Words and photographs by Captain John Mauser

If I can fall asleep now, I think to myself, I’ll get two solid hours of shut-eye. That should be enough for a drive halfway across the continent.

It’s already 9 p.m. and the guys will be here soon. Eventually, I doze off, only to be awakened—instantly, it seems—by the alarm. I checked my phone. There’s a text waiting: “Headed your way, be there in twenty.”  I jump out of bed immediately for fear of falling back asleep.

When I open the front door, the crisp air of early December hits me in the face. I don’t have time to waste, so I start hauling gear to the end of the driveway. The headlights of the convoy stab the night. Three trucks, with two skiffs in tow, pull into my cul-de-sac. Justin backs up to my skiff and trailer in the front yard. I’m the final piece of the puzzle. It’s time to hit the road. 

Eric crawls into the back seat, and I hop into the passenger seat as Justin loads the address to our rental in South Louisiana into his GPS. It’s a haul: 14 hours, not counting stops.

“Ready for this?” asks Justin, with a smirk on his face.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I grin back, as I wonder to myself how ironic it is that someone who guides anglers for redfish for a living caps off the year by traveling a thousand miles to another state to chase redfish for one more week. Most of this gang makes the choice. Half of us are fishing guides, with a great redfish fishery in our own backyards, and one that we can successfully fish year-round. But here we are. Six guys trailering skiffs across six states to chase a fish that lives a five-minute drive from my house. 

This is our tenth trip to Louisiana. What started as an idea between my friend Perry and me turned into an annual event. Over the years, Perry and I have been joined by a rotating cast of characters—Dallas, Justin, Eric, Simmonds, and Brummet as the core group, along with several other friends. You could call it a tradition, a pilgrimage, or a guy’s trip. Whatever it is, it is something we look forward to all year long.

And this week is sacred. If we’re lucky, this crew fishes a half dozen times together in North Carolina each year. Back home, there is always one obligation or another pulling at us, and keeping us from sharing that quality time. During this one week in Louisiana each year, we pile into the same house to share dinner tables, front porches, and sunsets from the bows of our own skiffs, and we finally get to enjoy each other’s company beyond scattered calls on our marine radios. Once we pull away from the boat ramp, cell phone service vanishes. You couldn’t find us if you wanted to. Finally, it’s just a bunch of friends, the marsh, and the source of our passion.

Redfish.

In the kitchen of our rental hangs a huge, laminated satellite image of the Louisiana marsh. On the afternoon of our arrival, we gather around the war room map and discuss the plan for the next day. Perry will head south with his skiff, while I head east. Brummet will check out the marsh to the north. Each night, while we take turns with dinner duty, the crew gathers around the map again, discussing the day and making plans for the next. There are no secrets among us. If we find something, we share it. The goal is for everyone to succeed this week.

Morning comes early. We pack breakfast, lunch, and boat snacks, with one can’t-do-without-it twist. Little Debbie Swiss Rolls have become the most sacred of our traditions. These morsels are frozen the night before and loaded into our coolers, and can only be eaten when an angler accomplishes something notable, like a personal best fish or a new species on fly.

Racing downstairs in my bibs and jacket, I can see the glow of twilight over the marsh to the east. We’ll be at the ramp in less than ten minutes, but the sun will already be above the horizon by then. Once we reach the launch, I run in to pay the ramp fee while the guys jockey for position between trout anglers and redfish guides. By the time I return, the boys have my skiff at the dock, and I hop in. Idling through the no-wake zone, I hear Perry crank up Rage Against the Machine’s “Bulls on Parade” through his speakers. 

Come wit’ it now! Come wit’ it now! 

By the time the last notes of the song fade, we are crossing the end of the no-wake zone, and it’s throttle down. 

Racing into the glow of sunrise, all the stress of planning, packing, and running endless errands melts away. I take it all in: We are finally here. I’ve been dreaming about this moment for months, and as I look around the other skiffs running alongside mine, I can see it in everyone’s faces. They all feel, too: The promise of a new day on the water, with little pressure to perform, just the potential for memories to be made.

When we reach the first spot, I grab the push pole and scramble up the platform. I may be off the clock, but I have a hard time shaking the notion that I am a guide, and the poling platform is my wheelhouse.

  Eric is first up on my bow, with an 8-weight rod and a fly we call the “Dre-touffèe.” 

“The old standard?” I ask. 

“When has it ever failed us?” he answers. We dreamt up the pattern and named it in honor of the rapper Dr. Dre. It sports a black Zonker strip with gold bead-chain. In less than five minutes, we have our first shot.

“Eric. Twelve o’clock. Fifty feet,” I say, in that clipped, direct tone of voice guides tend to use when the fish is closing in and there’s no time for anything but the facts. “His back just came out.” 

The fish leisurely swims towards us, leaving swirls along the surface, and occasionally breaking the still water with its tail. Eric makes two false casts and lets loose, unrolling the line and leader. The fly lands just to the right of the fish. A few strips and the fly crosses the red’s path, quartering away from the fish like fleeing prey. The red instantly notices the black-and-gold fly and charges forward to inhale it. The quietness of the marsh erupts with shouts of excitement from the boat as we celebrate the hookup. Justin and I are every bit as excited as Eric. A few minutes later, I document Eric’s catch with a photograph before it’s released back into the water. Not a bull by any means, but a respectable 10-pound fish, and most importantly, one that was hungry. 

Refusing to rotate, I climb back onto the platform to find a fish for Justin. Over the course of the day, we all have shots at fish. Eric capitalizes on most of his shots, while Justin hooks a few of his own. I manage to blow most of my opportunities, which can be hard to swallow as a guide. When you spend most of your time on the back of a skiff, you are quickly reminded that there is a difference between knowing where to put a fly and actually putting it there. No jumbos are caught on day one, but that doesn’t faze us. There were no phone calls, no bills, and no work. Just 10 hours on a skiff with three friends who are pumped to hang out and cheer each other on. As the sun disappears below the horizon, we race back to the dock, looking forward to dinner and a meeting by the map. There are reports to discuss, stories to tell, and plans to make.

Mild weather greets the gang the next morning. Low winds and sunshine allow us to focus on the areas of clear water we located the day before. The boys insist that I take the bow first, and I begrudgingly agree. Our first stop provides me with shots at three big redfish. The first two fish are moving away, and I don’t stand much of a chance, while the third just plain refuses the fly.  Later, Justin sticks two nice fish, and Eric lands a stud 43-inch bruiser. That night, over a spaghetti dinner, everyone has a chance to replay the wins and losses and retell all the inappropriate jokes. I’ve had a second fishless day, but I’m still in good spirits. At least, so far. We finish the night by circling around the war room chart and digesting the forecast of 20 miles per hour sustained winds the following day, with gusts in the upper 30s. We agree to sleep in the next morning and make a last-minute plan over breakfast.

Sometime in the middle of the night, I roll over and awaken with a start. The house seems to be shaking on its stilts. I listen to the wind roaring past my window like a haunted freight train. When I walk into the kitchen around 8 a.m., Perry and Simmonds are already making coffee and fixing an annual delicacy: Breakfast PB&Js.

“Doesn’t look too good,” grouses Perry. As Dallas and Brummet join us for breakfast, we discuss the next best thing to do on a blow day besides fishing: Where we’re going to eat lunch. During our first few years of traveling to Louisiana, we typically headed to New Orleans, drawn by the big city’s reputation. Over the years, though, we’ve homed in on local roadside diners and dives for crawfish etouffee and alligator bites. Breakfast has hardly hit the bottom of our stomachs when we pile into one of our favorite Cajun haunts and eat until we are stuffed. Crawling back in the trucks, we ride home, tie flies, and watch a Saturday Night Live marathon for the rest of the afternoon. Even hardcore fishing guides sometimes take the easy route.

I wake up early on day four, but my hopes are quickly dashed when I hear the winds still ripping outside. I’m not sure if I can stand another day off the water, so I ask the crew if anyone is up for extreme fly fishing. We’re all in, and make the call to take a late start and stick close to home, hopefully finding some relief from the breeze. After a midmorning launch, the three skiffs run the back canals towards a series of marsh ponds. Before we even reach our first location, I can see how low the water level is due to the wind blowing all night. Coming off plane, I make a dash for the platform and heave the skiff across the entrance to a shallow pond, scraping bottom while nearly losing the push pole in the mud. This battle against the marsh sets the scene for the entire day. We attempt several ponds before finding one that holds enough water for a redfish to swim in. Most of our day is spent trying not to get permanently stuck. 

None of this matters. The lack of water, the lack of clarity, or the lack of reds. It’s days like this that remind you how little of the equation actually involves fish. I put so much pressure on myself as a guide back home that I often lose sight of why my clients are out there in the first place: To have a good time. We ride back through the canals as the sun sets on the horizon before us, excited about the weather forecast for our final day. That evening after tacos, we gather one final time around the satellite map to plan our next moves. 

Running the canals alongside my friends that last morning is bittersweet. This trip has flown by, and I’m torn between wanting to get home to my family and wishing I could stay another week. Racing past ospreys, egrets, and a family of wild pigs, we make our way to the Gulf. A group decision has been made to stick close to each other today, and fish the same chain of large marsh islands together. Being the only fishless angler on the trip, I am again forced against my will to the bow of the skiff. For the next two hours, Eric guides me across gorgeous flats full of stingrays and blue crabs. One copse of mangroves is covered with dozens of roseate spoonbills. Redfish or not, this place really is paradise. I cast to a few sheepshead that have no interest in feathers or fur. About ready to step off the bow, I see a group of slot reds coming from my 1 o’clock. I make a quick back cast, give the line a few ticks, and all heck breaks loose as the lead fish crushes the fly. 

I thought I had convinced myself that I was okay not catching a single fish during our trip, but the lack of hookups had been gnawing at me. Now I land a trip maker, and as I watch the redfish swim free from my hands, a sense of relief flows through me. Although the fish was no bigger than the ones we catch back home, it helped me kill the skunk for the week, and for that I am grateful.

Now Justin climbs up the poling platform and Eric reaches for his 10-weight loaded with a big blue and orange fly he has been dying to try. Poling into a large bay, Justin works parallel to the shoreline in three feet of clearing water. After a few minutes, the surface begins to tremble ahead of us, and soon we see the unmistakable wakes of several big redfish submarining below the surface. Eric goes into hunt mode as he scans the water for a shot. Something catches my eye.

“Eric,” I say, “11 o’clock. Do you see that colored spot?”

As he swivels his head, a monstrous bull redfish floats up just below the surface. No one speaks a word as Eric makes a single false cast and sends the fly right to the red. A couple of strips and the fish keys in on the fly, following it halfway to the boat before opening its massive mouth and inhaling it. I can feel my stomach in my throat for a second as I watch this event unfold. Eric strip sets the red and that’s all it takes: Within seconds, the fish has the line flying off the reel, and then the backing follows. I instinctively go for my camera as Eric goes to battle. A few minutes later, he lands his personal best redfish ever. It’s pushing the mythical 50-inch mark, eclipsing his earlier stud red. We take a few moments to admire an absolute beast of a redfish. Even though we see and catch and guide to hundreds of redfish each year, coming face to face with such an old soldier is so special. Eric moves towards the edge of the skiff and slides the fish back into the water, holding on until it kicks free from his grip. As he stands up, wiping slime from his hands, Justin tosses him a frozen Little Debbie Swiss Roll from the cooler. “You earned it,” Justin says, with a nod of appreciation. “Now get off the bow. It’s my turn.”

With a scattered school of fish still cruising around the bay, Justin takes the bow, and I get the skiff moving again. Within a few minutes, Justin hooks into his best fish of the week as the rest of the school makes a final exit from the bay. It is now early afternoon, and we are late for our lunch rendezvous with the other two skiffs. As we put towards the rest of the crew, Justin says, “John, it’s your turn, buddy, you’ve got the bow for the rest of the day.”  Over lunch, each boat gives a rundown of the day and their plan for the afternoon. The reports from the other skiffs are positive, with a few bulls, two big black drum, and a sheepshead landed nearby.

After lunch, we idle down the shoreline to a massive bay that couldn’t look more perfect. Eric and Justin cheer me on as I take the bow for the rest of the day with mixed emotions. Deep down, I still want to hook a bull red, but I’m already feeling a rising tide of gratefulness. Big fish or not, the week has been incredible. When you turn the thing you love into your work and career, passion and burnout can battle. These trips to the Louisiana marsh remind me of why I picked up a fly rod in the first place. As the afternoon winds on and my luck dries up, I turn back to my pals in the skiff. “You know,” I say, “Louisiana has got to be the best place in the world to have a great time not catching fish.”    

But it’s never been about the fish. It’s always been about carving out one week every year to be together, strengthen our bonds, and reconnect over something we all love. We tie too many flies, bring too much gear, and talk for months about big reds. But none of that is truly why we go. We go for the excitement, the camaraderie, and the soul healing that happens when a bunch of good friends share a skiff a thousand miles from home. 

10 must have flies for saltwater fly fishing

Go-to Flies for the Everglades by Chico Fernandez

Reflections from the Mill House Podcast

A Fish My Age – Henry Hughes

The post Red Riders – Words and photographs by Captain John Mauser first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Red Riders – Words and photographs by Captain John Mauser appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

She talks a mile a minute and still can’t get it all out. But Captain Lacey Kelly has five generations of Old Florida blood running through her veins. We’d do well to listen.

By Captain Lacey Kelly

It’s funny. I’ve tried to get away from it during certain periods in my life. I’ve tried to work a few corporate jobs over the years, in between part-time guiding gigs. The theory of making a lot of money now so you can be on the bow later was definitely something that affected my path. It caused some turbulent tides. Trust me, I have certainly tried it the hard way. It’s safe to say I get it “honest.” From both sides of my family.

Guiding is my calling. I’ve fully immersed myself in a space that is regarded as sacred and admirable, which often seems to be overlooked these days. I know this sounds like it’s warming up to be another fishing story, but it’s not. It’s really a family story, and how my family gradually shaped me into the fly guide I am today. Both sides were equal partners in creating this specimen that has a severe addiction to fishing and saltwater: the Kellys and the Edwards.

ROOTS: THE KELLYS

The Kelly family arrived in Fort Myers, Florida, in 1917 by train. They were headed south for Cuba from Bishopville, South Carolina, for reasons I cannot say. They were farmers, hunters, and fishermen, living off the land and the water, and when they stopped in Fort Myers, the farming, hunting, and fishing were ample enough to call it home.  When my dad talks about the old days and the stories start flowing, the central theme has always been that we fished and hunted to provide for the family. It was all about sustenance. My dad said that every time he hooked a tarpon, my grandfather, Poppa, would grab a filet knife and cut it off, saying, “Boy, we can’t eat that.”

Hurricanes, the Great Depression, and World War II didn’t rattle my family as much as the government taking our family land in Fort Myers via eminent domain. On top of our farm and cattle ranch rose the Southwest Regional Airport. That changed the trajectory of my life and the entire landscape of southwest Florida. I’ve often struggled with the fact that I wasn’t born back then and did not get to see Southwest Florida in its prime.

Over the years, I’ve often been poling a flat hunting for fish and wondering what my great-grandads got to enjoy. They couldn’t see what Southwest Florida would become. They lived before mosquito control. They would rub motor oil from head to toe just to be able to clean their catch because the no-see-ums would cover you so bad that you couldn’t wipe them out of your eyes. My dad recalls asking his dad why he didn’t purchase the south end of Fort Myers Beach, and Poppa told him. “Ain’t nobody going to want to live out there amongst all them mosquitos and no-see-ums.” He told my dad that we used to ride down there in his Model A and fry fish, and he couldn’t comprehend how you could make a living off that land. He was a farmer. What would you do with it? He never thought about people buying it from him just to enjoy the landscape’s beauty.

We talked a lot about the old days. Poppa and my great-grandad, PawPaw, were fishing the mouth of the Caloosahatchee River one day, and this was before the Sanibel Bridge was built. The water was slicked out, and they said suddenly, they looked up, and a giant rogue wave was coming at them. They scratched their heads for a bit until it got closer and they realized it was a tsunami of redfish. They didn’t have spinning reels back then—they didn’t show up until 1954—but they grabbed their casting rods and headed out. They stayed on the school for three days and caught them till their arms wore out. They never saw another boat.

PawPaw’s name was Sam Headley, and he was the first in my family to guide, which was long before captain licenses were a thing. He often took out Mr. Burdine of Burdine stores that were all across Florida. They would snook fish on the inside of Captiva Pass, using live mullet and grouper rods. They would anchor Burdine’s 50-foot boat, and the whiskey and fishing stories of old started to flow. PawPaw lived on Fort Myers Beach but also spent a good amount of time working on Lake Okeechobee when the mallards were so thick they would block the sunlight. He worked on a dredge boat to build the dike after the hurricane of 1928 that killed so many folks on Lake O. He also caught a small otter, which he made into a pet. He would tell his otter to go get him a fish, and within a few minutes, it would come back with a fish in its mouth that he’d let go for PawPaw to eat later on in the day.

I wish I could have known my PawPaw, my great-grandfather Sam Headley. There are so many parallels between us that cannot be denied. PawPaw was friends with Thomas Edison’s son, and Edison even put a light bulb in the tree house for them one night when they were playing. Both my great-grandfathers spent time with Edison, Harvey Firestone, and Henry Ford at the Edison estate. I can recall Poppa telling me a story of Grandad Kelly frying fish in a cast iron pan at the Edison estate, a pan we still have to this day. He told my dad about making coquina shell soup and eating raw turtle eggs from Fort Myers Beach. They would look out across the Caloosahatchee River and see so many tarpon you could have walked on their backs. So many tarpon in the water that they referred to a school as a “black o’ tarpon” in the water. That’s a lot of fish.

ROOTS: THE EDWARDS

My mom was born in Miami, back when they used to call it “MI-AM-AH.” Her family lived so close to the Orange Bowl stadium that she could hear the games and see the lights from her front door. It was different times.

After my grandfather returned from serving in World War II in the Philippines, Miami wasn’t the same. The crime and crowds forced him to make a move north. Grandpa Ed loved snook, and he loved to snook fish so much that he packed the entire family up, sold the house, and was headed to Englewood, where the family had vacationed in prior years, which he knew was a good place for snook fishing. On the way north, he stopped to fuel up at a gas station in Bonita Springs. While the attendant was pumping the gas and chit-chatting, he asked my grandpa where they were going. My grandpa said they were headed to settle in Englewood because the snook fishing was so good there. The gas station attendant chuckled. “Why would you go all the way to Englewood,” he asked, “when the snook fishing is the best here in Bonita?”

It was settled: They bought a house on Mango Street off Bonita Beach Road and opened Ed’s Bake Shop. My mom was six years old and spent her childhood snook fishing and swimming all up and down the Imperial River. And working at the bakery. It was the first bakery on Bonita Beach and included a small convenience store with odds and ends.

I never got to meet my Grandpa Ed as he passed away before I was born, but I know that my love of snook comes from him; there is no doubt in my mind. And just like him, I’ve tried to get away from places that become more and more crowded, not only in town but on the water. Since my family arrived in 1917, Fort Myer’s population has grown from 3,000 people to over 100,000. Bonita Springs has grown since the 1950s from less than 1,000 people to over 40,000. That puts things in perspective.

WINGS

I cut my teeth guiding as a bait guide. Probably chipped a few teeth over the years, too, with all those lead lines. Throwing a 10-foot cast net every morning and blacking out the live well was just as routine as brushing my teeth. I knew something was missing, though, and it took a few

years to find my ultimate passion. As far as I’ve been told, no one in my family on either side ever fly fished until my Aunt Karen married my Uncle Dennis.

Uncle Dennis and Aunt KK—that’s what everyone calls her—traveled out West for the summer months in their motorhome. For 15 years, they bounced from river to river and fly show to fly show, fishing with some of the greats like Kelly Gallup and Jack Dennis. Their stories went on forever. Some of my earliest childhood memories were of them returning and showing me pictures of all the trout they caught on fly. When I was 20, they flew me out to meet them in Yellowstone. It was my first trip to the West, and the first fish I caught on fly came out of the Gallatin River. Uncle Dennis and Aunt KK probably don’t know how much that one trip and that one fish impacted my life and the path I would take. Flyfishing is interwoven into

every part of my life now. It’s how I’ve met some of my best friends and the love of

my life. It’s how I’ve met so many different people from so many walks of life.

After starting my guiding career and spending a decade on the water here, I moved to Belize for three years and traveled all over the world in between. Yet I’ve come back to Florida—come back home.

At first, I moved north to try to find the same experience that my ancestors found

here in the old days. I was lucky enough to fall in love with Homossasa and spent almost a

decade guiding for tarpon and redfish in what felt like the last frontier of wild Florida. But similar to how the tarpon migrate back to this place year after year, the lure of Southwest Florida, and the hold my family history has on me, lured me back home. I’ve begun to recognize that my family heritage carries a responsibility to keep the family stories alive and protect the waters that helped create them. Their stories create a baseline for all of us to better understand the potential of what it could be if we take care of the resource. Without their stories, we can’t properly gauge how to protect our waters and wild places for future generations.

Maybe that’s why my mindset has shifted over the years. Flyfishing is everything to me now; it’s my center and my compass in life. It’s changed my perspective on so many aspects of fishing. One thing that has changed is that I am catch-and-release only inshore. I’ve come to this decision for several reasons.

It was a journey to get here, that’s for sure. I spent the majority of my early years guiding and filleting fish for clients. I was fully immersed in that culture of filling the cooler. A typical day in bait guiding usually started with the folks stepping on the boat and blurting out, “Captain, are we going to catch our limit today?” Upon my return to the dock, it gave me a sense of accomplishment that I could show the other guides that they weren’t the only ones who could catch fish. That was one of the ways I earned the respect I’m still shown by those same

guides more than 20 years later. At the time, I was the only full-time female fishing guide in

southwest Florida who made a living solely off guiding.

It was so important to me to be accepted by my peers on the water. I was an impressionable young guide, and like all the others, I did what the old guides did. I caught a limit of fish for clients, filleted them, packed them up, sent the anglers home, and did it all over again the next day and the day after. Being raised as a sustenance fisherman, I never gave it a second thought until I started guiding fly fishing. Suddenly, the fish took on a different kind of importance to me.

I think that’s because other things started being important to me. It’s hard to explain, but I know that the resource will go away if we don’t show it respect. That’s a fact. There are just so many of us around here now. What showing respect means to me might be different than what it means to you. But I’ve heard so many stories about how things used to be in this place I love that I can’t bring myself to treat my home any other way than with all the kindness I can find. I hope I can encourage other people to do the same.

The post I Get It Honest – By Captain Lacey Kelly first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post I Get It Honest – By Captain Lacey Kelly appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

Washington angler Mike Ward surpasses Del Brown’s legendary permit mark, and his compulsion for the next one won’t let him stop.

By Trey Reid

Nothing was going right for Mike Ward. He’d had more than two dozen shots at permit but couldn’t put a fly anywhere close to one. “I don’t know if I had a different fly line or what,” Ward says, “but something was majorly off.” Time was slipping away on the third day of the 2016 March Merkin permit tournament in the Florida Keys. A few minutes before lines-out, Ward and guide Don Gable spotted a large permit tailing away from them.

His first cast fell wide. The next wasn’t much better. The third shot also missed. “I was not in a good head space,” Ward recalls. But on the next attempt, he dropped the fly in front of the fish. It ate it and sped away—around a buoy on a crab pot. The water was too shallow for the motor, so Gable had to pole the skiff over to the buoy for Ward to clear the line. Their timer buzzed to signal lines-out as the permit raced off the flat toward a channel, but tournament rules allowed fish hooked before the cutoff to be landed.

“And then this fish just starts circling,” Ward says. “Big circles.” The permit came to the surface with a big hammerhead shark in pursuit. “So we start the motor and take two big circles around him,” Ward says. “The shark leaves. The fish gets to the other side of the channel and takes this blistering run, and it’s just kicking up water. This big hammerhead goes right behind him, up onto the flat.”

They ran toward the shark again to get between it and the permit. “We basically, like, bump the shark with the boat,” Ward says. Almost all of his backing was out, under the boat, and Ward frantically stripped yards and yards of it into a pile at his feet. When the line went tight, the fish was still on. Ward cleared the backing, but as soon as the fish was on the reel, the backing wrapped around his reel handle.

It had happened before, so Ward knew just what to do. “My move is just to run off the boat toward the fish, and while I’m in the air, I take my left hand and push the line over the reel handle to get it off. It worked, and I’m super stoked. But when I saw Don, his eyes looked like dinner plates. He was screaming, What are you doing? Get in the boat!

“I’ve totally lost track that we just had a hammerhead all over us.”

Ward escaped violent death, landed the fish, and made it to check-in on time. But his hands were still shaking when he turned in his scorecard and photo for the 30-inch permit, which turned out to be the tournament’s biggest fish.

Ward’s obsession with permit is legendary. He has caught more than 500 with a fly rod and, in February, surpassed the 513 permit amassed by the late fly-fishing legend Del Brown. Although there’s no actual “record” for permit caught in the way that tippet, line-class, and length records are kept, Brown’s feat of 513 permit on fly is held in the highest regard among saltwater fly anglers. It’s generally recognized that only one other angler, Alejandro “Sandflea” Vega of Holbox, Mexico, who Ward calls a friend, has caught more permit on fly. Vega lays claim to more than 600.

Ward isn’t in a permit-catching contest with Del Brown, Sandflea, or anybody else, but he aims to catch many more. Years ago, he made up his mind that he wanted to catch 1,000. He’s done the math. It’s possible. But it will require no small amount of time, energy, money, luck, good tides and moons, family support, and more—all for a fish that’s famously uncooperative.

LONG SHOTS

The essence of fishing lies in the pursuit of the possible. Using hook and line to connect to a creature from a different realm is sometimes probable, rarely certain, but always possible. “Elusive but attainable,” as John Buchan put it. There’s probably no greater proof of this concept than fly fishing for permit.

Permit lack the size and strength of tarpon and pelagic species and don’t make the electrifying runs of bonefish. Yet, saltwater fly anglers consider them one of the sport’s greatest challenges. Most anglers passionate about permit can tell you precisely how many they’ve brought to hand—and can recite the memorable and more common defeats with even greater fervor. Reverence comes from their elusiveness.

They are circumspect, equivocal, and mostly ignore artificial flies— “like trying to bait a tiger with watermelons,” wrote Thomas McGuane. But when one of the fickle bastards finally sucks in the fake, it’s a king-hell rush of fantastic energy.

“It’s trying to pick up a girl that’s out of your league,” says Captain Brandon Cyr, a Key West guide who’s been fishing permit tournaments with Ward since 2022. “Nine times out of ten, you’re going to strike out. But that one time is one of the greatest nights of your life.”

Encounters with permit are so uncommon that they touch something intangible, transcendent, and otherworldly. They are the Holy Ghost of the Grand Slam trilogy.

“It’s the constant challenge that keeps you wanting more,” Ward says. “For somebody who loves the creative process of problem-solving, there are so many rabbit holes you can go down with permit to try and figure it out that it’s a never-ending quest.”

Ward, 43, grew up in Mount Vernon, Washington, near Seattle, and now lives in Spokane. His first permit came on his first saltwater fly-fishing trip less than 20 years ago. A Montana fly-fishing guide at the time, he traveled to Mexico and caught a permit on his second day at Ascension Bay. “I could see the tail out there,” he recalls. “It was probably 90 feet, and at the time, I did not have a 90-foot cast in my arsenal. Somehow, I get all the momentum going, and the line shoots and keeps going, and the fly lands two feet in front of the fish. And I’m like, ‘Oh, shit!’ I was amazed, just shocked.”

The guide called for pulsing strips, and the permit coursed towards the boat just below the surface. When the guide called “stop,” Ward stopped the fly. It sank, and Ward watched the permit inhale the fly. “At that moment,” he says, “I was hooked for the rest of my life.”

Ascension Bay’s permit weren’t as cooperative the rest of the trip. “I probably had 150 shots, and I couldn’t make it happen,” Ward says. “I was like, ‘Oh, okay, now I get it.’ I think that’s what made me want it more. It was like getting high and then realizing you don’t have any more weed.”

Ward’s permit quests had a relatively slow start. He took a trip a year for the first few years, catching one here or there. He estimates catching a permit every 12 to 15 days on the water. The only thing holding him back was the cost of his pursuit. Over the years, he’s had success with his business, Adipose Boatworks, and other investments. Ultimately, he admits, catching permit “just fully consumed me.”

Ward calls his pursuit a “journey,” with the spiritual connotation carrying more weight than the act of travel. Not that Ward hasn’t piled up the frequent-flier miles. He’s caught multiple permit species in 11 countries, including Australia, Seychelles, Mauritius, Oman, and the usual permit spots around the Caribbean. “I’ve gone to a lot of other places and not been successful,” he adds.  But Ward’s definition of the journey centers on a different kind of quest: understanding an enigma.

“It took Jon Olch seven years to write A Passion for Permit,” Ward says. “The amount of information is just ridiculous. It’s never-ending.”

His permit fascination traces back to a general passion for fish that started in early childhood. When he tied Del Brown’s mark, his mother sent him a text message reminding him that, at three years old, the first thing he said upon waking up most mornings was, “Can we go fishing today?” And his final words before sleep most nights were, “Can we go fishing tomorrow?”

“I know I’ve always had a huge passion for fishing in all forms,” Ward says. “It’s a little surprising that it was this fish. I did a lot of bass fishing growing up, so I’d have thought it would’ve been tarpon or snook. And I had no idea about the permit, but there’s no other fish like them. They’re so their own thing.”

Ward’s fixation extends to the Florida Keys permit tournaments, where he has dominated the big events over the past three years. After teaming up with Cyr in 2022, Ward started an incredible run of seven wins in nine tournaments they fished together.

For Cyr, it all comes down to focus. “A lot of it is staying in the right mindset,” Cyr says. “Mike has a very positive mindset. I think that’s a key thing for him. He’s happy, and he truly loves it. You pretty much know that you will be accepting defeat almost every day. It takes a special kind of person to drive past that and dissect it and figure it out.” Cyr has heard it all when it comes to describing hardcore permit anglers. “But the first thing that comes to mind for Mike,” he says, “is ‘open-minded.’”

Cyr says guides frequently see two types of anglers: those who want or need to be entirely directed by the guide and those who know everything and don’t listen. While execution and delivery are essential, so is listening to the guide. Ward can drop a fly within a foot or two of a spot, without looking or knowing the fish’s location, simply from Cyr’s commands on direction and distance. “He knows exactly my three o’clock, 30 feet,” Cyr says.

He illustrates the point with a story about his favorite permit that Ward has caught in their tournaments together. Pushing across the first flat one morning, Cyr spotted a fish directly behind the boat, swimming into the sun—a worst-case scenario. He instructed Ward to cast 20 feet past the stern at three o’clock. Unable to see the fish, Ward flung the line above Cyr, who ducked down on the poling platform and then translated and directed the action. After a couple of strips and a pause, the fish went down on the fly. Ward stripped and came tight, forcing Cyr into wild contortions to avoid contact with the fly line—a disqualifying action in the tournaments—that was dancing alongside the platform. They landed the fish and went on to win the tournament.

“People don’t listen,” says Cyr, who guides 280 days a year. “People never listen when I tell them what to do. That’s just part of my occupation, and I’ve accepted that. And it’s so cool to have somebody who puts blind faith in me 100 percent, trusts me, and listens. That’s a rare thing for an angler to do with a guide.”

It’s not the only thing uncommon about Ward. He may be one of the most wildly successful permit anglers in fly-fishing history, but if you met him at a fly shop or fishing show, you’d never know it unless someone else told you. If you’re expecting an insufferable prick, you’re reading the wrong story because it’s hard not to like Mike Ward.

“LIVING OFF THE VIBES”

There’s no shortage of anglers crowing about their success on social media, but Ward’s Instagram profile isn’t a place to find shameless self-promotion. He posts as much about his wife, kids, and pets as he does his permit trips. His announcement about tying Brown’s record was humble and gracious. He called it “a special day” and thanked God, his family, the guides, the many people he’d met, and the friends he’d made along the way. He took special care to call out Brown and his pioneering contributions.

Ward also paid tribute to Brown by using a Seamaster Mark III reel for the record-tying permit. It’s the same model Brown used for his International Game Fish Association world-record 41-pound, 8-ounce permit on 8-pound tippet, still the largest permit in the IGFA’s tippet-class fly tackle records. “I give him a lot of credit,” Ward says. “The arbor on that thing is so tiny. That fish was half of what Del’s was, and my hand was cramped so bad at the end.” Ward also honored tradition and leveled the playing field by using a custom bamboo rod for the historic catch.

Ward speaks at a measured, introspective pace, easy to follow, like the long, steady strip of a fly line. He seems almost uncomfortable talking about himself, although he becomes more animated and energetic when the conversation turns to the fish. He’s a fan of Barry Sanders, the NFL Hall of Fame running back known for his humility.

“He is such a down-to-earth person,” Cyr says. “His entire motto in life is living off of good vibes and getting the bad out. I’ve been around a lot of people, and Mike is one of the most genuine, loving, good dudes that I’ve ever spent some time with.”

Although Ward had fished tournaments such as the Del Brown, March Merkin, and IGFA Invitational for a decade, it wasn’t until he connected with Cyr that he started to have consistent success. They had met years earlier at Cyr’s first tournament. The young guide was in his early 20s at the time and was nervous and anxious. Other guides had cautioned him to keep his head down and stay quiet. Cyr was sitting alone at a pre-tournament meeting and dinner when Ward walked over and introduced himself. “He was the only person who talked to me,” Cyr recalls. “And it wasn’t just small talk. He wanted to know about me, about my life.”

They crossed paths over the years but didn’t get to know each other until Ward reached out to Cyr about teaming up for tournaments in 2022. Cyr wasn’t sold on the idea. The relationship between guides and anglers is a complicated alchemy. Cyr wasn’t interested in spending time with an angler he didn’t mesh with. “I was honest,” Cyr says. “I said we need to have a tryout because we might not vibe in the boat.” Cyr’s concerns were soon quelled. “We got on the boat, and the first time out, we got a permit, and we laughed the whole day,” Cyr says. They have the same taste in music—whenever Ward hooks up with a permit, Cyr turns on reggae for a relaxing vibe during the fight. “I really respect Mike a lot in that he views it as a team,” Cyr says. “It’s not just him.”

FAMILY MATTERS

There’s another kind of teamwork critical to Ward’s success. He and his wife, Kelsey, have been married for almost 22 years. With three children, his fishing trips mean Kelsey often carries a heavier load. “My wife is an absolute rock star,” Ward says. “She picks up the slack from the things I can’t do when I’m gone. And she doesn’t complain, doesn’t hold a grudge.”

Ward says fishing is in his DNA, and Kelsey knew she was marrying a fisherman. “I didn’t have much money,” Ward says, “but I told her my prenup is the fact that I fish.” But it’s a big leap from avid fisherman to the extreme commitment of time and resources needed to catch hundreds of the planet’s most elusive fish. When Ward’s pursuit of permit became “a thing,” he says, he sat down with Kelsey and explained the situation. Fly fishing for permit is physically taxing. Boat rides aren’t easy. As anglers age, balance and eyesight erode. If Ward was going to catch an unfathomable number of permit, he needed to get busy while he could. “I had to convey how passionate I am about this,” he says. “Thankfully, she’s been super supportive.”

His brother, Andy, helped him find perspective and balance. “He told me that he didn’t want my kids to think I love fishing more than I love them,” Mike says. “I heard that. I totally agree that I need to make it apparent to my kids, not just through words but through actions, that they mean more to me than anything else.”

Cyr says that perspective is abundantly apparent in the Ward household. With a solid management team in place at Adipose, Ward can devote himself to the family when he’s at home. He coaches the teams and goes to the plays. Even when he’s traveling, he stays connected. He and Cyr will call Kelsey and the kids during fishing tournaments. “She’s our good luck charm,” Cyr says. “And his kids. We’ll call his kids on the way to school and say, ‘Hey, we’re on a flat. We haven’t seen much. We could really use some luck right now.’ And they have a little saying that they’ll say. Or he’ll catch one, and the first thing he does is like, ‘I gotta call Kelsey.’ He is such a family dude.”

Grounded by his family and their support, and with a positive outlook on both fishing and life, Ward hasn’t allowed the rarified air to fuel the fires of ego. If he needs more humility, the permit provide it.

“The fish constantly humbles you,” he says. “As soon as you think you’re amazing, they will show you you’re not.”

Permit fishing is a constantly changing puzzle. When you think you’ve figured it out, the pieces shape-shift in your hands. You find a tide and moon that produces on a certain flat—until it doesn’t anymore. The magic fly never works again. And then you start over.

“That’s what’s awesome, right?” Cyr says. “It keeps it exciting. The hunt never stops. It’s something we’ll never be able to master in our lives because the fishery is changing and the fish are changing. And it’s just spectacular. I don’t know what more you could possibly ask for in a gamefish than that.” The pieces so rarely fit together that, when they do, the resulting sensation is deep and primal.

“There is a certain feeling you get when you catch a permit, and once it passes, all I want to do is catch another one,” Ward says. “I’m not caught up in catching a thousand. But every time, I want the next one. I just want one. I just want it all the time. It never goes away.”

Permit guilt, creeping conflict, and fly fishing ecstasy in Belize

Wading The Flats for Permit

Last Frontiers: Exploring Scorpion Atoll, Mexico for bonefish and permit

A Passion for Permit by Jonathan Olch

The post One More! first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post One More! appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Preview the New Issue of Tail Fly Fishing Magazine – Issue #75 is live first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Preview the New Issue of Tail Fly Fishing Magazine – Issue #75 is live appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

I’ve been thinking about the concept of community lately, of what a community is, how it’s built, how the idea of community has changed in a digital world, and what can be done to strengthen the human relationships that are the tendons and sinews of every community. While such ruminations have been a pleasant break from my day job of writing what seems to be 10 million words a week, the tragic circumstance that launched these reflections was unwelcome in the extreme. The loss of the great fly tyer and fly-fishing mentor Bob Popovics to a hit-and-run driver just a few blocks from his home in Seaside Park, New Jersey, was, and is, and will long remain, a shock to the saltwater fly-fishing community. 

I assumed the editor’s post at Tail magazine not long before the news that Popovics had passed, and as we pulled together a coast-to-coast tribute for this issue, the ensuing weeks of texts, emails, and phone calls—yes, actual verbal telephone communications!—quickly underscored for me the sense of community within the saltwater fly-fishing world. I didn’t know Popovics personally, so I am exceedingly grateful to Tail West Coast editor, Al Quattrocchi, for collecting and curating the words and images of our tribute to Popovics. “Al Q,” as he is affectionately known, was a long-time and close friend of Popovics. I know it was difficult for him to push through this assignment while working through his own grief. I also know that Popovics would have been deeply touched and honored by his effort.

While reading some of the background on Popovics, I was struck by one particular comment. Tail contributor Pete Barrett once wrote the Popovics was “one of the most influential fly tiers of the second generation of saltwater fly-fishing pioneers.” The first generation was in the realm of A.W. Dimock, Stu Apte and Jimmy Albright of the Florida Keys, Harry Kime of California, and Joe Brooks of practically everywhere. There were others in this great generation of anglers. If you don’t know these names, I encourage you to do a little digging on your own. These are the people who blazed the trail this community so deeply loves.

The second generation of pioneers includes, just to name a few, Lefty Kreh, Flip Pallot, Harry Spear, Chico Fernandez, Bob Clouser, Steve Huff, Del Brown, and Mark Sosin. And Bob Popovics, of course.

It could be said that we are now in the third generation in the evolution of our beloved sport. And it might be tempting to think that in this third wave there is little left to be discovered on this planet, or that there aren’t the quantum improvements to be made in gear and equipment that marked earlier innovative eras, or that there’s not a lot of pioneering to be done, frankly, in the world of saltwater fly fishing.

But I have a perspective that I might not have had three months ago. I certainly wouldn’t have had it without the upwelling of community surrounding Popovics’ death. So, here’s what I’m thinking:

The legends in this third wave of saltwater fly fishing may not attain the mantle of general celebrity as did Ted Williams, Jose Wejebe, or Lee and Joan Wulff. It is the nature of modern life, and modern media, that we may not have blazing stars that sear across the sporting world in that fashion.  

Yet, while there may not ever be another Joe Brooks or Lefty Kreh or Bob Popovics—although there may—this much I can guarantee you: There will never be another you. And there will never be a better time in saltwater fly fishing to build a community and share the values that those first- and second-generation pioneers helped shape. There has never been a better time for connecting.  

This third generation—our third wave—is going to be about building community, and every one of has a better chance than ever before to be legendary: A legend in the realm of building community, of sharing knowledge, and of welcoming new people into our fold. We have the models for just such an undertaking. Folks like Bob Popovics helped clear the path. The rest is up to us.

In that spirit I want to introduce a new era of Tail the magazine to Tail the community. Staff has joked about 2025 being the year of “Tail 2.0.” And there’s something to that. We plan on dialing up the energy here, with a new design, a new logo, and new ideas about storytelling. What won’t be new is the magazine’s commitment to authoritative voices.

Part of this introduction is a heartfelt thanks to Joseph Ballarini, who founded this magazine 12 years ago. So many of us discover saltwater fly fishing and build a life around it. Joe discovered saltwater fly fishing and built a magazine around it. The fact that he has kept it cranking for a dozen years is nothing short of remarkable. 

And I’m grateful that you’re already a part of the community. I hope you’ll help us build this third wave of saltwater fly-fishing community. I hope you’ll tell a friend what’s up with Tail. Actually, I hope you’ll holler the news from your favorite boat ramp or fly shop. Keeping a magazine alive and thriving isn’t easy these days. But when it comes to sharing our passions for saltwater fly fishing, we know the way. Moving forward, we’ll respect the past. We have the footprints of the legends to follow.

Tail 2.0. Let’s build it.

T. Edward Nickens

Fly Fishing the Surf with Bob Popovics

Lefty Kreh – Well Done

Reflections from the Mill House Podcast

Go-to Flies for the Everglades by Chico Fernandez

The post Letter from the (New) Editor first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Letter from the (New) Editor appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

I quit working as a hospital physician in the emergency department and decided to spend the rest of my career with a strategic focus on being more of a caregiver and less of a bureaucrat.  I bought a small commercial property and launched an urgent care focused on the patient’s health and well being. We provide preventative medicine infusions and personalized care for each patient. You have probably seen the ads in the magazine, and I hope you’ve chuckled at the fly casting humor.

I am pleased to say that the new venture is a big hit as so many of the small physician practices on the beach closed during the pandemic.  We are providing a needed service here and it has really become the center of my focus.

As a result, I have been quietly transitioning Tail Fly Fishing Magazine to a new management and editorial team that will be taking over after the November 2024 is released. After nine years as the editor-in-chief of Tail Fly Fishing Magazine, I am stepping down in favor of someone who will devote more time and bring new energy and a new voice to the publication.

Admittedly, it has been very hard for me to keep up with the rigors of a new medical practice and the responsibilities of being a publisher and editor. While I will remain the publisher, the editorial, creative, and sales efforts will be guided by a new team. As much as I hate to admit it, Tail Fly Fishing Magazine going to be much better with this new enthusiastic crew.

The new editor is someone you may know, especially if you read magazines such as Garden & Gun, Ducks Unlimited, and Field & Stream, or peruse the Bonefish & Tarpon Trust Journal.  T. Edward Nickens has been tagged as the new editor, of Tail Fly Fishing Magazine and he will carry the baton starting with the January 2025 issue. When we began discussing this opportunity in the spring of 2024, Eddie—yes, despite his fancy byline, he has a pretty un-fancy nickname—had shared many great ideas on how to improve the magazine without changing the comfortable feel of Tail. He’s won scores of writing awards, and has some 35 years of experience in the field. He’s based out of Raleigh and Morehead City, North Carolina, where he’s most proud of the pool noodle and zip-tie fly rod holder he crafted for his 24-boat. It all made it an easy choice, because Eddie is one of us.. 

Our commitment to saltwater fly fishing remains steadfast and true. We do provide the only creditable and reliable publication dedicated to saltwater fly fishing, and with these new changes it will only get better and more comprehensive. Eddie will introduce new features and bring a higher level of quality to Tail Fly Fishing Magazine though his decades of experience in publishing and his industry contacts. While this decision is a very emotional one for me, I take solace knowing that someone so capable and competent as Nickens will be at the helm.

On that note, I want everyone to know that while I will not be directly involved in the magazine as I have been in the past, I will still be around. Still fishing, tying flies, and perhaps, when the medical practice becomes more automated, I could be convinced to  host a trip or two to our favorite places again.

I sincerely thank you for your support and friendship over the last 12 years. It is a somber time as I write this letter, but I know that it is the best thing for you—my readers and friends—and the future of Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

Enjoy  Tail 2.0 and please keep in touch!

Tight Lines.

Joseph Ballarini

Former Editor-in-Chief of Tail

Our Editors and Contributors

Tarpon Cockroach – One of the Best Tarpon Flies of All-Time

Addiction

The post Final Editor’s Letter from Joseph Ballarini first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Final Editor’s Letter from Joseph Ballarini appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

Bob Popovics Tribute

By Nick Curcione

In testimonials, the word “legend” has become a bit commonplace. But when reflecting on my dear friend Bob Popovics and the lives he touched through his talents and his unabashed enthusiasm to share his passions with others, I am hard-pressed to find a suitable substitute. When he passed early in the morning on November 1, the fly-fishing community indeed lost a legend.

Bob was one of those rare individuals who mastered whatever he set his mind to. In the fly-fishing world, his accomplishments earned him superstar status. He pioneered and popularized materials and techniques in fly tying that are world-renowned, and it is no exaggeration to regard him as the premier innovator among leading saltwater fly tiers. When he left his beloved fly-tying room in the attic and hit the beach to test a new pattern, his prowess at flinging flies in the high surf turned heads, even among experienced anglers. He was the embodiment of the complete angler.

Less known, perhaps, are his passions outside the fly-fishing world, such as his botany-inspired rose garden, which he tended like a mother with a newborn, and the gourmet-class restaurant he ran with the love of his life, his wife Alexis. Bob took as much joy in these pursuits as he did with fly tying and fishing.

I could go on reciting a multitude of similar accolades, and no doubt, as time goes by, more will be forthcoming. A man like this has a ledger book’s worth of friends and admirers. Instead, I’ll end by relating an incident years ago at the Minneapolis–Saint Paul airport that gives a strong sense of what this man was like.

Bob, Ed Jaworowski, and I were returning from a pike fishing trip in Saskatchewan. Our flight was delayed, and we were tired as we headed for some empty seats to wait it out. A few minutes slipped by when a very distraught woman with a small child in tow stopped a few yards from us, panicked and sobbing uncontrollably. From her dress, we surmised she was from somewhere in the Middle East, and it was obvious she neither spoke nor understood English. Bob went right over to her and tried comforting her and the frightened child. He walked them over to the concession stand and bought the little boy a soft drink. The woman managed a brief smile but was still visibly upset. He took them to an airline agent to try to resolve her problem. Finally, in a stroke of luck, a departing passenger noticed the woman, approached her, and began speaking her language. Apparently, she had missed her flight, didn’t have a phone, and had no idea of how to proceed. Fortunately, the agent was able to rebook her. As Bob started walking back to Ed and me, the woman ran to him and gave him a hug that rocked him back on his heels. She was so appreciative of his efforts to help her.

Like many of his close friends, I feel an emptiness that can’t be filled. But wherever you are, Bob, know that you are a legend. You imprinted many with your talents, gifts, and generosity, and you will be missed.

#bobpopovics
#shadyrest
#seaside
#barnegatbay
#betty&nicks
#popfleyes
#tomsriver
#beastfleye
#surfcandy
#saltyflyrodders
#awsf
#marthasvineyard
#harkersisland
#montaukpoint
#islandstatepark
#rosegarden
#tuesdaynightatbobs

The post Bob Popovics Tribute – Nick Curcione first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Bob Popovics Tribute – Nick Curcione appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Al Q’s Bonefish Trainer first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Al Q’s Bonefish Trainer appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

Many coastal fly anglers consider surf fishing to be the ultimate challenge. Fortunately, most of us live within a coffee-mug drive from some of the best surf fly fishing opportunities in the world. Down South, the snook is king, while Up North the striped bass wears the crown. There’s a supporting cast of bluefish, mackerel, trout, and jacks.

Bob Popovics is one of the best at the game of surf fly fishing. He’s been at it for more than 50 years and lives only minutes from New Jersey’s Island Beach State Park, a favorite for striped bass hunters. His surf experience also includes time at surf fly fishing haunts like Martha’s Vineyard, Montauk, and the Outer Banks.

Just back from Vietnam in 1970, the young Marine was eager to get on with his life and get back to fishing with his dad and working at his family’s Shady Rest restaurant in Bayville, New Jersey.  A lunch get-together with high school buddies Jimmy Magee and Butch Colvin (whose dad owned the iconic Cap Colvin’s Tackle in Seaside Park), was the first step in a lifelong fly fishing journey that has made Bob one of the most influential fly tiers of the second generation of saltwater fly fishing pioneers.

The three buddies arranged a trip off Harvey Cedars to jig weakfish, but when bluefish crashed the party, Butch grabbed a fly rod and began casting. “I thought that was pretty cool, and wanted to learn more about fly fishing, so the next day Butch took me to Cap Colvin’s to buy my first fly rod, reel and line,” Popovics says. “I was hooked. It was like therapy, and the process of learning to cast and catch fish was soothing, and great fun. I fished with the fly rod as often as I could.”

Later that winter, Butch gave Bob a cardboard beer flat filled with a fly tying vise, bobbin, thread, and some feathers and bucktail, and said, “You’re going to learn how to tie flies.” Back then, there wasn’t much information about saltwater fly tying, but like the promise of a full moon at high tide, a new organization called the Salt Water Fly Rodders of America (SWFROA) brought a fresh level of excitement to coastal fly fishers with an exchange of information, techniques, tackle, and fly tying. Bob was an eager student.

Annual get-togethers were sponsored by SWFROA and its chapters at places like Tilghman Island, Maryland; Key West, Florida; Newport, Rhode Island; and Sag Harbor, New York. Bob attended one on North Carolina’s Outer Banks, where he met Lefty Kreh, who became a good friend and mentor. SWFROA had many well known fly anglers on its board of directors, but Fred Schrier of Toms River, New Jersey, was the dynamo, “the juice,” that drove the new organization.

“I owe a lot to Fred,” Popovic says, “because he was a great motivator, always encouraging me to try new things, and he helped introduce me to so many people like Mark Sosin, Poul Jorgensen, Bub Church, and many others who generously gave me advice and support. Fred’s really the guy who gave me the biggest boost.”

“Surf fly fishing is a very visual experience, and to be good at it you have to be an observer, be aware of your surroundings, the type of beach, the breeze, the currents, and beach structure. Watch everything that happens all around you. Before you make the first cast, walk up to the beach, wait a few moments and observe. Watch the wave sets, get the feel of the rhythm of things before you start fishing. Before I make the first cast I check out the water for signs of bait, cloudy and clear water edges, the formation of bars and points, the location of white water and calm water, and the types of birds in the area. You need patience to be an observer, but it makes you a better fly fisherman.”

Bob likes to keep things simple. He may have plenty of fly gear and equipment in his beach buggy, but keeps only the bare essentials in a shirt or jacket pocket when he’s standing at the water’s edge fishing. “I always have my stripping basket, and like to use a Velcro belt, which is so much easier to get on and off than a buckle-type belt. My pliers are on my wading belt. I pare down what I need to just a few flies and essentials. Instead of taking 20 of each type of pattern, such as crab flies, or bucktail Deceivers, or Jiggies, I take maybe three of each so I have enough on hand to replace a broken-off or fish-chewed fly. I like soft fleece wallets that fit into my shirt pockets to keep a supply of favorite flies close at hand.”

He also keeps a spool of 16-pound tippet handy, and another of 12-pound for very clear water. He usually doesn’t use a heavy mono bite tippet. If blues show up, he has a screw-top tube container in his pocket (like the kind that hold cigars), with 8-inch wire leaders tied with a haywire loop at one end to attach to the tippet. The open end is then haywired to the fly.

“Most of the time I know what to expect when I hit the beach, so if the mullet are running, I take mullet patterns and don’t bother loading myself down with a bunch of flies that probably are not appropriate,” Popovics says. “I do like to have a color selection on hand in case I need to change from a bright fly to dark one, and same goes for short and long patterns.”

Bob favors a 9- or 10-foot, single-hand rod, and says, “Although I’ve tried, I haven’t gotten into the two-hand casting style, and prefer to use single-hand rods most of the time. I like a rod that is not an ultra-fast design. In my consulting work with fly rod manufacturers and in teaching fly casting, I’ve come to like fly rods that have a tad more bend in the butt section as compared to stiff, ultra-fast taper fly rods. Some of my favorites include designs by St. Croix that give the surf fly caster better control of the fly presentation when mending the line or when lifting the line to make a quick cast to reposition the fly. This is an essential feature for any good surf fly rod.”

“When fly fishing the surf, it’s common to retrieve the fly all the way to the rod tip. To quickly and efficiently make the next cast, I like a short, blunt-head line that will load the rod with less line outside the tip. You’re looking to make as few false casts as possible, so a short compact head will load the rod quicker and more efficiently. Use the resistance of the water to help load the rod as you lift to make the backcast, shoot some line on the backcast, then shoot the works on the forward cast. Depending on wind you may need another false cast to reach out to the fish, but always strive for the fewest number of false casts. The goal is to lift for the backcast, shoot, and shoot again on the forward cast.”

“A floating line is my first choice when selecting a fly line. Most fly anglers can dependably cast 50 to 70 feet, and at that distance most beaches will be about 5 to 7 feet deep. A striped bass can easily see the fly at that depth and if you need to go deeper, a weighted fly like a Jiggy or a Clouser Minnow will get deep enough,” Popovics says.

A floater with a short intermediate head is his second choice. “You want to be able to pick up line and recast if necessary, and this is still possible with an intermediate sink tip fly line. You need to do this if the fish moves away from you after you’ve made a cast, or if the fish veers off at an angle from its original swimming direction.”

“A floating line only behaves badly and makes a poor presentation in the surf when you allow the line to be carried away by a breaking wave. You can overcome this by working the line in between the waves, letting it ride and fall with the waves as they roll to the beach. Watch the sets. After six or seven waves, there’s usually a calm area before the next set starts and you can make a nice presentation into this calm water.”

Bob recommends that every surf fly angler learn the skill of mending line. This quick, circular flip motion of the rod tip adjusts the line’s position in a current or wave to keep the fly tracking nicely. If the wave action makes it impossible to control the fly, he uses a roll cast, then lifts for a backcast, and shoots a forward cast to reposition the fly in calm water. “Rod handling becomes second nature, and after awhile you don’t even think about it. The line mending and lifting just become automatic responses to the motions and actions of the waves.”

We all dream of catching a fish so big we won’t have to fib about it, but typical surf-caught striped bass run from schoolies to teen-size and maybe into the 20-pound range. A 30-pounder is an astonishing catch. Even the biggest striped bass will not take too much line, so Bob prefers lightweight large-arbor reels that can hold about 150 yards of backing. “You don’t need a huge reel. The weight of a big reel gets tiring and feels like you have an anchor under the rod. More important is a large spool diameter that retrieves line quickly. Keep in mind that most fish I can play by simply bringing the line in by hand and dropping it into the stripping basket.

“Most reels today are saltwater worthy,” he says, “and it’s probably more important to consider which hand you use to crank the line in. Right or left, the dominant hand is your best choice. A right hander will reel faster, longer, and more smoothly with the right hand; the opposite is true for a southpaw.”

It’s natural to want to walk into the surf up to your knees, but Popovics prefers being higher on the sand because many times the bass will be right in the wash. When fly fishing a beach, the currents and structure are important. The basic current is from the incoming and receding waves, but there are also beach currents generated by wind that often run along the beach. These areas can be worked by letting the fly swing in the current, mending the line as needed to keep in touch with the fly and not let the waves pull line and cause an erratic retrieve and slack.

Bob suggests surgically casting along the beach structure just like a trout fishermen in a small stream. The bass aren’t everywhere; they hold and travel along definite structure such as a slough between the beach and a sand bar, a cut in a sand bar, a point of the beach with white water along its sides, the edges of clear and cloudy water, and also the calm water. “Work all of it,” he says. “Use wind and currents to your advantage when walking the beach. Keep the wind off your non-casting side when possible, or walk with the current a few steps in between casts.”

Bob’s good friend Lou Tabory told him, “There’s no substitute for time on the water,” and Bob echoes that with more good advice, “Even a fishless morning can still be a great day because of the experience earned and knowledge gained. Count the hours, not the fish. Be an observer, look for things, think about what’s going on around you, work the structure, and remember that time on the water builds casting and fishing skills.”

As the premier fall surf fly fishing builds, Bob uses specific fly patterns based on what bait is prevalent as the season matures from September through November. For the early fall, he’s usually throwing Siliclones and Bob’s Bangers to imitate mullet, and Jiggies and Surf Candies to imitate rain fish. When bigger baits are in the surf, his go-to patterns include bucktail Deceivers, The Beast, and Spread Fleyes. Later in the fall, when the sand eel invasion has hordes of the slender baits invading the beach, he’ll switch to longer but skinny Jiggy Fleyes.

One last tip, one of Bob’s favorite fall times to fly fish is the start of a fresh northeaster before the water gets all roiled up and murky, when it’s still clear. “The bass go on binge feed,” he says, “and if the water is real rough, I’ll use a 300 to 400-grain sink tip line to cut through the turbulence.”

Surf fly fishing is popular for many reasons, including its simplicity and nearness to home—and equipment doesn’t have to cost an arm and a leg. It’s exhilarating when a full-blown bluefish blitz erupts, yet serene and calm as the sun ignites the dawn and striped bass begin to swirl at bait in the trough. Fly fishing the surf is a lifelong adventure that has captured fly fishing pioneers dating back to Rhode Island’s Harold Gibbs, New Jersey’s Cap Colvin, and Maryland’s Lefty Kreh—and it now inspires today’s new generation of fly fishers.

Read more great articles like this one and get expert tips from the legends of saltwater fly fishing in the pages of Tail Fly Fishing Magazine. If you love saltwater fly fishing and wish to improve your game, support conservation causes and become part of a small but incredible community, then subscribe to Tail Fly Fishing Magazine today.

You might also like:

Stripers in the Suds – John G. Sherman

Striper Redux – Jack Gagnon

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The post Fly Fishing the Surf with Bob Popovics first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Fly Fishing the Surf with Bob Popovics appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

I’ve fly fished in many places around the world, from Tierra del Fuego to Alaska, and I love it all. But when it comes to my favorite place to fly fish, it would be, hands down, the Everglades.

It’s not just about the snook, the redfish, and all the other wonderful fish that live there. It’s also about the wading birds, the beautiful shallow flats with the fluctuating tides, the red mangrove trees along most of the shorelines, the other menagerie of trees, plants, and flowers, and so much more. I love that world. I love brackish water—I feel it runs through my veins.

It’s no coincidence that today I live about 90 minutes from the Everglades—and go as often as I can.

After spending so much time in that world through the years, I have accumulated a large collection of brackish water flies. And I’m often experimenting with some new fly in an effort to learn more. To me that is very exciting.

But as much as I love trying different flies, the truth is that I only use a handful most of the time. And these favorite flies were not chosen just because fish like to eat them; other conditions requiring certain qualities are even more important.

A fly that is lighter and or more aerodynamic, for example, is usually easier to cast, which makes it easier to make accurate casts to tailing fish or long casts when necessary. 

Trout on Chernobyl Crab

Certain areas in the southern part of the Everglades, like Flamingo, often have a lot of floating grass. In those conditions, a fly with a weed guard is of the essence. When fishing a shoreline, a weedless fly also does not get caught as often on branches when we miss. You just slowly retrieve your fly, jumping it from branch to branch, and then softly drop it on the water. It works quite often. So even in areas that do not have as much problem with floating grass, such as Chokoloskee in the north, I still use weed guards. Actually, most of my brackish water flies have weed guards. And if I encounter situations in which I don’t want the weed- guard, I just cut it off.

Muddy waters reduce a fish’s visibility to see prey (or a fly), so it’s important to use a fly that the fish can see or feel. For fish to see it better, a dark color or black fly can make a big difference. To help the fish feel it, a bulky fly that pushes water as it’s retrieved is easier for a fish to sense through its lateral line. A bulky black fly is a great choice in muddy waters. I like to add a bit of flash to these dark flies, preferably in gold, purple, and green, saving silver flash for light-colored fish patterns.

Often when fishing shorelines, you’ll get 99 percent of the strikes within a short distance from the edge. You want to retrieve slowly for the fly to stay in the hot zone as long as possible. The fly I often prefer here is one that breathes and wiggles at the slightest movement from your stripping hand or rod tip. And while there are several materials that will accomplish this very well, my preference usually is marabou. 

As a rule, the snook and redfish run bigger in the northern portion of the Everglades than in the southern portion. For southern areas such as Flamingo, my flies run about 3 inches or smaller—unless I’m blind casting in off-color water, when I’ll go with a bigger fly. Up north, my flies run from 3.75 to more than 4 inches.

These scenarios, however, are generalizations; there are always exceptions. But these rules work well for me—not only in the Glades, but also in similar conditions further north in Florida, and anywhere else redfish live.

Marabou Madness

For a long time, I had an idea for tying an all-marabou Sea-Ducer. Then, while working on my redfish book around 2011, I finally put a No. 1 hook in the vise and started to tie one. After a few weeks of trial and error, I had a fly I liked. The tail was a whole marabou feather, stem and all, with a bit of flash. The head was marabou feathers wrapped around the shank.

In the water, the fly breathes—even standing still. Indeed, I’ve taken many fish that ate the fly when I wasn’t moving it. When stripping it straight, with no action, it’s alive as it moves. And when working a shoreline, I can keep the fly breathing, wiggling, acting alive, while moving it very slowly, thus staying in the zone close to the mangrove roots longer than with many other flies.

For a while, I only fished it in all black, and caught all the gamefish in the Glades. I loved it. Then I went to other colors, like white with a red head, all chartreuse, and more. The black pattern now has a purple hackle. Another great color combo has been all tan with a pink hackle. Last year, fishing with Captain Steve Huff, I sight casted and landed a 20-pound snook with that color. I had tears in my eyes when I held him for Steve to take a photo. I was that excited.

Today, my friend Chris Dean ties them for me—from small ones just over 2.5 inches on a No. 2 hook to more than 4 inches on 1/0 hook. He ties them in a variety of colors, mostly with a bead chain, but sometimes with lead eyes. The small sizes are also great for baby tarpon. The Marabou Madness is my favorite fly for the Everglades.

Borski’s Chernobyl Crab

For many years I have been using Borski’s Chernobyl Crab to fish the Glades. The deer belly hair on the head does two things that I love: It lands quite softly on the water—in spite of the fact that I use large bead chain on this pattern—and the deer hair pushes water that the fish can feel as you retrieve the fly. It was designed to ride inverted, with the point of the hook up. And using mono for a weed guard is perfect for an inverted fly. For me, the fly imitates a shrimp hopping. I don’t know what redfish think it is, but they love it. I use the fly in all tan or all orange, which is my favorite. If you want to fish the fly deeper, it works great with lead eyes. There are always a few Chernobyl flies in one of my Everglades fly boxes.

Puglisi baitfish patterns

I’ve used these patterns to catch fish in fresh water, brackish water, and blue water—from black bass to snook to blackfin tuna. As you retrieve it, the combination of a great translucent silhouette and the large eyes makes it look very realistic. In the Everglades I use the white body with a green or brown back when the water is very clear, and the purple and black pattern in muddy or low-visibility water. The sizes I use most are from 2.5 inches to 4 inches. In areas where the water is very clear and the snook and baby tarpon are spooky, I generally pull out a small Puglisi baitfish pattern in white with a green or tan back, and use a 12-foot leader and a 6-weight clear floating fly line. This combo is deadly in those conditions.

Clouser Minnow

Designed by Bob Clouser, this fly can do almost anything, but I generally use the fly when I want it to go down. It is great with big bead-chain eyes. And if I need to go deeper, I use lead eyes. I also use this fly when fishing a sinking line. The classic pattern was tied with bucktail in white and chartreuse, and I like it just fine that way. It’s an excellent imitation of a minnow and many other juvenile fish. In the Everglades I use a Clouser to fish deep shorelines, potholes, and the mouths of creeks and rivers— often with a sinking fly line. Bouncing the heavy Clouser on the sandy bottom of beaches can be deadly.

The Sea-Ducer (and his cousin the Crystal Shrimp)

The hackle body and tail of a Sea-Ducer are constantly moving and breathing, whether you retrieve it or let it sit still for a second or two. The bulk of the hackle pushes water when retrieved, helping attract predators when they feel its presence. The fly is always seducing, always working for you. I’ve caught big snook in the Glades and big dolphin in the ocean with it. 

Around 1995 or so, my son Stephen, who tied lots of my flies until he went to college, came up with a variation of the Sea-Ducer that I ended up calling the Crystal Shrimp. He wrapped heavy cactus chenille on the shank of the hook before wrapping the feathers. The result was a fly that has a bulkier body to push water and more flash on the head. It also sinks a bit faster. The fly has produced lots of fish when you need the fly to sink more in the flats but you don’t want it to sink head first.

Dave Denkert Shrimp

Dave’s Little Tan Shrimp

Every time I go fishing with Captain Dave Denkert, this little tan fly is on at least one of his fly rods. Dave says he and his clients have caught every gamefish in the Glades with it, and it’s mostly what he uses. I’ve caught many fish myself. You watch it moving through the water, and it’s a very good imitation of a small shrimp.

The fly is small, with a No. 4 hook, all tan with painted bars and a little bead chain. It weighs nothing, and it’s very aerodynamic, so it’s easy to cast, even with your lightest rods. It’s perfect for tailing fish in shallow water. And yes, it’s very simple, but sometimes those are the best flies.

Hot Lips Snook Fly

Hot Lips

Nothing is more exciting to a fly fisher than the surface strike on a loud popper. But when fishing the flats, and especially in clear water, a popper would scare fish right and left. It’s too loud. And even if you retrieve it slowly, it still scares fish. It doesn’t belong there. But don’t despair; there is a great fly for those conditions.

The Hot Lips, created by Captain Steve Huff, is such a fly. Made with feathers and bucktail for a tail, and a foam body, this fly lands softly on the water, so it doesn’t spook fish as heavier surface flies often do. And it’s not hard to cast. 

When retrieved, the little mouth up front makes just the right amount of noise. It’s like a shrimp on the surface. When a fish takes it, the soft foam feels more realistic than most flies. It’s chewable. I find fish keep it in their mouths much longer than a popper, so you have a better chance of hooking up. The Hot Lips is also quite durable. I’ve caught many snook, baby tarpon, and redfish with the same fly. And after a good rinse with fresh water, the fly is still in my fly box waiting to fish again.

Just remember to use monofilament leader and especially mono bite tippets with this pattern. Fluorocarbon, with a much higher density than mono, will pull the surface fly down and ruin the action.

Snook on Hot Lips fly

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The post Go-to Flies for the Everglades by Chico Fernandez first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Go-to Flies for the Everglades by Chico Fernandez appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.