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

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

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

Cinder Worm Spawning Dynamics

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unique Event, Unique Approach

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

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

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

Angling Tactics

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

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

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

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

Flies for Worm Fishing

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

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

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

Until We Meet Again

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

by Alan Caolo

Worm Swarming—At Long Last

Atlantic Striped Bass: Pisces in Peril | Mark White

That Albacore Season – T. Edward Nickens

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

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

For years we have enjoyed catching rockfish along the West Coast, dropping jigs into craggy lairs and kelpy crevices, or down through sonar-exposed schools below our boats. Members of the genus Sebastes, which means “magnificent” in Greek (and sometimes called “bass” by locals), the more than 75 species of Pacific rockfishes inhabit waters from Alaska to Baja California, and they make up an important part of the recreational and commercial fishery. But few people cast to them with flies.

One summer afternoon, Peter and I were riding ocean swells on his 16-foot skiff, Kelson, when the surface began to boil with anchovies and the hearty splashes of pursuit. Peter had his 8-weight Cabela’s rod at the ready. He made a decent cast from the pitching bow, stripped the sinking line and pale streamer a couple of feet, and hooked a nice fish—maybe 4 pounds—that bent the rod, dove deep under the boat, and eventually came to my net. I freed the fly, and Peter sent out a second cast that immediately hooked another fish. This rockfish, much smaller, also shot straight for the bottom, attracting a large, fanged ling cod that trailed it to the surface. We thrilled over the 3-foot predator’s greenish glow, swimming inches behind the little rockfish, but sunlight and the lapping hull turned the beast away. We released the small rockfish and looked for more. Nothing. Then a huge splash behind us had me fumbling for the fly rod and shaking out some line. Peter laughed. I turned to see a pair of sleek porpoises arcing through the water. 

A surface flurry of rockfish happens only every once in a while on the ocean. Black rockfish, olives, yellowtails, and widows will come to the surface, but typically the fish are too deep to reach with flies. For small boat and shore anglers like us, however, stories of night fishing held special promise. Beginning in the 1970s, Oregon fly fishing maven, Richard Bunse, donned his miner’s helmet, a cord running down to the battery pack on his belt, and climbed over jetty rocks, casting streamers to eager rockfish. “The action at night was incredible,” Bunse said. “Nothing like what you’d experience during the day.” Legends also told of very big rockfish coming out under the cover of darkness. Many species of fish are nocturnal, hunting by glimpse, scent, and vibration. Normally wary brown trout boldly prowl the darkened shallows of rivers and lakes, snook gobble shrimp and smelt among the moon-dappled tropical mangroves, and striped bass and bluefish gorge on menhaden during warm nights along the Atlantic coast. Why don’t more fly anglers follow?

Night fishing can be challenging, even dangerous. Humans are creatures of light, and the older I get, the more illumination I need to tie knots, untangle leaders, and find my way over the water. Whether wading or navigating a boat, distance to objects appears distorted at night, rocks seem suddenly close, water and land melt together.

“Don’t worry. We’ll be careful,” I texted my wife, adding a piscine emoticon, as the possibility of large, feeding fish inside the bay took over our conversation in the truck. “I’d love to land a big one,” I blurted aloud. Jarod smiled, but reminded us that rockfish are slow-growing, long-lived creatures, often taking several years to sexually mature. This life cycle makes rockfish vulnerable to overfishing.

According to Dr. Milton Love of the Marine Science Institute at the University of California, Santa Barbara, several studies have shown an alarming decline in the number of older fish, whose offspring are more likely to survive than those of younger fish. According to Dr. Love, the black rockfish common off the Oregon coast can live into their 50s, and it takes them five years or more before they spawn. Yellowtail rockfish can live to be 65 years; canary rockfish, 85; quillback, 95. The ear bones of a 32-inch rougheye rockfish caught off Alaska showed it to be 205 years old. Although tarpon may live to be 60, redfish 40, and striped bass 30, bonefish and permit rarely exceed 20, and false albacore live no longer than five years. Rockfishes, along with the Greenland shark, Patagonian toothfish, and white sturgeon, are some of the oldest-living fish in the world.

“If we catch a big rockfish,” Jarod proposed, “how about we let it go?” Jarod, a conservationist at heart, caught and released a 3-pound quillback on a previous trip, and the fish was on his mind. But angling lore warns against presumptuous planning, and this discussion felt a bit like a jinx, like sliding a big ice-filled cooler in the truck before a salmon trip, or snapping the net in place before the first cast. Then I remembered the Elizabeth Bishop poem about catching a “tremendous fish” that didn’t fight hard, but was “battered and venerable” with hooks and broken leaders trailing from his mouth “like medals with their ribbons.” The poem was written in 1946, long before catch-and-release was accepted practice, and yet staring at that big old fish hanging half out of the water, Bishop tells us—

  … victory filled-up

the little rented boat

from the pool of bilge

where oil had spread a rainbow

around the rusted engine . . .

—until everything

was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow!

And I let the fish go.

There’s always a bit of murky bilge water below the low transom of Peter’s 25-year-old Kelson, but her heavy, wide-beamed fiberglass hull is steady, even in a wind-whipped February bay like the one we crossed in the last hour of light. Hundreds of black surf scoter hugged the lee of a seawall, loons surfaced with small silver herring in their bills, and sea lions barked from a tilting green channel marker.

Approaching a barnacled point on the jetty, Nate readied the anchor, but a Coast Guard patrol drove down the road and waved us off. “Restricted bar,” the officer shouted through a bullhorn, and we retreated down channel and anchored off another stony knuckle that looked promising.

It’s impossible for four men to cast flies from a small boat, so we took turns at bow and stern, the chilly wind working for and against us as it blew hard off the ocean. After 30 minutes fishing the incoming tide, a red-freckled greenling gobbled up Nate’s scud. Then Jarod hooked a 10-inch copper rockfish, brilliantly patched in pink and orange. We put on our headlamps and kept at it, casting to the exposed rocks and retrieving through water ranging from 4 to 20 feet. Fishing was slow, but as darkness fell, so did the wind. The tide slowed, flooding close to high, and Peter caught a small black rockfish on a Lefty’s Deceiver. Peter is from the East Coast and he loves his Deceivers along with his old electric blue fly line with 30 feet of black 450-grain sinking head that has put him into countless striped bass from Maine to New Jersey. The line, kinked and worn, made it to Oregon for a few more years of service, and when I tell him it needs replacing, he says, “I love it, and know just how it sinks and responds.” I couldn’t argue because he was into a fish; so was I. The bite was on.

All of us were catching rockfish and an occasional greenling on flies. Most fish were in the 11-inch range, but a few larger fish up to 15 inches also came aboard. Peter changed to a smaller black Clouser and caught three fish in as many casts, including a gold-faced quillback with deeply notched dorsal spines. Rockfishing is often excellent at high slack tide, and darkness made it even better. As the tide turned and our boat swung on the falling water, Jarod hooked a large fish that bent his rod and ran for cover. “Damn,” he shook his head when the pulsing stopped. We were tempted to leave anchor and try to free the snagged fish, but the tippet broke. Soothing the loss of that big something, we savored the nearly windless winter night. Fish splashed all around us; and sea lions swam nearby, their vapored breath rising in puffs of fog visible before the harbor lights. Nate shined a powerful spotlight into the water, igniting the tinsel sides of herring dashing past.

We all took turns, catching close to 60 fish, toasting the bounty with a round of whisky and tender beef jerky. Dr. Love explains that “Day-night behavior of rockfish remains largely unstudied,” but “in deep water the fish are usually very quiet at night.” These shallow-water fish were clearly awake. Peter inspected the well-chewed Clouser under his headlamp—broken deer hair over the paint-chipped red eyes. “I’ve got some other steamers,” I offered.

“I’ll stick with this,” he said. “It’s working.”

The Clouser Deep Minnow was created in the late 1980s by Bob Clouser, a Pennsylvania angler and fly shop owner who sought a streamer for his beloved Susquehanna smallmouth. The late Lefty Kreh celebrated the Clouser in several articles and claimed to have used it to land over 80 species of fish. The lead dumbbell eyes allow the fly to drop quickly and ride hook-point-up, making it less snaggy. It may appear to be the fly angler’s version of the bucktail jig, but it was designed to swim in jerking horizontals. As Clouser himself describes, “The flat and narrow profile add to the movement of this fly dipping and darting when you strip it erratically.”

Peter resumed casting his Clouser from the bow, but rather than stripping erratically, he simply kept tension, letting the outgoing tide carry the now distressed streamer slowly over the bottom. “They’re taking it when it’s hardly moving,” he lifted another small fish out of the water. Young rockfish feed voraciously on bottom dwelling mysids, small crabs, and amphipods, as well as free-swimming krill and other plankton. After his next cast, Peter raised the rod, felt the resistance of something—a snag?—then stripped and set the hook into a large fish. “This is something, guys,” he smiled. The rod bowed deeply and pulsed; and though there was no great run, there was clearly a big fish pulling toward the rocks. Peter got the fish on the reel, applying considerable low angle pressure to keep it in open water.   

Anglers know the thrill of a big fish at the end of the line. Sometimes we’re fairly certain what it will be, but in salt water the mystery expands with every powerful pull and dive. After ten minutes, Peter had his big fish close to the boat. Nate provided a spotlight, Jarod held the net, and I readied for a photo. Suddenly there was the golden flash of a huge copper rockfish. Jarod lifted the net and the fish glistened in a marble swirl of brown, olive, and metallic yellow, a white streak running behind the gill plate and pectoral fins, its spiny dorsal high and fierce. Rockfish carry a mild venom in their dorsal spines, and Peter was once so painfully stung that I had to administer a first aid treatment of ice and rum. He carefully lifted this night’s fish with his Boga Grip scale—7 pounds even—approximately 22 inches. I took photos. We sounded off astonishment and praise. Victory filled up our little boat—and we let the fish go.

“I bet that was a world record,” Nate said.

“On the fly rod?” I qualified. “I bet you’re right.”

Consulting the International Game Fish Association website, we learned that the official all-tackle record for a copper rockfish is 7 pounds, 15 ounces, 22 inches, caught by Daniel Stamos, jigging a Diamond Bar in Shelter Cove, Humboldt County, California. Two state records (which do not supersede official IGFA records) for this species were set in the late 1980s: California, 8 pounds, 3 ounces; Washington, 10 pounds. There is no IGFA entry for a copper rockfish caught on a fly rod in any tippet class. Peter caught a world record.

I contacted the IGFA and inquired about an application, but it became apparent that we wouldn’t qualify. The IGFA encourages catch-and-release, but we did not get a weight from a certified scale, and we took no exact measurements. There are photos and witnesses, but the record remains in our memory and in the living leviathan that may be finning this very moment in his keply cave. “Once an adult finds a good reef, they don’t move around much,” Dr. Love told me during a phone interview. I sent the renowned ichthyologist a description and photo of our fish, and asked him to estimate the age. “That fish is just a little short of the maximum length, and because the maximum age thus far determined is 54 years old, the fish is likely in that range.”

I paused for a moment and said, “Like maybe, 52, my age.”

“Sure,” Dr. Love said. “Very possible.”

Bio: Henry Hughes grew up on Long Island, New York, and now lives in Oregon. He is the Oregon Book Award-winning author of four collections of poetry and the memoir Back Seat with Fish: A Man’s Adventures in Angling and Romance (Skyhorse Publishing, 2016). An active angler, naturalist, and literary critic, Henry edited the Everyman’s Library anthologies Art of Angling: Poems about Fishing and Fishing Stories. His work has appeared in Harvard Review, Antioch Review, Gray’s Sporting Journal, Anglers Journal, and Flyfishing and Tying Journal. Henry teaches at Western Oregon University. 

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Articulate Fly Podcast with TFFM Contributor Al Quattrocchi

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The post A Fish My Age – Henry Hughes first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post A Fish My Age – Henry Hughes appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

(Originally published in Tail 31 - September 2017) 

The liberation of walking the flats can be a euphoric experience. Freedom of movement and kaleidoscopic colors energize your body and mind. After frying your feet and stoically enduring the stagnation of standing on a casting deck all day, it’s a pleasure to slip into the water. Be mindful, however, of aimless jaunts down a long flat that will rob you of the prime, precious tidal flows. When it comes to permit, wading is a distinctly different game than bonefish. Unless chasing specific pushes or tails, leave interminable wandering to the bonefisher.

There are many different scenarios on the flats where wading becomes the best option for stalking permit. The most obvious wading situation occurs when permit are consistently tailing while feeding on shallow flats. Stalking the wily permit on foot can be an absolute joy and represents the quietest technique to approach them. Go for it.

At other times, skiff approaches can be problematic. If the flat is composed of coral rubble, limestone or volcanic rock, a skiff hull might scrape bottom, or the push pole might clank at exactly the wrong moment. In Bocas del Toro, Panama the permit are found on the ocean side, inside coral barriers with waves breaking toward shore. Tailing fish or not, there is no practical way to approach these fish except on foot.

Even if the flats bottom substrate is mostly sand, the brightness of the sun alone may make a skiff approach too risky. If your profile is too high while standing on the skiff, either get lower or get in the water. Sometimes these diabolical permit can even sense your presence just from the water displacement or bow wake of your skiff. Better to get out and wade. Wading allows you to cast a much lower profile, probably by as much as four feet. On calm days when there is little or no wind, permit are more wary and Snell’s “Window” may give the permit a visual portal to your presence if you are poised high up in a skiff.

If you are fixated on a catching a beast of a permit, wading presents several challenges. With few exceptions, large permit on the flats are swimming in a minimum of 36 inches of water—likely 40 inches or more. Submerged up to your ribs, it becomes difficult to manage your fly line. More important, unless your target is tailing routinely, you may have a hard time seeing it in the water from your low vantage point. Yes, your guide can give you hand signals, but you probably never aspired to be a Labrador retriever participating in field trials. This is how the game is often played in Mexico’s Ascension Bay, though, and it can pay dividends……(continued)

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The post Wading The Flats for Permit first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Wading The Flats for Permit appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.