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.

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

AxisGo iPhone housing and a little luck produce stunning fish image
by Sonny Culp

The goal of any guided flats fishing adventure should always be some variation of improvement as an angler, having fun, and catching some fish. But the memories are what we bring home, so having a few fish pictures to share and savor is a big part of the overall experience. It’s always been that way, especially with the acrobatic and dinosaur-like Megalops atlanticus.

If you’re not convinced, just take a look at the famous fly-caught tarpon images taken by A. W. Dimock more than 100 years ago. How difficult it must have been to record and produce images like that. But he knew it was a worthwhile endeavor. Today, we all show up on the skiff with our fully charged iPhone or GoPro, the rain covers relegated to a lesser status than they used to be. But capturing decent fish pictures can be a challenge, and no matter the level of technological advancements in camera gear, some photographers are better at it than others.

I’m a point-and-shoot guy, simply hoping for the best. Sometimes, only family and friends might see the shots, but every once in a while I’m able to capture an image that really stands out. Such was the case on a recent tarpon trip to Southwest Florida.

I was fishing with Andy Lee out of Marco Island. The spring migration offers shots at swimmers on the outside when the tide, water clarity, sun, and wind all cooperate. Yep, you need all of those elements. We were getting our share of shots, and after landing a couple of smaller fish, a bigger girl ate the fly. She really gave us both a fit, and as the fight neared its finale, I started thinking about getting a photo of what appeared to be the fish of the trip.

If catching and landing a tarpon is a team sport, so is getting a quality picture of one. My iPhone 10 was already loaded inside its AxisGo waterproof housing, which is equipped with a pistol grip with a 6-inch dome housing around the lens. With the subdued fish on the sunny side of the boat, Andy readied the tarpon for release.

The shot you see here was the simple result of a good deal of pointing and shooting, which was made easier by the trigger-finger pistol grip. The only tip I can offer is that the dome lens effect requires the camera to be held much closer to your subject than you might think.

We released the fish and later scrolled through the results in the cab of Andy’s truck on the way home. Among the clutter of images facing certain deletion, there it was, a “keeper” as we say in fishing.

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The post Getting the Shot first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Getting the Shot appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

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.

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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.

—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

MORE POSTS

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

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(originally published in Tail #34 – March/April 2018)

If you are an angler on a budget and still trying to live the fly life, you are definitely not alone.

Peter Husted and Jesse Males make up the film group Broke and Fly. Their message is simple and one that resonates with a lot of anglers: get out there and fish, without breaking the bank. Tail got a chance to sit down with Broke and Fly and catch up on their most recent project along the coast of the Gulf of Mexico.

Tail: Tell us about Broke and Fly. How did you guys come up with the concept for it?

Peter Husted: Broke and Fly came together after Jesse and I spent a week in Guadeloupe. We hit it off and decided that we’d like to fill the gap in fly fishing film where you’ll get some sweet fish porn while being entertained and getting a good laugh. We came up with the concept because after doing the Guadeloupe film, we needed to have our own platform just for Broke And Fly. Jesse Males runs Backwater Fly Fishing and I have Water’s Edge Media, but we decided that we wanted to start a joint project and that’s how BAF came to life.

Jesse Males: I think for me it just made sense to create Broke and Fly Productions after the trip. I mean, since the fishing there was crap we pretty much had to rely on cheap Canadian whiskey to get us through the week. That obviously allowed us to hang out and shoot the shit and we got along really well. Instead of figuring out whose platform we were going to share the video and photos from, we just said screw it, and created BAF!

—

T: That’s awesome that both of you met on a trip in Guadeloupe and decided to create films of your travels. Where are you guys from?

PH: I’m living in Denmark, but have family in Florida and Bahamas on my wife’s side.

JM: I am from Central Florida, but now currently spend most of my time in Costa Rica.

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T: What inspired you guys to pick the Gulf Coast for your next outing?

PH: For me, it was the chance to make another project come to life, at a low cost. After all, we are Broke and Fly and do this out of our own limited funds. We both had a desire to fish the Gulf Coast and wanted to do a good ole road trip, so we took a look at a map and started planning. After presenting our idea to people we wanted to have aboard, they took to it and went all in helping us out. We had some logistical problems in Louisiana and stood without somebody to fish with just before before kick off, but Justin Albarado of Rougarou Lures came through and turned out to be a great guide and a good friend. I’ve heard about southern hospitality, and felt that all throughout the tour and from all of the people we came in contact with.

JM: Once we started doing a road trip for the next project, we knew it had to be low cost…since we are broke and all that. So we thought if we hit up some of our friends in the fly fishing scene, rented a car, and put the pedal to the metal, some cool things would happen. The Gulf Coast seemed to be the perfect place to land all the inshore species we would want: redfish, snook, tarpon, and more.

—

T: The gulf coast is known as a very productive fishery for redfish. What where some of the highlights of fishing all the way from Texas to Florida along the Gulf? Oh, and give us some “lowlights” of the trip too.

PH: I was really blown away by the Louisiana marsh. The days we spend there with Justin Albarado from Rougarou Outfitters were awesome. We had a lot of fish there and it seemed like Justin couldn’t get us into a place that didn’t have reds in it. The real surprise for me came when I got back and was looking through all the drone footage, and saw the actual amount of reds that were in the water, many that we didn’t see from the boat. We had some rough days in the start when we got up early, fished all day and drove the our next spot in the evening. That resulted in about 10 hours of sleep divided between the first three nights. On top of that, I had just landed from Europe when we started, so I was already jetlagged.

JM: Since we obviously had redfish on our mind during The Gulf Coast Tour, pursuing big bull redfish in LA was something were all looking forward to. We had already fished extensively in Florida, so we knew what to expect from that area. However, Texas and the LA marsh was new territory. Knowing that redfish behave differently between the east coast and west coast of florida, we could only imagine how they would behave in other states. To our surprise, the differences were insane. In Texas, they behave very similar to those in the Mosquito Lagoon and Indian Rivers systems. They are a little spooky, but still very fishable. When we landed in the LA marsh, we were surprised to see redfish that acted like they didn’t have a care in the world. They were happy to swim up to our boat and eat any flies, from poppers to baitfish and slider patterns. Overall, we were stoked to see that amount of diversity come out of one fish species. Lowlights included tons of driving and total exhaustion at times. We were literally fishing all day and driving all night for nine full days. It was insane.

—

T: Louisiana is an outstanding fishery and you captured some great footage from your trip there. The one thing about that section of the gulf coast is that each area has its own distinct culture and the fish sure behave differently in each area as well. Besides the fishing, what where some of your favorite parts of the trip?

PH: My favorite part was meeting new people along the way that turned into friends after a day on the water. Everyone took us in and did their best to make comfortable. I guess that’s what the whole southern hospitality is all about. Besides that, it was an excellent chance for Jesse and me to get face to face time, discussing our future plans for Broke And Fly over beers.

JM: After what we experienced in LA, it is difficult to stop thinking about the fishing. However, when I do stop thinking about big hungry redfish bellycrawling all over the marsh, I immediately think of the insane BBQ that Justin Albarado whipped up for us. No lie, I would have lived in a tent outside his house forever just to continually grub out at his place. Obviously the trip was centered around different fisheries, but the different people we ran into in each place made the trip the success that it was. From Texas to Florida, we were in solid company the entire time!

—

T: Sign me up for that too! You guys fished a lot of different fisheries on your recent trip. What were some of the major similarities and differences you found with fishing each one?

PH: I liked the different species we had the chance to target on this trip. We had excellent fishing for reds in Texas and Louisiana, in wide open spaces where we were surrounded by marsh for miles. A couple of days later, we were hooking up with everything from bluegills to baby tarpon in big lakes or backwater canals. We had everything but flats on this trip.

JM: The inshore fisheries from Texas to Florida were similar only in that they hold redfish. However, the fish themselves behaved extremely different everywhere we fished. The fish in Texas were skittish but fishable, the redfish in Louisiana were so bold they would often be just feet from the boat and still eat the fly after three crappy presentations (laughs). And the redfish in Florida were their typical stubborn selves. A great cast is important, but at the end of the day, they eat whenever they want. After catching redfish the entire trip, by the time we got to Florida we decided to mostly target snook and baby tarpon.

—

T: Have you guys thought about where you are going next?

PH: Yeah, we have had a few people contact us about doing stuff for lodges, and some seem like interesting opportunities, but we since we’re Broke And Fly, we can’t throw our money after that. After shooting countless of hours of film, we still need to sort through it when we get back, and that’s before we even start editing. Making film is a process that takes a lot of time, which I think people don’t realize or totally think about. The only thing we can promise is you’re probably gonna enjoy it.

JM: While our future after The Gulf Coast Tour is fairly open ended, we are weighing our options at the moment. We have had some different lodges reach out that offered to have us stop by for our next film project; however we are still waiting to see what else comes up. One of the main goals of Broke and Fly is to present an experience that any fly angler with just about any budget can make happen. Not all of us can drop five to eight thousands dollars on a fishing trip, or for gear for that matter. I know Peter and I can’t. So we are trying to figure out the best way to bring sponsorship into the mix without losing our initial take on the whole thing. Keeping these trips relatable and doable for the average dudes is super important.

—

T:  Saltwater fly fishing trips can become expensive very quickly, but it doesn’t always have to be that way. Do you guys have any tips for budget-minded anglers who want to experience the salt?

PH: I think that these days since you can do a lot of researching online, you’ve got a great start there already. First off, you gotta find out what it is that you want to catch. Target that specific species and get all the knowledge about the fish and area that you can. Use online groups and you’ll often find that people are willing to share their tips and tricks. I’ve done a lot of DIY which is the cheapest way to go fishing anywhere, but if you’re new to it, go the extra mile and get a guide. If you’re up front with the guide and say that you want to land a fish, but also wanna learn what your options are in the area, they almost always wanna share fly patterns and their extensive knowledge about the water and fish. But remember that they have honed their skills and worked hard to be the best they can with customers, so they’re probably not gonna show you their hotspot.

JM: I have spent years fly fishing all over the state of Florida and now have over two years under my belt exploring saltwater fisheries down in Costa Rica. If you are like me and trying to DIY and stay cheap, the best advice I can give you is to learn how to paddle. For the past 20 years I have fish almost exclusively out of kayaks or canoes. These are great tools for any angler trying to get into places without having to spend thousands of dollars on a skiff, gas, maintenance, etc. A canoe is the perfect tool for accessing baby tarpon hotspots or sneaking up on redfish on the flats. Also, since you don’t move fast, this slows down the mind and allows you to focus more on the area you are in at each moment. Talking with people in Facebook groups is a great way to get local info on a specific area, but nothing beats getting your boots on the ground for a little R&D!

:

The post Broke and Fly first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Broke and Fly appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

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

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

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

‘Tan saafly better than beg paad’n

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

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

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

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

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

READ MORE CONSERVATION BLOG POSTS:

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

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At best an occasional bluegill or little stocked rainbow trout.  As for the saltwater, whenever I could get there, mostly what I found was little snappers and random small fish that I couldn’t identify and can’t name. It was depressing. I bet this kind of drought happens to everyone but Trey Combs, but still. So one early-spring day in my desperate snow-bound Brooklyn I got a phone call.
A casting instructor, friend, and all-around fishing mentor, called to say that one of the best guides in the Florida Keys had a sudden opening out at Big Pine Key for some prime tarpon fishing. I couldn’t imagine paying for a trip to Big Pine Key!  I couldn’t possibly afford it!

A few weeks later, I arrived in Big Pine.

The night before our first day on the water, I talked to my guide on the phone. He said some things that, if you’re a fisherman with any seasons, you immediately recognize as ridiculous: “conditions are shaping up to be perfect;” “the tarpon are in thick;” “I don’t know if I’ve ever seen better conditions.”
Right, right.
So in the morning we went out. Within 10 minutes we were over dozens of huge fish, animals that looked like gray railroad ties with fins. An impossible number.
It was like a second meniscus of 100-pound fish cruising just under the surface. I don’t think we even saw a fish under 90 pounds but lots of them were around 120 pounds easily.
This was my first tarpon trip. There were more tarpon than I ever even hope to see in one place again. Sure enough, I’ve been after tarpon since this trip and have felt lucky to see one or two fish a day so this trip was special. I spent just about every moment of the four days casting over these five-foot-long fish. It was unnerving, and hugely exciting. These fish were a bit tricky. Some wanted a palolo worm imitation while some wanted a chartreuse toad or whatever. There didn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason for what individual fish wanted to eat; fly selection was based on my guide’s intuition and trial-and-error.

But no matter what and you’ve heard this before, presentation was key. Put the fly in front of the fish and swim it at an angle away from them. This was what worked. Swim the fly across the fish and the odds plummet. Retrieve it toward them and forget it, they’re violently gone.
We got tons of takes. A tarpon’s take is often surprisingly subtle – the massive fish just comes up behind the fly and then the fly is gone. Nothing savage about it, in most cases, just beautiful efficiency.
But the next few seconds are not subtle. When you strike the fish, it responds with outrageous, unbelievable power. The water in the fish’s general area seems as if it’s being strafed with a barrage of artillery. Huge explosions of water where the fish is, big holes where the fish just was, all this in clear, shallow water. It’s incomprehensible until you’ve done it.
Over my four days of fishing, I hooked & jumped probably three dozen fish. I brought maybe six of those to the boat. Hooks fell out, rods broke, leaders broke, sharks
threatened, the usual stuff. It was exhilarating, the fly fishing equivalent of skydiving in my opinion.
Every plane ride home from a trip I sit back and plan the next one.
I can’t wait to do it again.

Tarpon: Big Pine Key
by John Melfi (originally published in Tail #2, November 2012)

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The post Tarpon – A Big Pine Key Experience first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

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There’s not just one, though. There are actually several of them, the more major ones include the legendary Bahia Honda Bridge, the Seven-Mile Bridge, and some of the other smaller bridges around Summerland & Big Pine Keys.  For us fly anglers, the best thing you can do during this hatch is set up on the oceanside flats and wait for the fish to come by. Another option is to have your guide bring you down the edges of the flats to hunt for fish. You can also hit some of the deeper channels and set up shop there but that is usually where the bait chunkers are tossing pinfish and other baitfish which usually freak some tarpon out. Again you can’t go wrong setting up in known tarpon holes like the like the bridges previously mentioned & Channel 2 and Channel 5. Remember, Bahia Honda became well known for a reason. The hatch usually occurs around the lowest tide of the full moon in May or June. A late outgoing tide (afternoon), around 6 pm, in conjunction with the full moon is the ideal time to be on the water during this exciting time of year. That, of course,depends on when the moon is full. The moon phase calendar for 2013 has the full moon on a weekend Saturday, May 25, so this year it is expected to be early.  In years past where conditions have been sub- optimal, despite the full moon in late May, the  worms held out until the first week of June. The full moon is May 9, there is a good chance the worms will wait until around June 7 when the moon is full again. Maybe, there are never any guarantees. Ambient air temperature, water temperature and humidity levels all play a part in the initiation & timing of the hatch

In other words, the timing of the hatch is a moving target about as dynamic as casting a tasty toad to rolling tarpon….You just never know. If you focus on the places you tend to have the biggest concentrations of fish and you try to time you stay for when the expected hatch is, you will be successful.No one has ever been able to pinpoint the exact time of the hatch, but many are within days. The key is to be on the water when the worms make their run which usually means booking 2-3 days on the flats.Can one suffer through a few days of fishing on the flats while monitoring for a most magnificent natural event?

We’ll find the strength to endure it.

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The post Palolo Worm Hatch first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

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