by Trey Reid

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ignominy and Incredulity

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So much gravy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Topwater Permit

Ruben Martin’s Epoxy Crab: Permit Fly

Fly Fishing For Permit & Bonefish in Tulum, Mexico

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

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

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.

Humans, like fish, are fickle creatures. We have certain proclivities and idiosyncrasies, both defined and obtuse. There are some things we can take, and some things that we just can’t.

I love to fish, but a banana in my boat will ruin the day – regardless of my client’s protests or potassium deficiency. “Hop in that guy’s boat, then,” I say, not willing to give the banana a chance. Why do I have such a vendetta against water-borne bananas? If I knew, I’d tell you. It’s just one of my ‘things’.

Bonefish and tarpon have their ‘things’. Rockfish and other cold salt species have a few. Permit are the very definition of ‘picky’, but you already knew that. When it comes to fish handling and sensitivities specific to particular species, it pays to do your homework. Many proactive fishing handling practices can be applied across species to great effect; others are only impactful to a handful of taxa. Below are guide-tested guidelines for minimizing angling’s impact on caught fish in various marine environments. The more suggestions you’re able to employ, the better poised we’ll be to support sportfishing’s longevity.

Tarpon (Megalops genus)

This big-eyed denizen of the flats is numero uno on most anglers’ bucket list. Capable of incredible runs, tarpon are famed for long fights and breaking hearts. If you have to ask yourself whether you spooled up enough backing before a tarpon trip, the answer is going to be ‘not even close’. Despite tarpons’ size and power, the IGFA maintains records for fish caught on tippet down to the #2 class. That record? 106 pounds, zero ounces. That fish? Not in good shape after landing. While there isn’t any credible record of the fight time, landing a fish of that magnitude (in any sort of real ‘sporting’ manner) on #2 tippet would require total exhaustion on the fish’s part. Total exhaustion opens the door for now-incentivized predators, including bulls and hammerheads waiting for an easy meal. Considering the state of many of our fisheries, fishing adequately-rated tippet is the least we can do as anglers. It’s important to learn to gauge a tarpon’s exhaustion during the fight. It takes practice, but it’s worth the effort. If you’re able to approximate how tired the fish is (an inexact science, certainly), you can know when it’s time to put the wood to ‘em without breaking off or ending up with a damaged fish on the line.

Bonefish (Albula genus)

Bonefish reside in temperate waters worldwide, though most are found near the tropics. The species most often targeted by North American anglers, Albula vulpes, is the quintessential flats fish: smart, spooky, and built for speed. For those who have brought bonefish to hand, their defining characteristic is something less romantic. A thick coating of mucus covers the fish from stem to stern, making them exceedingly hard to hold onto, a helpful trait in predator-filled waters. This slime layer also plays a similar role to the mucus found on most fish, acting as a protective barrier against parasites and pathogens. The slime contains antibodies, antimicrobial peptides, and enzymes that actively break down pathogens that would otherwise attack the fish, though the exact composition varies from species-to-species. When a bonefish’s slime is removed by rough handling or other abrasion, it’s less able to repel these ne’er-do-wells. Keeping hands wet and fish away from clothing is the best way to prevent slime loss when releasing bonefish. Gunnel rails don’t do much for slime, either. Bonefish that don’t calm down after being brought to hand can be charmed into submission by turning them over onto their backs as the hook is being removed, ideally leaving the fish’s gills below the waterline during the process.

Anecdotal evidence suggests that predators cue in on fish whose slime barrier has been damaged. The guides that I spoke with in the Keys suggested that removing a bonefish’s slime releases a scent that sharks interpret as that of a wounded fish. Wounded fish make an easy meal, and you can actually see sharks change direction as they pick up on the smell. While important for all species, preventing slime loss is of special importance for bonefish.

Rockfish (Sebastes genus)

With such ‘A list’ species being tackled in this article, rockfish seem strange to include. The fact of the matter is that rockfish are a blast to catch and can be found in both the Pacific and Atlantic. Rockfish typically dwell at greater depths around rocky outcroppings and subsurface structure. Anglers targeting rockfish are often fishing at depths greater than 30 feet, and sometimes much deeper. Bringing rockfish up from these depths too quickly creates an extreme pressure differential on the fish’s organs, causing distended bowels and bulging eyeballs. Acute barotrauma, as this is known, is often lethal. While rockfish sportfisheries are typically catch-and-keep, bag and slot limits mean that anglers should still be treating caught fish with enough care that they survive the event. If a fish is exhibiting signs of acute barotrauma upon landing, it’s possible to reverse the effects by using a descending device. The descending device lowers the fish back down to depths with greater atmospheric pressure, allowing organs to revert to their normal state. Descending devices can be made with milk crates or inverted, weighted jig hooks. They can also be bought from many fly and tackle shops, but that’s not nearly as fun. ‘Fizzing’ is still en vogue in some bass fisheries, though the practice has been found to do more harm than good. A misplaced fizzing needle can easily cause organ damage, and the residual wound offers an entrance point for pathogens.

Striped Bass (Morone saxatilis)

“Lipping” bass is an age-old pastime, and it’s easy to see why. Bass are feisty, and the mouth seems like the most appropriate place to hold onto the fish’s business end while removing the hook. And, in reality, it probably is. In order to hold the fish still enough for hook removal (and to prevent self-injury), lipping the fish is often best bet if you don’t have access to a fish cradle, with one express caveat: you need to use your other hand to support the fish’s weight. Stripers are objectively big, and even larger when compared to some of their warmwater cousins. They’re built for life underwater and can’t support their own mass above the surface. Held by the lip exclusively, the fish’s organs are oriented vertically and gravity takes over. Lacking the internal support of land animals, the bass’ organs are ‘squished’ and can be irreparably damaged. The (much) better option is to use your other hand to support the fish’s weight, being sure to avoid squeezing too tightly. Milt and eggs are both delicate and can be affected by overzealous hands. If you have access to a cradle, use it. Pike cradles have the size needed to handle larger stripers and, when used properly, allow for hook removal while the fish’s gills are still in the water. The bigger the striper, the more imperative it becomes to help avoid organ damage by applying these alternative techniques.

Different strokes for different folks. With such variation in the species we catch, it’s only natural that there is variation in the ways caught fish should be landed and handled. Tarpon are not rockfish. Hell, tarpon aren’t bonefish, either. Recognize each of your target species’ needs and proclivities; it’ll make you a better angler and a better steward, guaranteed.

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The post Fishing For The Future Part 3: Playing Proclivities first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Fishing For The Future Part 3: Playing Proclivities 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.

Though mullet are present in large numbers along the coastline of the British Isles and the mainland of Europe, they are not often caught on fly. Mullet can reach weights of well over ten pounds, and the largest of the species swim about in the estuary waters in small groups. You will come across the smaller mullet in larger schools, often feeding hard on the surface.  Fly fishers in Denmark are quite successful using seaweed imitations when fishing for these ‘European bonefish’. Others use imitations of bread crust or floating feathers, with which they seem to sometimes have good success. John Quinlan from Ireland developed a method whereby he fishes with imitations of larvae that live in dying, decomposing seaweed. We saw firsthand that these flies can produce good numbers of fish on a recent trip to the Ring of Kerry.

Intercepting larvae

A group of mullet draws closer, a few nice fish among them. They intercept the dead, floating larvae being pushed in their direction by the wind. With their mouths halfway out of the water, they inhale the tasty morsels like trout. Reginald moves close, staying low all the time so as not to spook the fish. He places his fly close to a small group of mullet. Because the fly hangs below the water surface, a strike indicator is placed about a foot from the fly. When the fly is not visible due to ripples on the water or light coming from the wrong side, one can still see the strike indicator. Several of the mullet at first seem to have more interest in the indicator than the fly, but suddenly the indicator dives under; a sign that a mullet has grabbed the fly. Reginald sets the hook and his fly rod doubles over. The mullet swirls in the surface, even makes a few aerial turns before deciding to make a run for it. Reginald fights the fish carefully and skillfully, ensuring he doesn’t put too much pressure on the 3X tippet.

Rising water

It takes some steering and patience to guide the mullet through the stones and seaweed, but after a few minutes Reginald is able to land the mullet, his first on the fly. A nice fish, some four pounds in weight, with the fly tucked perfectly in the corner of the mouth. The fight and catch provides me with some nice pictures under the cloudless Irish sky. After a few good shots, I pack the camera away, as it’s my turn to try. Because of the rising tide, there is a constant supply of food for the mullet and it does not take too long before another school of feeding mullet moves within casting distance. I place the cast carefully, making sure no shadow goes over the fish. The leader stretches out and a few mullet move in closer. I try to keep my nerves calm, as my strike indicator vanishes out of sight.

As it turns out, John Quinlan’s method works quite well. Every day at the right tide, we manage to hook and land a number of mullet. Some fish are lost when the hook pulls out or because the tippet can’t take the strain or is damaged on the sharp, shell-ridden stones. Mullet survive primarily on sand fleas and the larvae of seaweed flies (Coelopa spec.) and the last ones are important to us fly fishers. The larvae closely resemble small maggots; when they end up in the water, they take in air and float on the water just like real maggots.

Equipment

The fly rods we use are 9 or 10-feet long and built for 7-weight lines (for this type of fishing we use floating lines). The leader is about the same length as the fly rod, at times a bit longer, with a loop on the end. The foam strike indicators John uses are quite large with a loop on either side. The strike indicator is looped to the loop at the end of the leader, on the other side is a piece of 3X nylon or fluorocarbon to which the fly is knotted. The fly consists of a strip of white or yellow artificial foam about three millimetres thick, the foam tied in a curved form on to a size 14 or 16 dry fly hook. Before this fly is cast to the mullet, the air is squeezed from it under water in an effort to make it float in the water surface. When the conditions are right, we can see the fly itself, if not we at least have the strike indicator to keep an eye on. After placing the fly close to the school of mullet, we let the wind or current transport the fly. Only when there are no mullet between the fly and the angler can the line be picked up for a new cast.

So much to offer

The beautiful landscape of the Ring of Kerry has a lot to offer to the visiting fly fisher. Because of the shape of the Ballinskelligs Bay, the bay in front of Waterville in which the river Inny runs, it is possible to fish here under nearly all circumstances. The positive influence of the warm gulf stream allows anglers to fish here for seabass almost year round. Seabass are the ‘bread and butter’ for saltwater fly fishers. Lough Currane has an international reputation for its large seatrout, and this water is also connected with the same bay by way of a small stream. Lakes higher up that belong to the same system offer excellent fishing for brown trout. The steep rocky shore along some area of the coast offers good chances for pollack. There are also huge sharks that can sometimes be seen here feeding on plankton, but they are a bit too big for your fly rod. The many other species of fish to target will keep you busy anyways.

The post Mullet in the Ring of Kerry: Fly fishing for Mullet first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Mullet in the Ring of Kerry: Fly fishing for Mullet appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The best practice for fish handling as endorsed by many leading authorities is to not handle the fish at all, simply follow the leader down the its mouth and remove the hook. This keeps the fish in the water and is minimally invasive. However, this is not often possible, fish take hooks deep, clients want photos, fish have to be transported somewhere else to avoid sharks, the list goes on. Even fly fishing can put strain on fish and fisheries for all of these reasons, nets can help us minimize the impact.

If a shark swims up on the flat for a taste of your prized bonefish, netting the fish will quickly get it out of the water without you having to wrestle it. Then the fish can be put in the live well of your boat for easy transportation. This can all be done without you having to touch the fish.

In the world of trout fishing, this was once the case as well. A net is not needed to land most trout. Eventually rubber landing nets became the standard. They protect fish and make landing them easier. Nets prevent the fish from swimming away and forcing you to re-fight the fish back to your hand. Even if the fish is never taken out of the water, netting it can help with hook removal. Rubber nets also keep slime on the fish. Anyone who has handled a bonefish knows how much slime these little fish cary on them. And that slime is crucial for the fish’s health. Preventing parasites from latching on and helping them escape from predators. 

People sometime lose permit and tarpon at the boat. Many times the permit will break off after many failed attempts of tailing the fish. This alone should be incentive to carry a net. There are saltwater anglers that fish with nets. Famed keys guide Bob Branham uses one. Permit fishing can be stressful enough, why not take some of the stress out by making landing the fish easier. 

Nets like the Fishpond Nomad nets. The Boat Net and the El Jefe are the best sizes for saltwater species. These nets work great for a few reasons. The first is the rubber mesh. For slimy fish like bonefish, the rubber will keep the slime where it belongs, on the fish. Typical mesh nets will remove a lot of the fish slime. These nets also float like a cork, so if it goes overboard, just grab it. If you and your friend are doubled up on fish and there is only one net, just thrown them this net and let it float to them.

When it is time to net and land a fish, do not go diving around in the water scooping for the fish, this is the best way to lose fish. Many anglers will often miss the fish and strike the leader. Instead, wait until the head of the fish breaks above the water, then net it, just like when you would grab the leader with your hand. Once it is in the net you will be able to handle the fish with ease, remember not to handle fish with dry hands. Fish’s slime is important to them, it prevents parasites and deters predators, and dry hands remove it.

Netting a fish does not mean removing it from the water every time, it just means having less of an impact on the fish and hopefully improving mortality rates. While there is minimal research done on landing nets effectiveness on mortality, it is at least worth having one to not loose permit at the boat. Remember that whenever you handle fish to keep them in the water. If you must take them out of the water, do not hold them out for long. Fish do not have lungs like we do, so they can not hold their breath. Handle fish gently when grabbing their bellies and have a firmer grasp around their tail. 

The post Using Nets for Saltwater Species first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Using Nets for Saltwater Species appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

Almost a decade later and roosterfish have become one of the most popular species to target on the fly. Commonly casted at off the beaches of the Baja peninsula, they can also be found all the way down to Panama in the Pacific. In the Atlantic they are found in Costa Rica to Columbia. Growing up to 5 feet, these fish are easy to identify thanks to their distinct seven spiked crown that serves as a dorsal fin.

These large predatory fish are often seen blowing up baitfish in shallow water and near rocky outcrops. Because of this, they are not as picky about the fly as other species, stripping the fly is more important than the fly itself. Roosterfish are fast, predatory fish, so don’t be afraid to retrieve the fly quickly.

The most desired way to catch these fish is by foot. If you want to do this, start doing cardio. Anglers hop in ATV’s and dune buggies and drive until they spot a fish, then it’s a dead sprint to the water to make a cast. The faster you run, the longer you have to cast before the fish swims off.

Picking a fly is fairly easy for these fish. Throw baitfish patterns with similar colors to what they are feeding on. If you don’t know what they are eating, standard colors such as white, blue, black and yellow work well. These fish are also known to eat poppers, as if they weren’t exciting enough.

However, roosterfish are hit or miss. Weeks can go by without seeing one and then out of nowhere there are fish. Don’t expect high number days. Don’t expect fish at all. Just a lot of dead sprints to desperate casts.

The post Species spotlight: Roosterfish first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Species spotlight: Roosterfish appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

Bring everything you need with you to fish for a day on the plane.

I have seen people wearing their wading boots on the plane, but when you think about it, doing it makes a lot of sense.  Looking like an idiot for a few hours is worth not taking a risk on not having your wading boots with you and can also reduce your carry on or checked bag weight as well.  If you want something to get to its destination, don’t give the TSA a chance to lose it. If your boots don’t make it to the destination, you probably won’t be able to wade safely.  To get everything you need on the plane, you will need to bring a good case to carry your rods and reels, as well as a waterproof fishing backpack to carry clothes, flies and everything else. Remember not to bring anything sharp and pointy, but in our experiences nail knot tools are often overlooked. When you touch down at your location you will be glad you have everything in hand. In your checked bag, pack everything else, your extra clothes and flies. keep in mind that flights in the United States are limited to 50 pounds before you get slapped with an extra charge. 

 Split up your flies

While the TSA is supposed to allow flies on a plane, you can catch someone who woke up on the wrong side of the bed or someone who just doesn’t realize the great effort involved in tying flies. If you put all of your flies in your backpack, you risk all of them being taken away. Because of this, we like to split our flies in half, putting the other half in my checked baggage. This helps increase odds of being able to fish at said location. We also will bring extra leaders an tippet and split that in half. The few times we have have heard of this being an issue is flying into Canada and Costa Rica, where anything that can tie a slipknot is considered a weapon. Fly lines and leaders are fair game to be taken away there and therefore must be checked. 

Pack light

Especially on warm water trips, bring only what you need. It is easy to overpack and bring a bag filled with extra t-shirts and shorts. But you will spend most of your time in tech shirts and pants. So bring a few pairs of each and a few clothes to hang out in after fishing and that’s about it. Rain gear is always a great idea to throw in the mix, some of our coldest days are not winter camping in Maine, but instead rainy days in Cuba. Trips are not always sunny like in movies in pictures. Tropical places are tropical for a reason, they get a lot of rain, so be prepared for the worst. 

Bring extra sunglasses

Losing your sunglasses is hard to do, but it does happen, and if you lose them, you will struggle to see fish. Sunglasses also double as safety glasses, preventing you from catching a fly to the eye during an errant cast. If you are going to spend money on a trip, spend money on an extra pair of shades. Worst case scenario, when your current ones get too old, you use your back ups as new ones. 

Global Rescue

Say you do take a hook to an eye, get barbed by a stingray or bitten by a curious critter, global rescue will get you home. With a variety of price points to choose from, it is definitely worth the money if you are a serious traveler or even a beginner.   It is a very effective tool to set your wife at ease as well.  Basically Global Rescue specializes in getting you home in almost any situation including civil war. So if the village you are staying in is struck by a natural disaster, violence, or disease outbreak, you’re covered.  Even if you need to get home to take care of an infected toe, Global Rescue can literally be a lifesaver for one in need.

Hope this helps on your next trip.  Much of this is common sense but often the angler is so focused on the actual trip that some of the tactical planning and planning for eventualities can be overlooked.

The post Five tips for fly fishing travelers first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Five tips for fly fishing travelers appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.