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.

By Captain Jason Moore

They slip in on the rising summer tide, largely unseen and certainly unheralded. But for a (very) few knowing fly anglers, cownose rays bring the heat.

It took a few seasons to crack the code on these rays. Summers along this stretch of coast can feel still and slow. Flounder settle near the cuts, and bluefish might light up the surface occasionally, but the fly game stays subtle most days. Then the rays showed up. Clean water sweeps over sandbars with the tide. Big fish move with intent and are more than willing to eat a fly if it moves just right. It felt more like the tropics than southern New Jersey.

It made sense to go looking.

Wild Bill stood on the bow of the panga, relaxed, rod tip low, line stripped out and at the ready. The tide flooded the flat, rolling up the edges and across the sandbars. Ripples were starting to show, carrying everything the rays came for—small fish, sand crabs, and anything else caught in the tumbling current, or that moved too slowly without burrowing into the sand. From up top, dark shapes slid in and out of the flow, wings just breaking the surface as they fed, pivoting and leaving clouds of fine sand in their wake.

Cownose rays (Rhinoptera bonasus) are a seasonal fixture here, showing up each summer as the water warms along the shallow inlets and bays of the Atlantic seaboard. Averaging 20 pounds and sometimes pushing twice that, they cruise the flats, bays, and beachfront troughs looking for small fish and crustaceans, turning over sand and leaving behind the plumes that give them away.

The skiff is panga-style with a mostly flat bottom, a poling platform, and an honest eight-inch draft. It’s built off the same commercial lines still used across Latin America—clean, simple, efficient. It tracks quietly, floats skinny, and gets into water most boats can’t.

At dead low, the flat is barren. Dull brown sand stretches wide under harsh light, soft underfoot, and still. But as the tide begins to push, the flat changes. Water creeps in. At first, it’s a slow fill through the deeper cuts, then it builds. Fish start moving. Crabs scramble. Everything that feeds, crawls, or drifts starts shifting. And right behind them, the rays.

They don’t show up early. They hold just off the edge where the current stacks, sliding in only when there’s enough depth and enough commotion. They appear just as it all comes together—slow-moving shadows drifting with purpose, wings tipping slightly with each adjustment. They come in low, sometimes so close you’re sure they’re stalking you.

This time of year, sand crabs and small fish are everywhere. Female crabs flash bright orange egg sacs beneath their bellies, and the rays don’t pass them up. They track low, lift slightly, then drop to pin their food. That’s why the take isn’t always seen—it’s felt. A hard pull, sudden and heavy, like someone trying to rip the rod from your hands.

When the tide tops out, the flat exhales. The fish don’t leave, but they vanish under depth and glare. The current spreads, and the surface goes glassy. Contrast disappears. That narrow window is all you get—just enough water to bring the flat to life, but not so much that it hides everything.

And that window doesn’t last long.

The Right Stuff

It’s timing. Knowing when to push and when to post up. When the rays decide to eat, they’re looking for a fly already trying to get away—tumbling in the current, bouncing off the bottom, fighting for the edge.

They aren’t easy. Like any good saltwater prize, cownose rays force decisions. They’ll make you question the cast, second-guess the strip, and lose the angle. Rush it and you’re late. Wait too long and she’s gone. Everything has to line up—the cast, the fly, the retrieve. Miss any one and you’re done.

The flies are simple. Sparse baitfish in light tones with a little flash, tied on stout 2/0 hooks. Sand flea profiles with a sash of orange or green Alphlexo crabs. But it’s not just the fly—it has to move like it’s trying to stay alive. Move like it’s getting thrown out of a bar, a bit frantic but still trying to stay in control.

A 10-weight is standard, paired with a good reel and at least 200 yards of 30-pound backing. Rays run wide, dig deep, and don’t quit just because you want to.

Leaders are basic. No taper unless you’re feeling fancy or are getting ready for a trip to the Yucatan. Twenty or even thirty-pound fluorocarbon stays connected without drawing attention. Go heavier and they’ll see it. Go lighter and you’ll regret it on the first run or when the line scrapes across their back.

Flat on Flat

Bill was ready. His flies were tied for this place and these fish—no bulk, glued wraps, weighted right. They dropped fast, didn’t tumble, and held bottom when needed. Flies that looked like they didn’t want to be seen.

The first school came through, rays packed close, almost touching. A push of shadows fanning across the flat. Bill dropped his cast just ahead of the lead ray. Let it sink—two slow strips. The fish flared, hovered. Then came the take, and the line went tight and the rod bent, and it was on.

The flat erupted. Wings slapped the surface, and the ray surged. Not quick like a bonefish, but deliberate, like she meant to drag us across the inlet. The rod bent deep. The reel screamed. I don’t remember the line going; it was just the backing melting away as she ran.

Rays don’t bolt. They tear into long, heavy runs with wide arcs and no give. It’s like pulling burlap through current—nothing flashy, just constant resistance. The first run was long. The second longer. When it slowed, it didn’t get easier. Rays settle and pull harder, fanning their wings into the pressure like it’s personal.

You need to feel this in your legs. The rod stays low. Steady pressure.

Bill worked the fish slowly. I turned the skiff to hold the angle. The ray surfaced—still heavy, almost calm. We brought her close, popped the hook, and watched her slip back into the current. One last pulse of sand, and she was gone.

Line was stripped out again. Another fly tied on. Another school already sliding in. Same angle, same game.

Catching rays isn’t about numbers. It’s about reading the push. It’s about one fish at a time and, if everything lines up, then another.

Barracuda Breakdown by Chico Fernandez

Fly Fishing the Surf with Bob Popovics

Bison Of The Flats: The Bumphead Parrotfish

The post For a (very) few knowing fly anglers, cownose rays bring the heat. first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post For a (very) few knowing fly anglers, cownose rays bring the heat. 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.

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.

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The post Tail Media Kit first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

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If you’re planning to chase bonefish in the Caribbean, the Turks and Caicos Islands (TCI) may not be the first destination that comes to mind. It also may not be at the top of the Google search results as you start planning your next warm weather vacation with the family. But if the idea of having some excellent saltwater fly fishing options available during your next family vacation sounds appealing, TCI should be high on your short list.

Whether you are looking to sneak in a quick do-it-yourself afternoon session, wading the flats while the kids hang out at the pool, or you’d prefer to spend an entire day casting from the bow of a skiff, TCI offers quick and easy options to scratch the angling itch without taking you far from your beach chair or breaking the budget. The Turks and Caicos Islands may be the best kept secret for the saltwater fly angler on a family vacation. 

The Turks and Caicos Islands is a British Offshore Territory comprising two groups of islands that sit atop Caicos Bank, east of Cuba and south of The Bahamas. Of the Caicos Islands, Providenciales (with its world-famous Grace Bay beach) is by far the most popular for family vacations. There are plenty of activities, restaurants, and accommodations ranging from budget friendly to luxury. My family and I took our first TCI vacation nearly a decade ago. Explorers at heart, we have generally avoided the resorts, instead indulging our preference for renting houses or condos and embracing the ability to tailor our own experience. Our favorite over the years has been the Chalk Sound area, though the Leeward section of the island has seen development in recent years and has many good options.  

Several airlines serve Turks and Caicos Islands with regular flights into the area’s main airport on Providenciales (often referred to as “Provo”). Given the state of air travel these days, a direct flight is a good idea when possible. While both taxis and rental cars are available at the airport, consider renting a car if you are planning to do any exploring while in TCI; taxis can be expensive. Driving is done on the left, in British fashion, and isn’t as difficult as you might think.  No special driver’s license is required, but be sure to look to the right to check for oncoming traffic.

Resorts have their own excellent restaurants, but if you’d like to explore a bit (and you should), there are many restaurants in and around Grace Bay and several more within a short drive. Fresh seafood is always a good dinner choice. Catch of the day paired with an ice cold Turks Head beer is a fine way to wrap up a day on the beach, shopping, or fishing. For the true do-it-yourselfers renting a home or condo, local grocery stores range from upscale (closer to Grace Bay) to modest (further from Grace Bay) with relative prices to match.  

Bonefish are the focus of fly fishing on Turks and Caicos, though barracuda can also be found.  Guided fishing trips are mainly done on North Caicos Island, which is accessible from Providenciales by a short ferry ride from the Leeward ferry station. Ramsar Nature Reserve on the south side of North Caicos is a system of sand flats, mangroves, and channels. Bottle Creek and the East Bay Nature Reserve on the north side of the island includes five flats protected by small barrier islands. Both sides of the island hold schools of bonefish that see relatively little fishing pressure (over the course of several trips to North Caicos, I’ve only seen one other boat).  There are only a handful of fly fishing guides in TCI, though despite the limited number of guides, trip availability is generally good with reasonable lead time. Last-minute cancellations do happen, so if your schedule is flexible it is possible to find last-minute openings.  

Both sides of North Caicos are home to more than bonefish. In addition to the possibility of finding barracuda, you are likely to see turtles, rays, brilliantly colored box fish, and flamingos.  Most guides charge a flat fee for one or two anglers, so why not bring along a non-fishing family member for some sightseeing and photography? TCI fishing licenses can be purchased in increments of a day or a month, and are inexpensive. They are not available online but can be purchased at most marinas. If you happen to be on Provo, a good place to pick up your license is Turtle Cove Marina, a short drive from Grace Bay.

If you are not able to book a guide, have limited time, or would just rather prefer the challenge of stalking bonefish on your own, there are solid opportunities for self-guided trips on Providenciales. The best is Flamingo Lake, a short drive from the resorts on Grace Bay made by taking Venetian Road off Leeward Highway. There are several spots to park and simply begin wading steps from your car. While there occasionally are flamingos, there usually are bonefish.  The bottom is typical mud over hard sand, standard bonefish territory, and easy to navigate. Be on the lookout for schools of bonefish or cruising fish in singles and pairs. Locate holes and depressions in the bottom and you may also find fish as they tend to prowl these areas in search of crabs and other forage.

While this fishery doesn’t see much in the way of fishing pressure, bones are still bones, and in their shallow-water habitat they are generally skittish. When casting either from a skiff or while wading, try to make as little disturbance on the water as possible (e.g. try not to rock the skiff when casting) and keep noise to a minimum. A fast-action 8-weight rod with a floating tropical line is the standard setup, but don’t be shy about stepping up to a 9-weight to deal with the wind if necessary.

Fly selection for TCI bonefish doesn’t need to be tedious; these fish don’t see many flies in general. If you use darker-colored flies for overcast days and lighter-colored flies for sunnier days in any of the standard bonefish patterns (Gotchas, Bonefish Bitters, Crazy Charlies, etc.), tied sizes 4-6, you won’t be far off. Because TCI bonefish don’t see many flies, presentation is probably more important than pattern, so solid saltwater casting skills are a must.

I recommend plenty of casting practice ahead of your trip. Wind is always a factor, and slack in your cast is your enemy, so strong casting fundamentals are a must. Opportunities at bonefish happen fast, and if you’re not prepared for them, you’ll spend most of your time watching fish swim away. Being able to quickly deliver a fly at a variety of distances with a minimum of false casts will allow you to take advantage of these often fleeting opportunities.

When planning a guided trip from a skiff, practice quickly changing direction and delivering a cast just as you will need to do when your guide calls out a direction and distance. It’s always important to be aware of both wind direction and the location of your guide with respect to your backcast. The ability to make casts from both your dominant side and non-dominant sides is key, as is the ability to deliver a cast in both the forward and backcasts. Having a strong grasp of these skills will not only increase your chances of catching bonefish, but also keep you and your guide safe. An otherwise good trip can go wrong in a hurry if you inadvertently hook yourself or your guide with a weighted crab fly. I’ve pulled more than a few flies out of myself and/or my clients, and it’s always at least an awkward moment and at worst a trip to the local ER.

When delivering your fly, find a spot 8 to 10 feet in front of fish that are on the move, and aim for it. Leading the cruising fish with plenty of distance will avoid spooking your target and allow that fish to stay on its line. Even a well-placed fly may need to be repositioned if your target changes course. If that’s necessary, make as little disturbance as possible as you get your fly out of the water. For every bonefish we see, there are likely many others we don’t, and carelessly ripping line out of the water could send an entire school racing for cover in the mangroves.

Once your fly is in sight of a cruising bone, create lifelike action by slightly twitching the fly.  When it’s clear the fish has locked onto your fly, begin to strip quickly and smoothly, keeping the fly moving without hesitation just as a crab or shrimp would do if fleeing for its life. As in most saltwater fly fishing situations, strip setting is the name of the game. Continuously stripping the fly keeps the fish’s predatory instinct engaged and the fish in pursuit of your fly, so even if you think the fish has eaten your fly, keep stripping. Once you feel the take, strip again to set the hook before raising the rod tip to fight the fish. When guiding freshwater anglers on saltwater trips, I often suggest keeping the tip of the fly rod in the water as they retrieve their fly. Muscle memory from their normal trout-set can be difficult to overcome, so the added resistance of lifting the tip of the rod out of the water can sometimes mean the difference between hooking a fish and disappointment.

Our most recent trip to TCI happened during our town’s public school February vacation. That’s a great time to break up the long grey of winter here in the Northeast with some sun and warmth. Despite the popularity of the week, we enjoyed uncrowded beaches and restaurants.  The fishing was great, too, at least part of the week. Bonefish spawn by forming large offshore aggregations, often during or near new moon periods from late Fall to early Spring. During this time schools of bonefish truly can be here today, gone tomorrow, and such was the case during our trip. The southern flats of North Caicos were teeming with bonefish early in the week, while later that week (coincidental to a new moon) the flats of Bottle Creek on the north side of the island were nearly vacant. As I lamented that situation to my cab driver on the way back to the ferry landing on North Caicos, he casually said, “They went to the ocean to wash their roe.”  That local knowledge lines up with what we know about bonefish spawning patterns. As he drove the cab away, I made a mental note that bonefishing TCI in February, while a nice winter break, could yield unreliable results. The decision to return in May and try again was easy.

Over the years my family has enjoyed vacations on the Turks and Caicos Islands, and there’s no doubt others would, too, as there’s a little something for everyone, even some great fly fishing.  If time and budget allow, hiring a guide is a good option. You’ll cover more water and have a better chance of locating fish. If you have less time or budget, you don’t have to give up your fishing plans because there’s great bonefishing within a short drive that can be done very simply. The ease of access, lack of fishing pressure, and overall likelihood of success make TCI a great place to have your first bonefishing experience and a unique destination for fly anglers planning a Caribbean family vacation.

Bio: Captain George Sylvestre, CCI is lead guide and instructor at Sylvestre Outdoors, a veteran-owned, family-operated fly casting instruction and fly fishing guide service offering both saltwater and freshwater fly fishing trips from Cape Cod to the rivers of Massachusetts and Connecticut. He is a Far Bank Pro and saltwater fly fishing instructor. If you would like additional information on fly fishing the Turks and Caicos Islands, he can be reached at george.sylvestre@sylverstreoutdoors.com.

The post BONEFISH IN TURKS AND CAICOS first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post BONEFISH IN TURKS AND CAICOS appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

Enjoy issue #71 and be sure to subscribe to keep the incredible photography and articles from the saltwater world coming.

The post Tail Fly Fishing Magazine Issue #71 first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

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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.

Most of each year I fish for honest fish. From spring to November, speckled trout here in Virginia act like they ought to act. They are where they should be, on ledges or next to hard dark bottom close to the same depths they were in yesterday. They will eat when the water is the right color, the current is the right speed, bait is present, and the light is low. If it’s dead slack tide and there is no current, grab a sandwich and a beer, put your feet up, and relax. These spotted beauties aren’t going to eat. Same if the current is absolutely cranking. Better to find more moderately moving water. The solunar tables for a particular area are usually about right, too; major and minor feeds correlate to good bite times, and between times might be slow. Give that fly some action, strip set if you can remember to, and you’ll be tied into a nice speck.

That all changes come December. Winter speckled trout go rogue. Once water temperatures drop into the low 50s, the game changes. Small specks move out to more stable temps in the mouth of Chesapeake Bay and the inshore Atlantic Ocean. Big speckled trout take the opposite approach, pushing up into the back of the lower bay’s rivers and creeks, in deep holes next to mudflats, where they slide up and onto them to reap the thermal benefit of dark mud warmed by an afternoon sun. Speckled trout can withstand temps into the low 40s (and even into the high 30s for a short time), but their metabolism drops, and they become hard to catch.

In the winter, these big fish are just plain tough to catch on fly. Perhaps even a bit dishonest. They will suspend in 20 feet of water one day, lie on the bottom in a 6- to 8-foot slough the next, and roam a mudflat the next. The day after you find them on a mudflat, you can have consistent weather and yet they’re nowhere to be found. Figuring out a pattern is challenging, and you must put the time in to be there when the bite happens. But when it does, it is all worth it.

Big speckled trout are, ahem, spectacular. Our conventional brethren have figured this out, and an addicted and passionate bunch fish tirelessly for large speckled trout day and night, year round, from Texas to Florida and up the Atlantic seaboard to Virginia. Big specks thump a fly as hard as any inshore fish. They are stunning, beautiful fish. They will fight you on the surface and they will fight you deep. They run fast—for 10 feet. Then they shake their head and tail walk, trying to throw the hook. They bulldog a few times, and the really big ones can straighten a hook or pop a 12-pound leader. Once hooked, they become unbuttoned as frequently as any big fish we target in the lower Chesapeake Bay, far more often than cobia, redfish, and striped bass. Targeting big speckled trout means, at some point, losing a big speckled trout. It’s going to happen.

Effective use of electronics is one key to success. Depending on depth, I set my side scanner to 50 to 100 feet on each side and select a split screen displaying both side- and down-scanners. Look for marks on both screens. Once you locate fish in a specific location and depth, boat positioning, weapon selection, and instructions to the angler become precise for the situation at hand. Keep in mind that multiple marks may indicate average-sized trout, and trophy trout may be seen on your side scanner or with live-scan as singles lying in shallower water and tighter to structure. Our last two big trout (28.5 inches and 29.5 inches) this year were both caught immediately down current from points and piers.

What makes big speckled trout even more fun is the variety of ways we target them. A lot of our speck fishing is in 5 to 10 feet with moderate current. These fish usually hold in the lower half of the water column. Intermediate sinking lines on 7-weights work well with weighted Deceivers and other streamer and baitfish patterns. Freshwater streamer anglers do well in this scenario by slowing down their retrieve and transitioning to fishing the swing as the fly gets pulled down current.

If the fish are deeper, say 12 to 15 feet, Euro nymph or indicator dead-drift setups work well. We use 10-foot rods with long, light leaders and horizontally balanced flies. These flies are tied on 60-degree jig hooks. A standard pin or stainless-steel shaft with one or two tungsten beads is tied to the hook shank to protrude forward and balance the fly so that it rides hook up and horizontal, mimicking a swimming baitfish. Depending on the depth of water where the fish are holding, leader length varies from 1.25 to 1.5 times the intended target depth of the fly. Two flies work better than one. The lower fly should be heavier, larger, and darker than the top fly. Kelly Galloup’s dropper rig nymph fishing setup works great in this scenario. Indicators are optional but work especially well when fish are lying in faster current. There are several indicators available on the market, but the New Zealand Indicator is easy to use and casts better than bobber-type indicators.

Heavy sink lines are also in play. T8 to T10 lines work well, with short fluorocarbon leaders and heavy flies, like the Half and Half tied with heavy lead dumbbell eyes. The fly should sink slightly faster than the fly line. Discipline with the countdown method is a must. Casting distance shouldn’t exceed your ability to manage your fly line, fly depth and retrieve speed. Figure out what depth the fish are holding based on electronics. A speckled trout will rarely swim down to hit a bait, so strip the fly slightly higher than the fish. Retrieves are typically painfully slow, and as the fly reaches the swing, a successful retrieve slows even more. A hit frequently will occur as the fly is hanging in the current.

Mudflats throughout Hampton Roads offer the opportunity to catch big specks on floating lines. On some afternoons and even some mornings with high water, fish can be found in less than 2 feet of water on mudflats situated near deep water—in this scenario, 7-weights, floating lines, and streamer patterns are the ticket. Specks will be stationed in current off points and sloughs. A slow but erratic retrieve is needed to elicit a strike. Winter redfish are a fun “bycatch,” and might get you into your backing, which is something even big speckled trout don’t usually do.

When you do everything right and a big speckled trout hits a fly, it usually strikes hard. Despite being in the drum family, speckled trout act a lot like their sweetwater namesake. Although a strip-strike is preferred, feel free to trout-set, because I have come to appreciate that you can trout-set a trout.

The Virginia Saltwater Fishing Tournament program offers a recognition plaque for speckled trout over 24 inches that are released alive. Nearly all of these large speckled trout are females and critical to future stocks, so harvesting specks over 22 inches is discouraged.

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The post You Can Trout-Set a Trout! Keys to Success for Big Winter Specks on Fly first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post You Can Trout-Set a Trout! Keys to Success for Big Winter Specks on Fly appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But this isn’t their story.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Silver flashes on the water. Rolling tarpon.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sábalo! The terror from the mangroves!

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

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

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

“Would you leave?”

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

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

It’s just a small wound, fox.

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

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

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

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