. And a flash of silver. Ismael saw my face. He tossed his empty in the cooler. “C’mon, let’s get you another fish.”

The next day, I started to pack for our departure. Grabbing some loose flies, I felt a sharp pain when a hook point pierced my thumb. Backing the hook out slowly, a drop of blood appeared at the wound and I instinctively put my thumb in my mouth. When I looked up, the fox was sitting on a small dune staring at me. My guide on the journey to the afterlife.

It’s just a small wound, fox.

We held eyes, then he turned and disappeared into the brush. In the end, the Yucatán let me decide and gave me my scar, which earned me the right to come back. When I do, I have guides waiting.

Bio: David. N. McIlvaney is an outdoor writer who splits his time between New York City and a tiny Catskill camp, where he hews wood and draws water. His fishing writing has been published in The Flyfish Journal, Hatch Magazine, Gotham Canoe and The Wading List. This is his first appearance in Tail Fly Fishing. Find him on Instagram: @the_real_dnm. Ismael Navarro can be contacted by WhatsApp voice call at +52 986 108 26 48 or by email at riolaga@hotmail.com.

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The post Río Lagartos Tarpon – Prayer and Scars in the Mangroves of the Yucatán first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

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Editor’s note: These excerpts are transcribed from Mill House Podcast episodes. They’ve been lightly edited for brevity and clarity. Andy Mill has added recent reflections on the clips that are signified by italicized text.

Tackle was barbaric and fish were plentiful. Before GPS and sonar, navigation and exploration was about timing with speed and compasses. What was the evolution like for fishing sophistication?

Our history is told through decades of ageless, weathered anglers and guides who dedicated their lives to the pursuit of gamefish far and wide. Their quests and stories are riveting and compelling, instructive to those of us interested to know where we’ve come from and how we arrived where we are today.

If these stories are not told and documented, and if the emotion that accompanies them is not captured on camera, our heroes one day may only be remembered by name, their stories eventually lost with the trade winds.

Archiving our giants is our mission. For the rest of time, generations to come will have a chance to listen and see their forefathers and icons. Our goal at Mill House is to preserve these historical people and the lives they’ve led.

Included here are examples of two of our sport’s greatest statesmen, Flip Pallot and Steve Huff, speaking about when life gets closer to the finish line, a firsthand account of how weighted permit flies came into existence, and also how epoxy flies came to be. We also include moments from our time with Billy Knowles. We thought it would be valuable to share these snapshots as moments in time when a reflection made becomes a legacy for the ages.

From the Mill House Podcast interview with Flip Pallot

Andy: When I called you recently, I asked, “What are you doing, what’s happening?” You said, “I’m sitting in my Yeti chair looking at my backyard, looking at the woods, having a cocktail, trying to figure out what kind of mischief I can get into tomorrow.” What’s your life like now?

Flip: I sharpen a lot of things—hooks, arrows, and bullet points. I’m always happiest when I’m sharpening something or cleaning something.

Andy: I spoke to some of your buddies, great friends, prior to coming up here and they all agreed you’re the ultimate outdoorsman.

Flip: Well, I don’t know about that … but it certainly calls to me … always has. I never had an interest in sports, never knew who the biggest hitters were. It was never part of my stream of consciousness. I remember more than anything else sitting in elementary school classes looking out the window at the birds and wishing I was out there. School was always terribly difficult for me, not because of the school; it was because I didn’t want to be there, and I finished school because my parents wanted me to. It meant a lot to them. I wish I had those years in college back and do something really cool with them.

Andy: Your number-one rule, you’ve said, is to follow your heart. It appears as if you’ve done that now.

Flip: I have with the exception of a few little detours that were important to people that were important to me, family.  And so I spent some misguided years working in corporate situations which was like elementary school. I’d look out the window and wish I was out there, and then at some point I came to the full and certain realization life has a finish line and I was going backwards.

Andy: You know, I think, too, Flip, that we all go through those early years when we didn’t really understand who we were, and what our voices were saying, what our heart was saying. Are you listening to your conscience or your heart, but we’re not really sure until you get to the point with some experience and mileage. We all went through those years; it was painful but there was no way out, because we didn’t know the way out.

Flip: Exactly right! You have to find that, and there’s a price to pay for that, as there should be. But when you break through the veil, clarity exists. You realize this is what I was made for, this is where I belong and this is where I’ll stay to the finish line. And, just along those lines there is a point at which you clearly realize that you’re closer to the end than you are to the beginning. And so then every moment becomes precious. I mean, sometimes I’ll wake up in the morning and look at the clock and say what am I doing here? I could be doing something right now. And you realize there are only so many moments left, I should say so many vital moments left, and by vital I mean those moments you could spend on a poling tower poling, pushing a skiff into the wind. That comes to an end. How many moments are left that you could walk up a hillside at 9 or 10,000 feet and do your thing there? Those moments come to an end. And I don’t look forward to the time when all I can do is sit around and reflect and remember, I really don’t look forward to that. I look forward to to those vital moments that I just described, and many other things as well. You know what I’m talking about. It was so clear to me this past year when we lost Lefty, and I remember because I spent so much time with Lefty, and I remember when he couldn’t pole any more, and I remember when he couldn’t stand on the front deck of a skiff anymore. And I remember how sad … it wasn’t sad for him; he seemed to deal with it marvelously. It was sad for me because when vitality goes, you’re at the end of the trail.”

For me, closing in on 70 with a worn-out body makes it harder to stay in the game. When Pallot spoke of being at 9,000 and 10,000 feet, I knew he was directing that statement to me, knowing that’s where I live in the fall chasing elk. Since then, I dove back into a weight room and onto my bike. I want to still be successful at the things I love. Pallot’s voice hit me right between the eyes. But he’s telling us all to continue doing the things we love, the things we’ll be talking about for the rest of time. Take that fishing trip you always wanted to take. Keep skiing, rafting, hiking, and loving life to its fullest. Spend time with family members, grandkids. You can be tired when you’re dead. Do something this weekend so spectacular you won’t sleep all week. That’s a vital moment.

From the Mill House Podcast interview with Steve Huff

Andy: Tell me about those early years of permit fishing west of Key West with you and Del Brown.

Steve: Actually, I learned about permit fishing on Del Brown’s money. So he called me in 1980. He wanted to target permit and fish for permit a lot, and I’d done a lot of permit fishing, but had only caught 15 or 20 fish on fly so this was a learning experience … and we were using lots of different kinds of flies. Del was quite an innovator of flies. He was using other people’s ideas as well, so it wasn’t Del’s exclusively. There were a lot of guys trying to catch these things more frequently, but for whatever reason we started to catch a lot of permit and more permit than anyone had ever dreamed of catching. It was like if you caught a permit in your life it was a big deal. We had countless days when we caught five or six. Sandy (Sandy Moret) caught seven with me one day. That was the best permit fishing I’ve ever had, but also how the fish were getting in a feeding mode. Sometimes they were eating crabs off the surface like a dry fly. Basically, you could see them coming down a channel eating flies off the surface. It’s really cool, and that’s a caught fish when you get a fly in front of that thing. The right kind of fly, something that floats, quiver it, don’t strip it, shake it, cause these things are just coming down … they’re dead meat. The coolest permit strike I ever saw, I was with Charlie Causey, and we were going down this edge of a channel and the tide had fallen out, and we had on one of these floating flies looking for one of these cruising permit taking crabs and we weren’t seeing any. And this permit tailed in this little alcove maybe a foot or so deep, feeding on the bottom, you know. And we had the wrong kind of fly on, and he threw that floating fly over there and it drifted over this fish, and the fish had his head down and he looked up and saw this fly, and he was trying to get his head up to the surface but his tail was hitting on the bottom. He couldn’t get the fly and swam off into the channel, and Charlie said, “Goddamn, man, I thought he was going to bite that thing!” And I said, “Watch this.” And this fish went out into the channel, got a head of steam, and lunged up onto the flat and took the fly off the surface. His head was completely out of the water, like a 25-pound fish. So it makes your hair stand on end to see something like that.

Andy: Was there point in time with permit fishing when you got over the hump? Was it a fly design or you just understanding the dynamics of permit fishing?

Steve: So I could go through an entire talk about the evolution of permit flies, but nobody was putting weight in flies back then for permit. You know Nat Ragland came up with a little fly that had glass eyes on it, which was essentially weight. It had glass eyes on a piece of wire. Nat had somebody, a guy by the name of Bill Levy, catch a couple of permit on this fly. So I said, “Holy shit! We have to put eyes on our flies.” I’ll tell you where the epoxy fly came from. I was looking for eyes, because all of a sudden I knew that eyes were the deal, right? So my wife had some shelf paper in the drawers in our kitchen that had daisies on it, but the center of the daisy was basically an eye, right? So I cut the centers out and it’s got sticky paper, and I tried to stick them on and they wouldn’t stick on, you know? So I made this chenille body and I took some epoxy glue and I tried to stick these things on which made a mess. So I said, “Screw it! I’m just gonna cover the whole head of this thing with epoxy.” So that’s where the epoxy fly came from. Harry Spear came over a couple days later. I think we caught a permit on it because there was more weight, it added more weight. Screw the eyes. The eyes didn’t mean a damn thing. It was about the weight. So then we started adding more weight. The epoxy fly had its day and we started putting on little barbell eyes to get the fly down. I think the real thing was the right amount of weight, because sometimes they’re in shallow and sometimes they’re deeper and sometimes they’re in 4 feet of water along the edge of a channel and you can see them down there mudding, and you need something that gets down there, because they won’t see anything up there, you know? But that’s how the epoxy fly got started.

The epoxy fly, as Steve said, “Had its day.” But the way Steve layered the transition to the epoxy fly and ultimately fly weight is possibly the most important transition in all of shallow saltwater fly design. In another Mill House episode, Michael Guerin said the inventor of weighting flies was something on the order of a genius. Well, we don’t call Steve Huff the “God of Guides” for nothing. This story is one of a million pertaining to Huff’s creativity throughout 50 years of guiding.

From the Mill House Podcast with Billy Knowles

Andy: Let’s talk about Homosassa, because you were there with Carl (Carl Navarre), right?

Billy: No, I went there the first year in ’71 with Jimmy Lopez. The first morning out, we were the first boat down the river, and we got down to just before Chassahowitzka Point. I mean the tripod. He said, “Maybe there’s a few fish right here. Let’s stop and take a look.” And I shut down. We were in his boat, no electrics, strictly pole, and I was standing on the back of the boat and pushing around some. I see a fish roll. I said, “Jimmy, stand up. A fish just rolled and there might be more with him.” He starts shaking, and I said, “Hurry up!” I said, “Five or six fish just rolled.” He’s still shaking, and I said, “Forget it.” And he said, “Why?” I said, “There’s more damn fish here than I can count. He said, “You’re serious?” I said, “Yeah, it’s a big daisy chain.” Andy, when the sun came up, we weren’t outside the daisy chain throwing in, we were inside throwing out. That’s how big the school was. And he said, “How many fish do you think’s here?” I said, “I don’t know—1,000, 1,500, 2,000. I have no idea.” That day we caught seven and wouldn’t say how many we jumped. But we did catch seven. We were there for ten days. We ended up catching 77 fish in ten days. On the tenth day we never caught a fish. We hooked a fish in the morning about 7 a.m. and we fought that fish till a little after 12. The fish was way past two (200 pounds). He said, “We got to get a shot with the gaff.” I said, “You fight the fish. Let me worry about the gaff.” So not having electrics I had to pole outside of the fish to get up wind of him so the wind could blow me down on him. So I poled outside of the fish, laid the pole down real quiet, picked up the gaff, and the fish turned around and blew the fly right back in his face. He got so mad he threw the fly rod and reel down in the boat, bent the reel all to hell, lowered the motor down, cranked up, and we came in. And I said, “You’re a real sport, aren’t you?” He said to me, “Bring the boat back to Islamorada. I’m flying home.” Now, he had his plane there then. I said, “Whatever you want.” That was my last year with him.

Billy Knowles died January 4th, leaving a profound hole in the collective heart of Islamorada, Florida, where his family homesteaded in the 19th century. At 81, he was still on his tower chasing fish daily. He was one of the first skiff guides. He started fishing offshore as a youngster and over time became one of the planet’s best bonefish guides, winning some of the biggest tournaments on multiple occasions. Billy’s love for his fellow man was prevalent over his entire life, and deep friendships resulted from it. Considered the “Mayor of Islamorada” and a father figure to all, his was the voice of reason. Over the years he fished with Ernest Hemingway, President Herbert Hoover, President George H.W. Bush, and Ted Williams. The term legend often gets thrown around too casually, but Billy Knowles was the real deal, and even “legend” falls short when describing Billy. He was as big as they get in every way, Rest in peace, Billy. We miss you terribly, son.

If you’d like to hear more stories from fishing legends such as Chico Fernandez, Stu Apte, Al Pflueger Jr., and Mark Sosin, check out Mill House Podcast on any podcast app, or watch on YouTube.

Homosassa:  A Reminiscence of The Greatest Tarpon Fishery

Topwater Permit

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The post Reflections from the Mill House Podcast first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

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The 59th Annual Gold Cup Invitational Tarpon Fly Fishing Tournament, one of the most revered fly fishing tournaments in the world, is known wherever anglers pursue the Silver King with a fly. It has been referred to as the “World Series” of tarpon fishing and consists of 5 days of honorable competition. This year was especially exciting as fishing far exceeded previous year’s numbers as well as provided some real suspense each day.

Talented Fly-Anglers were able to pull in a total of 103 fish during the five-day stretch, consisting of 70 Release and 33 Weight Fish, the best tarpon fishing during this prestigious tournament in some time. Teams of Anglers and Guides compete for various trophy and sponsor-donated items. The real honor is for the overall winning team to have their names added to the 59-year-old perpetual trophy. The historic GCTT trophy is showcased locally at The Florida Keys Outfitters.

Second time Grand Champion Angler, Dave Preston from Miami, FL, and Guide to Grand Champion, Capt. Luis Cortes, earned their Grand Championship title with 6850 points, consisting of 7 Release Fish and 5 Weight Fish for the week. Preston and Cortes’s Weight Fish weighed in at 99.7, 132.5 96.8, 74.5, and 71.5 pounds. Dave Preston’s never failing positive attitude and passion for conservation has been evident over the 10 years that he has fished the tournament. Preston says, “It’s humbling to even be invited to fish the Gold Cup, and Capt. Luis and I consider it a great honor just to be in the room, trying to follow in the footsteps of giants. To come out on top in 2021 was the experience of a lifetime, and to be able to repeat and carry this feeling on for the next 365 days is everything we could dream of and then some. We’re extremely grateful to our fellow competitors, the tournament organizers, and the anglers and guides who have come before us to make the event what it is today.”

First Runner Up Angler, Mike Criscola from Fair Haven, NJ, and Guide, Capt. Eric Herstedt, earned 5295 points. They are one of one of the rare teams to catch the 5 weight fish limit by day 4, allowing the last day of fishing to consist of chasing release fish that are at least 4 feet long, instead of chasing the biggest fish that would count as weight fish. They also caught fish every day, which is an oddity during the Gold Cup Tarpon Tournament.

Second Runner Up Angler, Nathaniel Linville, from Key West, FL, and his Guide, Capt. Ian Slater, earned Second Runner-Up with 3226 points. This reputable team caught 5 Release Fish and 2 Weight Fish weighing 94.5 and 78.1 pounds.

The Largest Tarpon Award was earned by Angler Ned Johnson from Charleston, SC and his Guide, Capt. Craig Brewer with a fish weighing approximately 139 pounds.

The 60^th Gold Cup Tarpon Tournament will take place June 19-23, 2023. For additional information, including current results and sponsors, please visit the website at www.GoldCupTT.com.

Homosassa:  A Reminiscence of The Greatest Tarpon Fishery

Tarpon training: offseason work with retrievers

How to Catch Big Fish by Andy Mill

The post 59th Annual Gold Cup Invitational Fly Fishing Tarpon Tournament first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post 59th Annual Gold Cup Invitational Fly Fishing Tarpon Tournament appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

It is commonly translated as the Money Toad because it represents a popular Feng Shui charm used to encourage prosperity in many Chinese homes and businesses. This mythical creature is said to appear during the full moon, near houses (or businesses) that will soon receive good news. The nature of this good news is universally understood to be wealth. In the Florida Keys, wealth is measured in silver.

I’m quite sure that an avid angler from Georgia didn’t realize a connection to this ancient Chinese folklore, but his Golden Toad has many similarities.  It, too, brings great prosperity around the full moons of spring in the Florida Keys. One of the beneficiaries of the Toad was his friend and fellow fly angler Andy Mill, who used it as his secret weapon, winning at least five tournaments with it in the mid-1990s.

How and when did this lucky charm come to be? Who would know better than the man who created it, Gary Merriman…?

Asking what year the Tarpon Toad was created should have been a soft lob to break the ice with the creator, but Merriman responded with, “I can tell you where, how, and why it was made, but I just don’t remember what year it was–not with certainty, anyway.”

Merriman punted on the very first question, indicating this was going to be a long day. But after a quick call to his friend Ron Winters, he confirmed that the Tarpon Toad was created in Loggerhead Basin in the Florida Keys during the spring of 1993.

It’s well-known that Loggerhead Basin tarpon can be fickle. I believe he called them assholes, but after fishing them for over 30 years, he knows them well and is entitled to do so.

Merriman and Winters were trying some new patterns to entice this particularly difficult assembly to eat. One of the things that Merriman noticed was that patterns of the day would sometimes spin or rise and fall with a strip and stop.  While the rise and fall can be very productive, with these tarpon it simply wasn’t.

Merriman was trying to make a fly that would have neutral buoyancy and would hover below the water’s surface and move in a straight line when stripped. After studying a few patterns, he noticed what he called “wings” on a Harry Spears pattern called the Tasty Toad.  This pattern had splayed hackle and a bushy, rounded body.

Merriman adopted this concept for his “wings” and created a flat-headed pattern with a bunny tail and marabou collar. He and Winters tested it the next day.

Despite Merriman’s blowing his first presentation by about 10 feet, he did get the eat. The tarpon raced to this fly as he had never seen before. Not just this fish, but nearly every fish he presented to ate this fly.  It wasn’t just a magical moment or a magical day, either. This anomaly went on for days, weeks, and months and became typical behavior in lieu of their former asshole status.  Merriman’s Tarpon Toad was surely destined for greatness.

After being successful with the Toad in Loggerhead Basin during that week in 1993, Merriman attempted to share the fly with guide Tim Hoover, who said, “I don’t know what that is but you’re not fishing it on my boat.”

It would be years before Hoover tried the fly, and only then because he heard an over-zealous Winters screaming “Toad rules!” every time he hooked up.

“What does that mean?” he asked Winters, who eventually shared that this pattern, which Hoover had rejected years before, was the secret sauce for both backcountry and oceanside tarpon in the Keys.

There are two basic variations of the Toad–one with a marabou tail and one with a bunny tail–in many color variations. The original was tied with a chartreuse bunny tail upside down on the hook. It had a chartreuse marabou collar and a yellow/cream head made from floating poly yarn.  He tied it with plastic eyes and also weighted eyes, both of which worked depending on the water depth. All color combinations are commercially available today, the most popular being chartreuse/yellow/cream, black/purple, and black/red.  Merriman also speaks fondly of a peach version: a peach bunny tail with a lighter peach collar and a yellow/cream head. 

The marabou version was first tied by Tim Hoover; Merriman confesses this is his go-to fly for oceanside tarpon. Because of the natural undulation of the marabou, this version works better, he says, with less movement than you would impart to the fly when fishing it in the backcountry. This one has the same marabou collar and floating poly yarn head.

Merriman states that the marabou version was an experiment by Hoover after he had run out of rabbit strips and didn’t want to drive to the fly shop. Fortunately, it was equally productive as the bunny strip version.

According to Merriman, the commercially available version are usually tied correctly; however, he notes that the original proportions are key to the pattern’s success. In some commercial ties, the head is too thick and bushy, which minimizes functionality.  The foam-headed versions have never been productive for Merriman and he does not recommend them.

The original Tarpon Toad was 2.25 to 2.5 inches in length total.

The head portion is roughly 1/3 of the total length and usually consists of five poly yarn sections and includes the plastic eyes.

The tail section is about 1.25 to 1.5 inches from the base of the head and includes the collar and tail.  The tail is measured from the extension of the rabbit fur and not where the cut is on the actual strip.

No foul guard is necessary if you follow the recipe because the dimensions used in this original recipe will not foul as much (this also depends on the quality of the cast).

Despite Merriman’s not remembering the actual year the Tarpon Toad was created, he seems to have remembered everything else and was kind enough to share his original recipe with us—something Colonel Sanders has yet to do.

Gary Merriman has been a committed fly anlger for most of his life.  He owns the Fish Hawk, Atlanta’s premier fly shop, where he still provides expert advice to his customers. When he’s not fishing for tarpon, you can find him trout fishing on local streams or at the vise in his office tying up a Toad or two.

by Joseph Ballarini

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More posts on tarpon:

First Tarpon on the Fly

Flying High (For A Tarpon)

Tarpon Town

TARPON!

The post Gary Merriman’s Tarpon Toad – “Toad Rules” first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Gary Merriman’s Tarpon Toad – “Toad Rules” appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

Independence Day

by Ed Mitchell

In those days, Florida was an untamed wilderness, its coastline populated with exotic fish, birds, snakes, and panthers. With his wish to give the reader a sense of the Gulf Coast and his many tales to tell, Dimock devoted little space to his philosophy of saltwater fly fishing. Fortunately for us, he had already done so several years prior.

In January of 1908, the magazine Country Life in America had published an article by Dimock titled “Salt-Water Fly-Fishing.” To my knowledge, this is the first magazine article written on the subject. (Later that year, Dimock would include an expanded version of this piece in his book Florida Enchantments.)

What the article lacks in length it makes up for by giving us insight into Dimock’s feelings about fly fishing in the salt. In the opening paragraphs, Dimock makes a heartfelt confession, one that forces him to reevaluate his connection to the sport.

“Fly-fishing has linked itself with the mountain torrents, swift rivers, and rock-bound lakes of my own North Countrie by ties so sacred that it seems immoral to attempt it in the bays, rivers and passes of the South. Before I could really essay it I had to retire to my room and read aloud the Declaration of Independence. I rejoice now in my victory over superstition, for I find myself a missionary in a benighted land.”

Clearly, Dimock is at war with himself, torn between his affection for freshwater fly fishing and his newfound experiences in the salt. Was fly fishing’s essence so tightly entwined with trout, so “sacred,” that to fly fish in salt water amounted to a sin? It’s a question of enormous gravity, one that would delay the growth of saltwater fly fishing for many years.

The “North Countrie” to which Dimock refers are his home waters of the Catskills, the birthplace of fly fishing for trout in America. There, along with fellow anglers, he established the Peekamoose Fishing Club on the Rondout River in 1880. Dimock doubtless spent many a joyful hour in that clubhouse with his friends, sitting by the fireplace, discussing their love of trout. This helps us to understand Dimock’s dedication to freshwater fly fishing: It undoubtedly was an important part of his life. We also should keep in mind that Dimock was a man of his times. Dimock was highly educated. He attended Phillips Academy in Massachusetts and was a graduate of what is now George Washington University. He was accepted as a member of the Stock Exchange before age 21, and within a few years he controlled the gold market on Wall Street. Dimock was well-read on many subjects, including fly fishing.

Across the Great Pond, Frederick M. Halford, the most well-known fly fishing author of the day, was defining the game for the fly anglers of that era—in the most dogmatic terms. In three books–Floating Flies and How to Dress Them (1886), Dry Fly Fishing in Theory and Practice (1889), and The Dry-Fly Man’s Handbook (1913)–Halford staunchly proclaimed that fly fishing was the art of using dry flies cast upstream. Casting downstream or using wet flies or nymphs was not acceptable sport.

This is not to say Dimock would have found no support for saltwater fly fishing among his contemporaries. James Henshall, who was perhaps the best-known American angler of his time, shared a good bit in common with Dimock. Like Dimock, Henshall had fished in Florida, and he had taken tarpon on a fly several years prior to Dimock. (Henshall recorded his adventures in his book Camping and Cruising in Florida, published in 1884.) Clearly, these two writers, had they met, would have swapped some tall tales. [Did Dimock and Henshall ever meet?]

Apart from Henshall, Dimock might have found a few other members of the fly fishing community who would have offered encouragement–one of whom might have been Theodore Gordon. How is that possible? After all, isn’t Gordon considered the father of dry fly fishing in America? And wasn’t he friends with Halford, having exchanged letters with him over the years? The answer to both questions is yes. However, it would be wrong to pigeonhole Gordon as strictly a trout angler. In truth, Gordon was a generalist at heart, willing to chuck a fly at anything that swam, including bluegills, pickerel, perch, and pike. Gordon had even created a streamer fly he used for striped bass, so he wouldn’t have been dismayed by Dimock’s call to the coast.

Did Dimock and Gordon know of each other? It’s entirely possible. In 1908, when Dimock’s saltwater fly fishing article appeared, Theodore Gordon lived nearby in the Catskills. At that time, Gordon was writing for magazines such as Forest and Stream, which Dimock was apt to have read. It’s also possible that Gordon would have read Country Life in America. Gordon spent a great deal of time fishing the Neversink River, which lies just west of Dimock’s home waters on the Rondout River. Therefore, it’s no great leap to speculate that the two were at least aware of each other (though Gordan’s reclusive nature diminishes the chance that they ever met).

Despite a lack of encouragement, Dimock declares his own Independence Day, concluding unequivocally that the notion of restricting fly fishing to fresh water is nothing more than “superstition,” and that saltwater fly fishing is among his unalienable rights. There is no turning back. In fact, Dimock tells us he is now a “missionary,” ready to tell the world of the glories of saltwater fly fishing.

Unfortunately, Dimock never lived to see the saltwater game take off. In 1908, he had only ten more years to live, and it would be nearly three decades after his passing, with the arrival of such anglers as George Bonbright, George LaBranch, and Joe Brooks, that the game gained even the slightest momentum.

Some will blame the lack of adequate tackle. Clearly that played some role in hindering the development of saltwater fly fishing. When Dimock snapped his fly rod in Florida, his guide had to repair it with a hickory hoe handle. It wouldn’t be until the mid-1930s that decent bamboo rods became widely available, with companies such as Montague, Leonard, and Payne offering models intended for salmon and freshwater bass that could be pressed into service in the salt. Ten years later, Edward vom Hofe & Company advertised a special “De luxe” [check this spelling] Tarpon Fly Rod to celebrate Bonbright’s 136-pound silver king caught in 1933. But the first commercial fly rod designed specifically for salt water wouldn’t arrive until nearly the end of World War II, when Orvis built saltwater fly rods at the urging of Rhode Island angler Harold Gibbs.

The scarcity of saltwater fly fishing literature was also a problem. The first book on the subject didn’t arrive until Joe Brooks’ 1950 Salt Water Fly Fishing. It sold few copies and never went into a second printing. For the first successful saltwater title we would wait more than 20 years for Lefty Kreh’s Fly Fishing in Salt Water.

Magazines did little better. Field & Stream and others were publishing the occasional saltwater article as far back as the ’30s, yet it would be nearly 75 years after Dimock’s death before saltwater fly fishing had its own magazine. That was a critical factor delaying the advancement of the sport. Unlike books, magazines turn out fresh facts and innovative thinking on a monthly basis, and periodicals typically reach a far greater readership.

More than anything else, however, the delay in tackle and literature was due to lack of demand. Despite the urging of forward-thinking men like Dimock and Brooks, the idea of salt water fly fishing sparked no immediate gold rush, no instant congregation of anglers marching seaward. Instead, with few exceptions, fly anglers stayed streamside with their beloved trout.

This reluctance to heed the call to the coast is not that difficult to understand. And it brings us full circle, back to Dimock’s quandary of 1908. Can you accept salt water as a legitimate part of the sport? Fly fishing is steeped in the past, richly laced with customs and ideas so deeply rooted they have become bible. This why fly fishing has always spawned more than its share of purists, anglers who insist on believing that the sport has only one true path.

Today, that question is behind us, long ago put to rest. Salt water is a highly respected and fascinating part of the fly fishing game, offering anglers around the world tremendous sport. If Dimock were alive to see it, he would be ecstatic, proud that salt water has finally gotten the attention it deserves. He would want to examine our wonderful tackle, cast our rods, see our flies, read our books and periodicals, and hear our tales. And yet, even so, Dimock might look around and whisper an aside, telling us his mission may not be over: There are likely anglers still walking among us who have yet to celebrate their own Independence Day.

The End

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The post First Tarpon on the Fly first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post First Tarpon on the 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.

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It is the perfect late spring morning in the Keys – the type fly anglers dream about. Even in the pre-dawn darkness, the air is thick and sticks to our skin, and there isn’t a breath of wind for relief. Mosquitoes dance their irritating dance around us as we pack our car. I know it is going to be a great day in the backcountry, and the anticipation pushes my exhaustion to the back of my mind.

My friend Kyle flew in the afternoon before for what would be his first tarpon trip and first trip to the Keys. I always tell people that while I’ve been fortunate to travel the world to fish, there is a reason the Keys are my favorite place on earth. I knew Kyle could fish when I invited him down – he had spent years pursuing stripers in the northeast. Striper guys tend to have the casting distance and quickness needed to get the fly in front of a tarpon. But this is a different game. Trying to feed finicky migratory tarpon on the ocean is a special kind of challenge, but on these hot, slick calm days, the backcountry fish can be pretty cooperative if you can get a fly in front of them.

At dinner the night before, I warned what Kyle probably already knew: tarpon fishing can be tough, but if you’re going to target them, the Keys are the best place on earth to do it. Our guide, Capt. Joe Rodriguez is the kind of guy who will tell you right away what you’re doing wrong, and what you should be doing instead. He has been guiding for nearly half his life and fishing for the rest and has the knowledge to show for it. My tarpon fishing proficiency has exponentially increased in the few short years we’ve fished together.

We meet Joe in Islamorada and leave the dock at first light. The sunrise is almost too perfect, brilliant swaths of color radiating throughout the whole sky and slick water around us, the line between sea and sky imperceptible. Doubt creeps in – maybe we won’t find the fish. After a long run, we finally shut down. At first, the water is an undisrupted glassy mirror, but it doesn’t take long before we hear a familiar sound as tarpon start rolling everywhere, the early morning sun glinting off their silver backs. Kyle insists that I fish first, and after a brief protest, I strip line off the reel and step onto the casting deck. It is painful watching tarpon roll just out of reach, but Joe poles deftly to put me in front of fish. I get a long shot at a fish that rolls in range, but it never sees the fly. Joe directs me to the other side of the boat and my next cast lands a few feet in front of a rolling fish on the move. We watch in strained silence as a subtle wake grows in intensity behind the fly. I hear, “he’s gonna eat it,” from Joe just before the line goes tight and the fish erupts in acrobatic leaps, backlit by the sun. After landing it, I’m beaming, and we all laugh. It isn’t usually quite that easy.

Fish are still rolling all around as Kyle steps up. There is nothing more exciting than tarpon fishing in the Keys, and I love introducing people to it because they inevitably revert to frenetic, childlike enthusiasm. I stand excitedly on the cooler seat. The shots are consistent, and after shaking his nerves and getting some advice from Joe after some missed eats and a few jumped fish, Kyle manages to hook one and leader it a few minutes later. It goes airborne again and throws the fly, and Kyle grins from ear to ear as he steps off the platform. “You’re screwed,” I laugh. “It’s all downhill from here.”

The fish are still rolling, and I catch another before the wind starts to pick up a bit, and they stop rolling. We spend most of the remainder of the day running from storms and trying unsuccessfully to find more fish in the back. When the wind picks up more late in the day, we head to the ocean where the fish remind us how tarpon fishing often goes in the Keys. They keep their noses down and avoid our offerings, other than the occasional fish that feigns interest before swimming past.

After a successful first day, we continue down US 1 South towards the Lower Keys, past mangroves and turquoise water and pastel homes. Kyle marvels that there is some but not much apparent damage from Hurricane Irma. I explain that parts of the Keys had been hit hard, but people in the Keys had been through hurricanes before, they were resilient, and more than anything, they needed the tourists to come back. Plus, the fishing was incredible, so people were crazy not to come down here.

The next two days would be spent fishing with Capt. Brandon Cyr out of Key West, a place I had only fished a handful of times. Another 4:45 AM wake up couldn’t dampen our spirits after that great first day, and we meet Brandon at first light at Ocean’s Edge Marina. Brandon is a fourth generation conch, an affable guy with youthful enthusiasm who I quickly realize is also both a talented guide and entirely obsessed with fishing. The weather is almost identical to the previous day, and I am cautiously optimistic as he shuts the boat down in our first spot and hops up on the platform.

We chat and laugh as we look for rolling and laid-up fish, a task made somewhat difficult by the early morning sun. In low light, you have to read their body language to gauge where fish end up – a fast roll means they are on the move, a slow roll followed by bubbles means they are staying put. There is a serious learning curve (and a degree of luck) to this game, and Brandon is a great teacher, giving helpful guidance and having, above all, a reasonable degree of patience. I love this type of fishing: talking through it, the guessing game after fish show themselves briefly, casting, the breathless moments as you strip the line, waiting to get tight to a fish and watch them explode out of the water. Between shots at fish, Brandon tells us that he had a swimming scholarship to Nova Southeastern out of high school. He was there for exactly one day before realizing he had made a mistake, returning to Key West to become a fishing guide.

As the sun gets higher, we can finally see a group of big laid up fish in a white hole. We talk through the best approach as they are scattered a bit haphazardly, heads facing in all different directions. My first cast lands a little short and Brandon tells me to pick up and throw again. The next cast lands where I want it, and we watch as one fish’s interest is piqued. I’m holding my breath, and Brandon murmurs as she turns towards the fly with a gentle kick of the tail, examines it, and surges forward, inhaling it and immediately jumping wildly as she feels the hook. Line flies everywhere and rips through my fingers as I try to clear it, remarking that it’s a giant fish. I lose her after a few more jumps, but the fun part is over anyways. We get plenty of shots, and both manage to get a few before taking an afternoon break to explore the funky town of Key West. That evening, tired but exhilarated, we head back out for the worm hatch.

The worm hatch is a special event in the Keys, as tarpon go into a frenzy over little red palolo worms as they emerge from the bottom and wriggle along on the surface, making for easy, protein-rich targets. The hatch is triggered by a combination of lunar phase, tide, and weather, so its timing can be somewhat predictable. Once it begins, it usually goes on for days. The worms often appear in the evening, and eager anglers wait for this special time when the oft picky tarpon will eat with reckless abandon. The sun is still high as we head out to where Brandon found tarpon on worms the evening before. I remark to Kyle that he must have some good fish karma built up for the stars to be aligning so well.

Brandon poles us along a shallow flat along the edge of a narrow channel. We don’t see many worms in the water, but schools of smaller tarpon are cruising the flat with purpose, looking for them. A well-placed fly causes a fight between these small, eager fish, and Kyle quickly hooks and lands one. I follow suit, and after releasing my fish, toss the worm fly in the water next to the boat to check that it is still swimming okay. As I pull the fly back out, a silvery body with a bluish tail charges after it. I remark with surprise that it looked like a bonefish. I glance up about sixty feet and see a whole school of what look like bonefish, apparently eating worms. I drop a fly in their midst, and one eats it off the surface as the fly lands. We are all perplexed, but the fish pulls significant line off the reel in two screaming runs, and a few minutes later, a small bonefish is boat-side with a worm fly tucked neatly in the corner of its mouth.

We head to another nearby spot in a channel where a number of boats are already lined up fishing. Not much seems to be happening, as most of the anglers are casting without real purpose and we can’t see any worms in the water. A few tarpon roll intermittently. The sun is getting lower, and Kyle decides to make a few last casts before we call it a night. To our great surprise, he quickly goes tight and hooks a nice fish. He fights it for 20 minutes as the sun gets lower and lower, leadering it several times and getting it right up to the boat before it finally wears through the shock and breaks off. We return to the dock, tired and happy.

After two days of great fishing, we keep our expectations pretty low, but the third day proves to be even better. We start the morning in the same spot as the day before. Fish are rolling again, though the wind is up a bit more this time, and I hook a giant tarpon close to the boat right off the bat. She jumps, and we are all taken aback by her size. She takes me way into my backing and drags us all over the flat and eventually into the channel, where boats targeting tarpon on bait are lined up. The captains all know Brandon and shout encouragement to me and tease him as we try to land the massive tarpon. After a relatively long fight, I get the giant fish boat-side, and as Brandon reaches down to grab her mouth, she pulls away, wears through the shock tippet, and swims off into the depths. I am certain she is one of the biggest fish I’ve ever caught.

With the wind a bit stronger, the tarpon stay down more than the previous day, but Kyle still gets some good shots at laid up fish. After a while, we convince Brandon to let me pole him around for a bit, and he reluctantly accepts, making a few great casts and quickly convincing a fish to eat out of a nice cruising school. As the sun gets higher, we decide to change gears and run to look for bonefish and permit. As we shut down and grab a bonefish rod, we spot a school of big tarpon cruising across a sand flat and scramble to get the tarpon rod back out. The tarpon start daisy chaining right off the edge of the flat, and Kyle makes a few casts into the school before a willing fish sticks its whole head out the water to smash his fly. The school and the hooked fish take off together across the flat.

After landing Kyle’s fish, we are torn, wanting to target other species but knowing there are still lots of tarpon around. We soon see bonefish scurrying by, and I get up and catch one as Kyle stands behind me, tarpon rod at the ready. We then focus on permit, and Kyle takes the bow while I back him up from the middle with a tarpon rod. He gets a few permit shots and experiences the frustration of permit fishing before a lone tarpon cruises across the white sand. I strip line off my reel, we laugh as we frantically try to switch places, and I manage to feed the fish, landing it on a nearby flat in skinny water. We all get in to land, photograph and release the fish, and end up taking lunch while calf deep in the warm, crystal clear water, marveling at what an incredible couple of days it has been. “I love my job and wouldn’t trade it for anything,” Brandon remarks. “My dad always says, ‘Brandon, we might not ever be millionaires, but millionaires pay to escape their lives to come to the Keys and be a part of ours.’”

Bio: Alex Lovett-Woodsum lives in Coral Gables, Florida, where she runs a consulting business for outdoor-focused small businesses and nonprofits. She has been a consulting Editor for Tail and also helped run its social media and online marketing from 2016-2018.  She also works on numerous conservation causes including Now or Neverglades. When she’s not working, Alex spends most of her waking hours fly fishing her home waters around Biscayne and the Florida Keys, as well as hosting trips and traveling to fish as much as she can. You can reach her by email at alexwoodsum@gmail.com or on Instagram @alexwoodsum.

The Guides

Captain Joe Rodriguez grew up in Miami and now lives in the Lower Keys. He has 21 years of experience guiding from Miami to Key West. He can be reached at (305) 494-0000.

Captain Brandon Cyr is a fourth generation conch who has spent as much time as possible on the water since he was a kid, and followed in his father’s footsteps as a fishing guide. He has been guiding for bonefish, tarpon and permit for the past seven years out of Key West, Florida. He can be reached at (305) 797-5076 or on Instagram @brandoncyrkw.

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The post Alive & Well in the Florida Keys first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Alive & Well in the Florida Keys appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Flying High (For A Tarpon) first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Flying High (For A Tarpon) 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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MORE BLOGS ABOUT FLIES & FLY TYING:

Ten Flies You Should Never Be Without

Fly Tying Instructional – Craft Store Crab

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Characteristics of a Great Bonefish Fly

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.

As I was sitting in front of the fireplace this February (don’t laugh, we’ve had WAY too many nights in the 30’s here in South Texas this winter) preparing my fly box for an upcoming trip to the Bahamas I started pondering a question that was posed to me by my good friend Joe: how many fly patterns do you really need. Sitting and opining, I came to the conclusion that I probably carry many many more flies than is necessary. Thinking further, I decided that if you consider the food items of our saltwater quarry, they really all fall into a relatively small group of prey. Although they may look a little different, behave a little differently and be present in varying sizes, there are a small group of flies that I believe are effective regardless of the species you’re pursuing. This is true especially if you’re willing to play with your presentation depending on the species, time of year and the prey you are trying to emulate.

1) “Toad” Fly: I may get a little push-back here from some of the purists as the Toad can be pretty non-specific but I love Toads in all shapes, sizes and colors because of their versatility. Depending on the presentation of this fly it works very well as a bait-fish, crab, shrimp or even an attractor pattern. The key to being successful with the Toad lies in the retrieve. Find the right retrieve and you’ll catch fish.

2) Gotcha: Once again I have chosen the Gotcha pattern for it’s versatility. Although slighter in build than the Toad, the Gotcha can be presented in such a way that it emulates various food items and will draw strikes from a wide variety of game fish whether they’re feeding on small crustaceans or bait fish.
3) Deceiver: Although the Deceiver is not quite as versatile as the previously mentioned patterns, it is in this angler’s opinion the quintessential bait fish pattern. Countless patterns have been derived from the Deceiver over time and many of them work well but if I can only choose one it’s going to be the Deceiver.

4) Clouser: The Clouser, much like the Deceiver, is a versatile bait fish pattern. The coloration, size and retrieve will be the determining factors in the success of this pattern but unlike the Deceiver, the Clouser can be the ticket in deeper water when you need to get down in the water column in order to entice predators.

5) Mantis Shrimp: To this point, my selections have been less specific in nature covering a large array of prey items for various species of game fish. However, I have successfully fished mantis shrimp for nearly every species of warm water game fish in the shallows.

6) Merkin: Also known as Del Brown’s Permit fly or the Carpet Crab. The Merkin is my all time favorite straight crab pattern. Although this fly is specifically a crab, the coloration and size can be changed to fit the specific conditions and game fish. I’ve taken more redfish on the flats on this fly than any other in my box (try it in black for redfish).

7) Crazy Charlie: Although the Crazy Charlie (originally the Nasty Charlie, Orvis changed the name for marketing reason some time ago) is similar in nature to the Gotcha I like having both in my box. I think the vinyl body of the Crazy Charlie gives it more of a 3 dimensional appearance in the water and acts to reflect light better in all directions. Once again, the Crazy Charlie works well as a small baitfish or crustacean depending on the retrieve.

8) Seaducer: The Seaducer, although it may not appear so, is once again a very versatile fly. It suspends well in the water column and if fished with quick, short jerks can pass as a bait fish. However, when fished slower and allowed to breathe I believe that it works well as a large crab imitation. I have taken quite a few bull reds feeding on top on blue crabs with this pattern.

9) Gurgler: Having at least one true top water fly in your box is a must. Even traditional bottom feeders like redfish and bonefish will pound a top water if the conditions are right. Let’s face it, even if quite a few fish strike and miss, there’s nothing quite like a top water explosion at the end of your tippet. I prefer the Gurgler because I believe that the basic design gives you the best opportunity to vary your retrieves in order to create different effects. There are quite a few variations that make this fly a versatile option for all types of fishing.

10) Muddler/Bonefish Slider: Ok, ok I know, these are two different flies that swim and perform differently as they emulate different prey. The Muddler performs well as a baitfish pattern (I’ve probably caught more species of fish on a Muddler than nearly any other fly in my box even when forced to fish that drinkable water) I think the Slider is probably seen as a crustacean (crab) by our finned amigos. However, I couldn’t choose between the two. More than once I’ve been in a hurry and quickly grabbed one instead of the other and caught fish!

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MORE FLY TYING BLOGS:

CRAFT STORE CRAB
CLOUSER MINNOW
CHARACTERISTICS OF GREAT BONEFISH FLIES
SIMPLE REDFISH FLY

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The post Ten Flies You Should Never Be Without first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Ten Flies You Should Never Be Without appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.