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.

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.

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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.

by Trey Reid

Louisiana redfish don’t always present the best sight-casting targets. Water clarity, which underpins the hierarchy of marsh variables, is somewhat like black tea. Even when wind, tide, and sunlight create advantageous conditions for sight fishing, visibility still leaves much to be desired.

The Mississippi River’s vast delta is country that’s not sure if it wants to be land or water, where the big river’s fresh water—and the alluvial soils it carries—clash with salt water from the Gulf of Mexico. The higher ground’s oaks and cypress give way to fields of marsh grass pocked by shallow ponds and lakes. Watery ribbons slither through the flat lowlands that rise just inches above sea level. They connect countless pockets of water and become highways for aquatic life. When this maze of earth and water gets stirred up by tides and wind, the result isn’t a sight-fishing dreamland.

But even with stained water to complicate sight fishing—and a fishing buddy who hasn’t quite finished rigging out his new skiff—sometimes a plan comes together.

Beyond the Louisiana marsh, this fishing trip took place at the confluence of personal and professional relationships. Multiple friendships and business connections became intertwined, and even with significant logistical considerations, we threaded a needle that resulted in three days of Louisiana fly fishing with the new Sage SALT R8 rods and Sage ENFORCER reels.

Being this magazine’s managing editor comes with perks, but it doesn’t necessarily mean Sage was going to hand over a proprietary new saltwater rod a month before its public debut. So it helped to have a friend with a Sage connection and a skiff. We call him Tadpole.

His name is actually Casey Hughes, a Sage Elite Pro and Arkansas fly fishing guide. We’ve mostly fished together for Arkansas trout, usually casting articulated streamers in search of big, piscivorous wild brown trout on the Little Red and White rivers. He’s also a member of my Costa Maya wrecking crew of flats freaks and salty drinkers known as the Loyal Order of Boxfish.

I love Tadpole, but he’s a complicated fellow. He’s a safe, effective, and competent guide, smart and funny, patient and accommodating with clients. But he also marches to his own beat. Time is a constraint he doesn’t always abide. He has strong opinions about everything from fishing methods to fishing apparel and lacks a filter between his brain and tongue. He sometimes jokingly agitates people for sport. I’ve always enjoyed fishing with him and we usually catch fish. When he’s at the helm or on the oars, I’ve always felt safe. But most pertinent to this story, I also go into every adventure with him knowing that our path to success may be circuitous, not adhering to what others might consider a normal plan.

Hughes’ friends Darren Jacober and Jeff Trigg of Three Creeks Outdoor Group represent Sage in the region. Tadpole fishes with them often, and also helps them with product demonstrations for retailers and fishing trips for Three Creeks customers and outdoor-industry colleagues.

Jacober and Trigg had December obligations to bring Texas fly shops up to speed on the new Sage saltwater products, but they also planned a personal fishing trip on the front end of their business travel. Three Creeks’ home base is in central Missouri, and South Louisiana is the closest saltwater destination—and a fisherman could argue that it’s on the way to Houston. It’s also a manageable drive from mine and Hughes’ homes in Arkansas, so when the Sage team reached out to Tail Fly Fishing about the pending release of the SALT R8 and ENFORCER product lines, everything came together for a redfish trip with Sage’s newest saltwater collections.

We set out the first morning in identical Hog Island skiffs, heading southwest down a boat channel toward a spot where Jacober and Trigg had found success on past trips. They slipped into a channel that snaked through the marsh toward a small lake. While Tadpole fiddled with his newly installed trolling motor, I stripped line off the ENFORCER reel and made a couple of casts with a 9-weight SALT R8. They were the only two casts I made with it on the first day of fishing.

The trolling motor’s prop spun for about ten seconds before abruptly stopping. I could blame Tadpole’s last-minute, late-night boat rigging for the problem, but in his defense, a cascading series of logistical complications contributed to the situation. Several weeks before the trip, Tadpole had taken his new skiff to a fabricator for the installation of an aluminum casting deck, but supply-chain issues delayed the project, and the fabricator was still working on it the week before we left for Dulac, Louisiana. Five days before the trip, the fabricator had to step away from the uncompleted deck project for a scheduled knee surgery. Tadpole talked to him by phone as he was about to go under anesthesia and worked out a compromise in which an assistant would finish the deck, albeit with a slight deviation from the original specifications. But it wouldn’t be ready until two days before our departure, and Tadpole had a previously planned family weekend getaway, which meant he’d have to pull an all-nighter to finish rigging the skiff—applying SeaDek to the new aluminum deck, mounting the trolling motor, and installing a battery in the bow.

Something had clearly gone awry during the final steps of rigging the skiff for this adventure. But the bottom line was that we didn’t have a trolling motor, and it was a frustrating situation for Tadpole, who was operating at a significant sleep deficit after working on the boat all night before driving nine hours to Dulac the previous day. Sensing my friend’s growing frustration, I put the rod in the holder and picked up the push pole. We’d be patrolling the marsh under manual power.

Tadpole stayed on the deck most of the first day while I took a self-taught course in poling a skiff through shallow water that barely covered a viscous primordial sludge, which made extricating the pole a Herculean chore. Even with bright sun, water clarity made it difficult to spot fish. We’d occasionally see wakes, giving us the sight-fishing advantage of seeing the fish before they saw us, but more often we’d spot the coppery silhouette of a redfish when they were about two rod lengths from the bow—precisely when they’d see the hull and bolt. Even more frustrating were the number of fish we blew out virtually underneath the skiff; they lay still and undetected, bellies in the muddy substrate, exploding out from under us and leaving a teasing wake of swirling muddy water.

Trigg connected with a 34-inch redfish on the first day, and the presence of fish made it hard to leave the area. But despite a few decent shots, the first day was mostly an exercise in futility and frustration for Tadpole and me, especially with my buddy still seething about the powerless trolling motor.

That night, a trip up the road to Houma for a new battery from an auto parts store fixed Tadpole’s trolling motor issue, and the next day we were back in business. Tadpole took the first turn atop the poling platform, and I stood on the front deck, a shiny new Sage SALT R8 in my right hand and a natural-colored shrimpy fly in the left.

With the SALT R8, Sage has merged power and finesse to create a rod that meets the challenges of powerful saltwater species and the rugged environments where they’re found. Sage sent its senior designers to South Florida to work with guides and shops to develop a rod that provides strength and durability while maintaining the feel and touch necessary to deliver quick and precise shots on demand.

The added strength and durability were the easy part. Using the Revolution 8 graphite technology previously used in the company’s R8 CORE collection, Sage increased strength by about 25 percent without adding material and weight. But what separates this rod from the crowd of hefty saltwater sticks is its touch and feel, achieved by a taper and fiber alignment that delivers strength, fine-touch presentation, and an intuitive sweet spot. The rod is quick and easy to load, allowing anglers to fire off shots in the time-sensitive situations common to saltwater fly fishing.

The ENFORCER completes the package. The reel’s drag is 50 percent higher than Sage’s SPECTRUM family of reels, with enlarged and improved seals, as well as design features that make it more durable in an unforgiving saltwater environment. I really like its radius-cornered reel seat, which prevents leader abrasion during storage.

The rod was becoming a natural extension of my casting arm within a couple of hours of fishing on the second day in the marsh, just in time to put the rig to the test when Tadpole spotted a relaxed redfish in a foot and a half of water about 60 feet behind the skiff. He turned the skiff to give me a better shot, but the cast was into a southerly wind, and the fish was visible only as a faint silhouette in the glare. The first shot fell woefully short, and the second, more precise shot didn’t elicit a strike.

Tadpole held the boat in place. We figured the fish was likely still lurking in the area, and there might be others we hadn’t yet seen. With the limited visibility and skinny water, moving the boat could easily blow out anything in the vicinity.

Three or four minutes later, I scanned to the left and spotted a big redfish at 25 feet. The rod loaded with a quick false cast, and I dropped the fly a few inches in front of the fish. Conventional wisdom says you can hit a redfish on the head and get a strike, but this one didn’t like it. The fish didn’t spook, but it slowly swam in the opposite direction, doubling the distance between itself and the skiff before stopping again.

Two false casts sent out enough line to put the fly in front of it again at about 45 feet. With the first strip of the line, the fish turned, following the fly straight toward us before flaring its gills at 20 feet and inhaling the fly.

The big fish barely moved when I strip-set. It took a steady pull on the fly line and a slight sweep of the rod to trigger its flight response, which manifested in a water-slicing run as the big red exploded across the wide open mud flat. The SALT R8 really shined during the tug of war, making quick work of the fight time, which is good for both fish and angler. An oyster bed in the middle of the flat posed a hazard, but the sturdy 9-weight easily turned the redfish away from trouble. A few minutes later, Tadpole and I were admiring a chunky 32-inch redfish in his landing net.

Sight-fishing opportunities didn’t come easy, but when this one presented itself, the new Sage SALT R8 rod and ENFORCER reel proved up to the task. And a plan for Louisiana redfish, despite some hiccups, came together quite nicely.

photo: Chase White

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The post Louisiana redfish on the new Salt R8 by Sage first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Louisiana redfish on the new Salt R8 by Sage appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

That pretty much sums up a captain’s life, but I wouldn’t trade my guiding experiences for anything. You never know what’s going to happen on any given day out on the water; each day truly is unique. Below are a few entertaining nuggets from my decades on the water. Enjoy.

If it can go wrong. . . .

I had a client who expressed a desire to catch a dolphin (aka mahi-mahi and dorado), preferably a large one, on a fly. Normally, when a client makes such a request, I counsel him as to what time of year would offer the best chance for success. But since this request was made on the morning of the trip, during a time of year when finding a large dolphin was somewhat doubtful, I resigned myself to trying my best to pull off this unlikely feat. After a quick glance at his equipment, my client’s 10-weight rod and reel combo looked up to the task. In retrospect, a closer exam would have been wise, and you’ll see why.

Chum bait was nonexistent that day, so besides throwing hookless teasers on a spinning rod, my only option was to cruise around searching for floating weeds and try to find fish hiding under them. We made our way out several miles offshore and started the search for the debris and weeds that often hold fish. There was very little in the way of such material, but we continued our search.

Finally, we saw a beautiful log, several meters long, covered in barnacles and surrounded by weeds—the very picture of perfect dolphin habitat. Quietly approaching and scanning the area for movement, I saw nothing. My heart sank, because if this beautiful piece of real estate wasn’t holding fish, it was unlikely anything else would be.

I readied the client, explaining that he needed to be prepared to cast at a moment’s notice as I started working the area around the log with a teaser plug. Teaser plugs are great in place of chum bait. The fish immediately comes in hot and ready to eat, and it can generate some spectacular strikes. But alas, no fish appeared after a couple casts. I took a few steps over to the console to look at the depth finder, hoping it would tell me that there were fish holding down deep. My client asked if he could take a few casts. Not expecting it to do any good, I told him to have at it and continued to scan the depth finder.

That’s when several things happened in quick succession. The client dropped a cast about 50 feet out and immediately exclaimed, “Holy crap!” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a large shape streak out from directly under the boat, heading straight for the fly. Faster than it can be told, what I estimated to be at least a 50-pound dolphin crushed the fly at about 25 mph, felt the hook, and hit the afterburners, leaving straight away at what seemed like 50 mph.

As the client was desperately trying to clear the slack, a perfect half-hitch was formed around the reel, with no chance of untangling it. When the full weight and speed of the dolphin came to bear, the reel broke off from the reel foot, and still tangled, came up against the first stripping guide. In a split second, that stripping guide was ripped off the rod, and the reel came up against the second stripping guide with the same result. Now, the reel came up against the first snake guide on the top section of the two-piece rod and the forces at play pulled the two sections apart. The whole mess—reel, tangle, and ripped-off stripping guides, went sailing into the ocean. For several seconds, in utter silence, the compilation of gear was plainly visible as the dolphin towed it out of sight, jumping enthusiastically as it went.

The client, standing there holding just the butt section of his ruined rod, turned to me and said,

“That was GREAT!”

Given that I had never experienced any kind of equipment malfunction close to this, I had to investigate the cause. Upon closer examination, the screws that had been holding the reel body to the reel foot were so corroded that I could turn them to powder between my fingers. And judging from the rusted stumps where the stripping guides once were, this rod may have never been rinsed off after saltwater exposure. The client confirmed this, saying he thought rinsing was a waste of time. He also confirmed that he had been using a straight piece of 50-pound leader material, because he “didn’t want to chance losing any fish.”

You never know what you’ll see out there.

One winter I took two clients out for spinner sharks. These clients were experienced saltwater anglers but had never fished for spinners. After setting off, I gave them the rundown on what to expect. Among other things, I described the free-jumping that the spinners do on a regular, and at times constant, basis. In the 60- to 100-pound range, they explode out of the water, spinning lengthwise. Sometimes they spin so fast that it’s hard to focus on them. It’s a pretty large animal and pretty spectacular to watch.

Arriving at the area where I knew there to be sharks, I got busy down on the deck preparing the chum needed to bring the sharks within casting range. As I had my head down, both of these

gentlemen abruptly exclaimed, “Good god! Did you see that?! What the hell was that?”

“What did it look like?” I asked, without raising my head.

“Something huge just came flying out of the water right there!”

“Well, that’s a spinner shark,” I replied, slightly chuckling. “That’s what we are here to fish for.” I turned my head in the direction they were pointing just in time to see a gray whale approximately 40 feet in length reenact the Pacific Life commercial with a full-body vertical launch; it breached not 100 feet off the side of the boat. The spray from its splash almost reached us; it was that close.

“Okay, that is not a spinner shark, and we’re not fishing for it.”

Gray whales are not common in my area at all. I may see only one each year, so this was a real treat. The massive creature put on quite a show for us for over an hour, breaching regularly and performing a maneuver I still can’t really explain the purpose of. In 30 feet of water, this thing would go vertical, stick its nose in the sand, get its tail about 10 feet in the air, and go back and

forth, slapping the water with concussive sounds. It would stay in this position for a full five minutes before moving on. I believe it was calling out to its brethren off in the distance, but we didn’t see other whales that day. Eventually, we let the whale go on its way, and we returned to the sharks. But the rest of the day we all had grins on our faces from the experience.

You are always at the mercy of the sea.

One summer day, the weather was fairly typical—hot, calm, and humid, with small pop-up showers in the area. These small storms were easily visible and moving very slowly. It wasn’t a problem getting out of their way, and there was almost no lightning accompanying them. The problem was that these storms hid a monster that was fast approaching from the southwest.

This was before smart phones, and I had no radar on board. My first clue that something was amiss should have been the disappearance of all the large sportfishing boats. Suddenly, there was not another boat in sight, and off to the west was a black wall of rain with an almost constant rumbling of thunder emitting from it. We were only a couple of miles from the beach and and short run back to the safety of the harbor, but it was too late. The initial blast of wind preceding the rain dropped the air temperature by 20 degrees. If you ever experience this sort of instantaneous temperature change, just know that it’s the weather gods coming for you.

To the west, the whitecaps and sea foam generated by the wind looked like a carpet of snow that was marching toward us. As the storm came off the beach 2 miles away, the black wall of rain completely obliterated the coastline, and the lightning went into overdrive, with multiple bolts visible simultaneously. The rain and the wind hit us almost at the same moment, with a force that made capsizing a real possibility even with a 26-foot boat weighing several tons.

We had secured everything loose and donned our raingear, and I quickly had the engines started and the bow pointed into the wind. Under any normal situation like this, standard operating procedure is bow into the waves and hold position until the storm passes, because it’s really pointless to do anything else. But as the wind approached and passed the 70 mph mark, SOP went out the window.

Even being just 2 miles from the beach (a very short distance for waves to build to any size), the sea went from almost flat to a constant battalion of breaking monsters bearing down on us. The 12-foot hillsides were so close together that being head-to quickly became dangerous, with waves breaking into and filling the boat, compounding the capsizing possibility. My only option was to spin around and ride it down wind, which was quite a maneuver given I had only a matter of seconds to turn before the next wave was on me.

I managed to get it done, but it was dicey at best. Keep in mind that the rain was coming down so hard that the other end of the boat was barely visible, and bolts of lightning were coming down on both sides simultaneously. And these were the kind of bolts where the flash and the sound hit you at the same moment.

By this time, exactly eight minutes had passed since first becoming aware of the impending doom—not much time to do a lot about it.

We stayed in this position for a while. I’m not sure how long, because every second required steering adjustments to keep from going broadside to the maelstrom, and going broadside would have been instant disaster. Even going with the waves, large amounts of water were crashing over the stern into the cockpit. You know by listening to the thunder how long this will go on. When you hear that the majority of the thunder has passed, the worst is over. Forty-five minutes into this storm I could still hear thunder approaching off to the west. It felt like a lifetime.

In the middle of all this, my phone rang. A captain friend who I had seen earlier in the day was on the other end. “You’re not still out there, are you?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, “and I’m a bit busy. What do you want?”

“You need to get out of there,” he said. “There’s a tornado in that cell!” I explained to him the situation with the waves, lightning, rain, and inability to maneuver, and that I couldn’t really give a crap about the tornado and hung up. I resisted asking him to tell my wife that I loved her, because that wouldn’t really help any of us. Especially my wife—or my client.

We rode out the storm and made it safely back to port, but it was an experience I would prefer not to experience again, although it is worth noting two things: First, I was never so glad to be operating a catamaran, which handled it all in stride, and second, my client, who was great at keeping mostly calm, offered the opinion that after 16 years in the US Navy, it was the worst storm he had ever been in.

You can go light, but be careful.

When I first started guiding bluewater fly fishing in the early 1990s, I thought there wasn’t much

realistic use for fly rods smaller than 8-weights. In pretty short order, I changed that thinking completely. Now I typically carry rods as small as a 4-weights, and I am in the process of building a 3-weight.

While there are days when the big fish I’d like to show clients are absent, it’s rare indeed that smaller fish aren’t available. Small members of the jack family and small tunas and mackerel are great fun on light tackle and have saved many a day for me. Dolphin up to 10 pounds will make a 4- or 5-weight dance and make you forget all about trout.

One day while out on a fun trip with friends, I came across a nice-sized log with lots of life around it. Triggerfish, small jacks called rudderfish, and bait were just a cloud around this thing. I had a livewell stuffed with small chum baits, and I started scattering them around the log, looking to fire up any predators in the area. Quickly, surface strikes and explosions began, signaling the arrival of small blackfin and skipjack tuna. Scanning the breaking fish, most all looked to be on the small side, only a couple of pounds apiece. Try as I might, I could not see anything larger, so I grabbed a 4-weight and a 5-weight and gave them to my buddies Quintin and Chris.

Standing on the gunwale to get better visibility while continuing to scatter chum, I tried to be the early warning if a larger fish, inappropriate for the rods they were using, showed up. I pretty much failed miserably in the attempt, because there was suddenly a flash of brilliant purple, and Chris found himself with a fish blistering line off the 5-weight reel. The first run took enough line off the reel that the bare spool was visible beneath the backing. And though every subsequent run was shorter, they weren’t shorter by much.

Over the course of almost 30 minutes, the fish made eight runs well into the 150-yard-plus zone, and it never gave up until Chris finally battled it back to the boat to be netted. It turned out to be a skipjack tuna approaching 12 pounds. The fight was epic and a joy to watch.

It’s not all about the fish.

One day, several miles offshore with clients, I was searching a weed line for dolphin. This particular weed line was very uniform—nice fresh Sargasso weed, bright yellow, stretching off into the distance, with very little of anything else mixed in with it. While scanning weed lines like this, I look both in the water next to the boat (because if you’re moving slowly and quietly enough, dolphin will swim right up to the boat), and I look ahead along the weed line in the distance (because surface activity is a very good way of locating not only dolphin, but many other desirable species as well).

While scanning out in front, I spotted something that stood out like a sore thumb. It was brick red, with wide black vertical stripes. And then it started moving. Out of this patch of weeds materialized an iguana about 5 feet long—just floating along like it was the most normal thing in the world.

After a quick discussion with my passengers, we decided he really would prefer to be on dry land and not in the middle of the ocean with nothing to eat. So I grabbed my large landing net and scooped him up, depositing him in the front of the boat. It became obvious that Iggy (well, of course we named him) had been out there a long time.

It probably washed out to sea during a storm in the tropics somewhere. A healthy iguana this size would normally weigh upwards of 50 pounds. I doubt Iggy weighed 25. The tip of his tail had been bitten off, his eyes were mostly swelled shut from salt water, and he wasn’t moving particularly fast at all.

He spent the rest of the day with us fishing, but he laid claim to the front of the cockpit, using his tail quite effectively like a bullwhip anytime someone came too close. I had two impressive welts on my leg by the time we came back in the inlet. I stopped to clean the dolphin we had caught, spraying Iggy down with freshwater while I did. This made him perk up quite a bit, and for the ride back to the boat ramp, he took up a position on the tip of the bow. This brought quite a few incredulous stares from other boaters and a line of people fishing off of a bridge we passed under.

I tied up at the dock, and after a few minutes, Iggy slowly made his way onto the dock and moved away into some nearby underbrush. He most definitely had a look of “thank you” in his eyes as he made his way into the brush.

Reflections from the Mill House Podcast

Tarpon training: offseason work with retrievers

The Aquarium: Tarpon Fishing in Puerto Rico

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The post A Guide’s Life by Captain Scott Hamilton first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

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The Family Trevally

Terrors of the Pacific, Whatever Their Size

by E. Donnall Thomas Jr.

I was living in Alaska when Christmas Island—once known, if at all, as nothing but a remote speck of land in the mid-Pacific—began to emerge as a saltwater fly rod destination. One of the first lessons one learns upon arrival in Alaska is that going somewhere warm and sunny during the winter is more a matter of necessity than indulgence. For several years running I’d headed to the Caribbean, where I’d learned at least the basics of flats fishing for bonefish and other species. Traveling due south to Christmas by way of Hawaii sounded a lot easier than traversing the continent, and in the wake of glowing preliminary reports, a regular fishing partner and I signed up.

When the great British navigator Captain James Cook arrived at Christmas Island in 1777, he launched a skiff from HMS Resolution and sent it through the leeward gap in the reef to explore the atoll’s inner lagoon. His log reports that the crew returned with tales of abundant “crevallies”  (perhaps a clue to the origins of the name for our Atlantic jack crevalle). This was welcome news to a hungry crew eager for a break from salt pork.

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The post The Family Trevally first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post The Family Trevally appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

Topwater Permit Fly Fishing

by Bob Haines

Perhaps my first inclination that I’d been doing it wrong was the day after I finally caught my first permit. While sitting over a Belikin and a hot dog at Jets in the outbound terminal of the Philip S.W. Goldson International Airport in Belize City, two likely fishermen saddled up to the bar to do the same. We exchanged the usual pleasantries—How’d you do? Alright, you? About the same. Then it was time to board a plane back to reality after a month in the Belizean salt.

Because it was the day after my first permit and subsequent grand slam, I carried a thick and vicious hangover onto the plane. (Somehow I ended up as guest bartender at the Lazy Lizard, mostly pouring drinks for myself.) As soon as I hit my window seat, the earphones went on and the eyes went closed. I woke up cotton-mouthed somewhere over the Gulf of Mexico between Belize and Dallas to find that one of the fishermen from the hot dog joint occupied the aisle seat in my row.

Conversation between fishermen is quick and easy,

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The post Topwater Permit first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Topwater Permit appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

by Joseph Ballarini

It was perhaps legendary Keys guide Harry Spear who originated the very effective style of fly that sports a flat body, allowing for linear movement without spinning. Spear used his Tasty Toad to target the large, spooky bonefish off Islamorada. The Toad landed softly, sank quickly, and refused to spin even when stripped aggressively.

You’ll see this same concept manifest in a number of subsequent flats flies, including Del Brown’s Merkin, the Tarpon Toad (with which Andy Mill has won five Gold Cups), the Kwan Fly (for redfish), and most recently, Dave Skok’s Merkin Shrimp. This concept is also the basis for the Bob Branham’s M. O. E. (Mother of Epoxy) Fly, which has proved itself deadly on permit.

One of my favorite pattens for bonefish and permit is Peterson’s Spawning Shrimp. However, this fly does spin if stripped aggressively, so I stopped using it in Biscayne Bay in favor of Branham’s M. O. E.

Eventually I got the idea to combine the best aspects of Peterson’s Spawning Shrimp with the technical aspects of Branham’s fly—with a few personal touches. I thought the Evolution was an appropriate name, since it’s best described as a mashup of two existing patterns.

The Evolution has superb action, is effective, and is relatively easy to tie. I’ve tested it everywhere I’ve fished, and it seldom fails to produce. In green, the Evolution is my go-to fly in Mexico and Belize. In Florida I prefer pink and ginger; in the Bahamas, pink and tan.  But you can tie it in any color combination and with any head color. Frankly, I don’t think the colored head really matters much for fishing, but they sure do look nice in the box.

If you have any questions, you can email me at admin@tailflyfishing.com.

Materials

Hook: Mustad S74SNP-DT 2XH/4XL size 6 long shank
Thread: Danville flat waxed nylon, 210 denier, pink
Tail: Orange fox and tan Craft Fur (alternatively, I use golden doodle fur after our dog is groomed), flanked at each side with a thin barred ginger hackle tied splayed
Antennae: Black Krystal Flash (optional)
Legs: Tan barred silicone ( I color mine by hand with brown and black markers Borski-style, but the commercial versions work well also)
Eyes: small red shrimp eyes
Flash: Tan Krystal Flash
Wing: Barred tan rabbit fur
Weight: I-Balz
Head: 5-minute epoxy tinted with fine orange glitter

Step 1: Tie in a base of thread on the hook shank above the point.
Tie in orange fox fur, leaving about 1/4 inch beyond the bend of the hook.

Step 2: Measure and trim the trailing portion of fur to bend back over the the bend of the hook and tie in creating a slight bulge for the legs and eyes in the upcoming steps.

Step 3: Tie in craft fur (or dog fur) that should be about twice the length of the fox fur.

Step 4: Tie in two small barred ginger hackles, splayed and extending to approximately the length of the Craft Fur.

Step 5: Tie in black Krystal Flash so it extends slightly beyond the tan Craft Fur (optional, not shown).
Tie in one of the silicone legs so that it extends the length of the Craft Fur (you can trim the legs later, if you wish).

Step 6: Tie in another silicone leg on the other side of the tail. Tie in one of the shrimp eyes to flank the tail. 

Step 7: Tie in the the other eye. The shrimp eyes should extend beyond the bend of the hook by about 1/8 inch.

Step 8: Tie in tan Krystal Flash on the underside of the tail.

Step 9: Tie in the weighted eyes. I-Balz have a wider gap and result in a flatter head on the finished fly.

Step 10: Tie in the first section of barred rabbit for the wing on the underside of the shank.

Step 11: Tie in the second section of wing, just in front of the first and behind the weighted eyes.

Step 12: Wrap the thread to just behind the eye of the hook and whip finish.

Step 13: Mix the two parts of 5-minute epoxy along with the glitter. 

Step 14: When the epoxy is mixed, place a small amount on the eyes. You will need much less epoxy than you think.
The big mistake here is adding too much epoxy and not leaving enough space for a flat, lightweight head.

Step 15: As the epoxy begins to firm, wet your fingers and shape the head using your thumb and index finger to flatten and smooth the epoxy. The key is wet fingers so the epoxy does not stick to your hands. Shape and smooth the head until it’s flat, smooth, and symmetrical.

Heres a quick smart phone video showing how to make the head

Subscribe to Tail Fly Fishing Magazine for the great features, the unique and effective saltwater fly tying and other information that will undoubtedly make you a better angler.  Here are some links to more great fly tying features…

Candy Corn Crawler

Soft Chew Wiggler 2.0

Saltwater Fly Fishing: Saltwater flies – Hammerhead Crab

Characteristics of a Great Bonefish Fly

The post The Evolution Shrimp Fly first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

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But the North Pacific can be a fickle mistress, and the trick is to read her moods and accept her at her best. There will be days when that same dictionary doesn’t hold enough terms of endearment to do her justice—and this is one of those days, the pleasure of the moment amplified by the memory of the week before and NOAA’s prediction of the week to come. To have remained ashore this morning would have been churlish.

Yesterday’s wind has gone wherever it meant to go, and Clarence Strait rests as still as a backyard bass pond. Miles away to the east, the mainland Cleveland Peninsula appears to lie within easy reach of a canoe, although I know better than to try. Our skiff’s four-stroke outboard purrs quietly as a kitten, but the noise is still enough to leave me feeling vaguely embarrassed, as does the brief disturbance our wake creates when it slaps the nearby shore.

The silence that rises to greet us feels immensely welcome when I reach the point, cut the motor, and let the skiff slide to a gradual stop. Across the channel a northbound cruise ship glides along, bearing its own community of visitors determined to make Alaska feel as much like the places they came from as possible. Perhaps it’s best that way. Mid-channel, two purse seiners cross paths bound in opposite directions, each evidently with its own ideas about where to find the fish. That’s it. Otherwise, my wife, Lori, and I are alone on the water save for Kenai, our immense, seaworthy yellow Lab, standing at the bow like the figurehead of a Viking warship.

While Lori twists the tops off our aluminum rod tubes—we’ve learned to respect the vulnerability of unprotected fly rods in bouncing skiffs—I watch the shoreline slide along a hundred yards to starboard. I’ve timed our arrival to coincide with the morning low tide, but the currents and terrain are so complex here that one never really knows how the drift will behave until one can feel it. Easing gently back toward the mouth of the bay, I like what I’ve found. Strong currents make for difficult fly fishing.

Earlier in the summer, a mature bald eagle took possession of a tall, dead tree on the rocky point. The bird uses the tree not as a residence but as a vantage point from which to hunt. Now I watch it keenly as it lifts and sets off across the glassy water. Instead of stooping dramatically like an osprey, the eagle flies in search of fish as if it were making a bombing run, and after banking sharply a quarter mile offshore, it begins to descend. Then it hits the surface in an awkward splash and begins to struggle, talons locked upon something weighty.

The eagle cannot get airborne again—its wings are too wet, the load too heavy. But it isn’t giving up, either, and as it flaps laboriously back across the water toward shore, I spot the early morning sunlight flashing off something large and shiny in its grasp. It has caught a salmon that can only be a silver, and the fish was swimming close enough to the surface to be in reach of an eagle’s claws and hence a fly line.

Time to get ours in the water.

The vast majority of salmon taken on fly rods are caught in fresh water as they transition from the marine phase of their complex life cycle and move upstream toward the spawning grounds where they will reproduce and die. Fishing for them there is logical enough on many levels, ranging from the practical to the aesthetic. Rivers concentrate fish and identify prime locations to cast to them, and swinging streamers is a wonderful way to fish for salmon. Furthermore, the inevitable cycle of life and death never loses its capacity to impress as I watch it play out before me in real time.

Anadromous fish are at their best, however, before they begin to undergo the profound physiological and anatomical changes fresh water induces. Granted, “best” is a subjective term, but most anglers who have experienced salmon in the salt agree that they are more vigorous and challenging on the end of a line than they would be a few weeks after traveling up their natal stream. They strike harder, run more powerfully, and jump more frequently in the salt. They also taste better and are more nutritious, which may not matter to some but certainly does matter to coastal residents who have relied on salmon as traditional table fare for generations.

The rate of decline varies considerably by species. Pink salmon—the lightweights among the five salmon species in terms of both size and reputation as an angling quarry—can actually be a lot of fun as bright fish migrating along shorelines, but they require little more than a whiff of fresh water to start turning into the grotesque, dead-weight humpies that most experienced anglers would just as soon do without. These changes are usually apparent in pinks holding in the salt near a stream mouth even before they enter fresh water. Silvers and kings, by contrast, often remain bright and strong miles upstream from the sea, with considerable variation among drainages. I’ve enjoyed angling for those fish for decades—but they still weren’t as challenging on the end of a fly line as they would have been at sea.

Over the years, I’ve taken numerous representatives of the last two Pacific salmon species—sockeyes (reds) and chums (dogs)—on fly tackle in what was technically salt water, by which I mean that if I dipped my fingers in it and licked them my tongue would register “salt” in the impulses sent to my brain. Those encounters, however, took place in tidal estuaries. These intertidal zones are among my favorite places to fish for salmon, since the fish (save for the pinks) are still bright and beautiful, and while I’m catching them I can observe the diversity of wildlife that makes the marine environment so fascinating. If I’m in the mood for seafood, I can even wait for low tide and dig a bucket of clams before leaving. The technical aspects of the fishing, however, don’t differ all that much from what takes place farther upstream. So for the rest of this piece I’ll focus on what I consider one of North America’s greatest angling challenges: catching Pacific salmon on flies at sea.

First, a matter of definition: When I say fly fishing, I mean, well … fly fishing. I do not mean mooching with a fly rigged to a banana weight connected to a fly rod. I do not mean trolling a fly on a downrigger. It’s not that I’m a snob, and anyone who chooses to fish using those techniques is free to do so with no disrespect intended. I simply fish the way I choose to fish, and TFFM is a fly fishing magazine.

Geographically, I’ll focus on Alaska’s Southeastern Panhandle, for several reasons. Its all-but-infinite labyrinth of islands and bays offers complex inshore terrain that can concentrate fish and provide shelter from the open ocean. Every small community in the area offers access to good water, and most of them are interesting destinations in their own right. Salmon bound for streams all up and down the Pacific coast pass through these waters seasonally, so their numbers are not dependent on spawning success in any particular drainage in prior years. This kind of fishing requires a target-rich environment, and the fish are here. This coastline is spectacular, and diverse wildlife abounds. I used to live there and know the fishery better than a casual visitor can. With all this said, I readily acknowledge that the British Columbia coast offers the same benefits as a saltwater salmon destination.

As for the fish, I’ll concentrate on silvers and kings because they are the most rewarding, and their feeding habits make them a feasible quarry at sea—in contrast to chums, which feed largely on jellyfish, and sockeyes, which prefer zooplankton. We’ll go in chronological order beginning with kings, which arrive inshore earliest, even though they are significantly harder than silvers to catch on flies.

While some resident “feeder” kings can be found near shore throughout the winter, both the number and average size of the fish increase with the arrival of migrating kings, usually sometime in June. This schedule makes them the first of the Pacific salmon to arrive every year, as acknowledged in the term “spring salmon,” one of the king’s many nicknames. Peak king fishing usually takes place between mid-June and mid-July along the Alaska coast, with some variation by location and from year to year.

The hardest part of catching saltwater kings on flies is getting the fly down to the fish because they run deeper in the water column than other salmon species. A fast-sinking shooting head is essential, but a knowledge of local tidal currents is equally important. As with current in a river, the brisker the flow the harder it is to get the fly deep. I generally fish for kings within an hour of slack tide, either high or low, and avoid extreme tides all together. Casting “upstream” into the tidal current and allowing the fly to swing beneath the boat might not seem elegant, but it’s the most efficient means of getting the fly down to the 25- to 50-foot depth usually needed to reach kings.

Fly fishing for ocean kings is a bit like big-game hunting: A lot of time can pass between encounters with the quarry, but just one such encounter provides an immense sense of accomplishment and satisfaction. My best ocean king was a 40-pound fish I caught one morning near Sitka. I had previously lived for several years next to the famous Kenai River, where a king that size was just another nice fish. Although I’d taken larger kings on flies from the Kenai, none came close to inspiring the excitement of that fish from the Pacific. After a surprisingly subtle strike on my standard baitfish imitation, the fish cleared the water a half-dozen times as it ripped off 200 yards of backing into the channel. Then it reversed course and headed inshore toward a kelp bed that could have spelled disaster. Turning the fish put more pressure on my 10-weight than any tarpon, tuna, or giant trevally I’d ever asked it to handle. After all that, a prowling sea lion almost nailed the fish as it came to the net. That story illustrates why I’m willing to invest the time and effort needed to hook a king in salt water.

Silver salmon provide an interesting contrast to kings and are generally a much more fly-rod-friendly quarry at sea. While early returning silvers often overlap with kings, peak silver fishing usually takes place later in the summer, from late July until September. Silvers tend to be much more abundant, and when they’re there it’s not unusual to hook multiple fish on one tide change.

Silvers feed higher in the water column than kings, which makes them far easier to fish for with fly tackle. An intermediate sink tip line will usually suffice, and I’ve even caught them right on top with floating lines. I like to have a spectrum of line options available so I can reach fish at whatever depth they’re feeding.

Kings and silvers at sea both feed on a variety of squid, shrimp, and baitfish. They are rarely selective, and presentation at the optimal depth is always more important than specific choice of fly patterns. I do most of my fishing with a generic baitfish imitation that resembles a herring as much as anything else. Eyes and some flash are important ingredients in any pattern meant for saltwater salmon.

Any experienced angler can look at a salmon stream and identify likely places to start casting. The ocean, by contrast, is a huge place, and the challenge of locating fish there can feel intimidating. Anglers trolling with conventional tackle can cover a lot more water while prospecting for fish than we can casting with fly rods. But even if you’re not lucky enough to have an eagle on the payroll to do the scouting for you, there are some tricks that can help get you casting to productive water.

Terrain features like the rocky point I described earlier can concentrate fish migrating inshore toward their natal streams, and underwater humps—identified with the help of charts and a simple depth finder—attract baitfish and feeding salmon. Kings in particular will often congregate near dropoffs adjacent to kelp beds. The “fish finder” function on modern sonar can also be useful, especially for locating kings. Personally I’m averse to relying too heavily on technology in the outdoors, so I have never used it much for fish finding myself.

When I’m fishing with friends who are using conventional tackle, I often spend my time casting an 8-weight near the surface for silvers or pelagic rockfish until they start hooking kings. That tactic saves a lot of wear and tear on my casting arm, and I don’t regard it as cheating.

Relatively free of obstructions, the skiff’s forward deck makes the craft’s best casting platform. Ever the gentleman, I’ve ceded it to Lori while I do my best from the cluttered stern. Sulking at my side, Kenai makes it clear that he wishes we were duck hunting, but at least he knows enough to dodge the flying loops in my running line.

For 20 minutes, we drift along on the tide as casually as Huck Finn on the Mississippi. Then Lori whoops and Kenai rouses from his lethargy as a yard-long, mint-bright silver goes airborne beside the boat. I start to reel in frantically so that I can grab the net, but suddenly I’m hooked up, too. In contrast to kings, which can strike with a subtlety that belies their size, silvers often slam streamers hard. With my concentration elsewhere and one hand already reaching for the net, I might have lost my rod to this one. I’ve come perilously close before.

Chaos reigns briefly as the two fish circle in opposite directions and cross our lines while Kenai barks encouragement. But it’s open water, and save for one determined run by Lori’s fish for the nearest kelp bed, there is little room for error other than that of our own making. Ten minutes later, we’ve landed both silvers and are back at it again. Evidently we’ve found the fish, because Lori is hooked up again before I’ve found the drift I want. And so the action goes for nearly an hour until it stops as abruptly as it began—perhaps not to be repeated for the rest of the day, the rest of the week, or the rest of the season.

Who knows why? Mystery is just a part of the sea’s intrigue, and one more reason why I keep coming back.

Bio: A former Alaska resident who now lives in rural Montana, Don Thomas and his wife, Lori, have fly fished salt waters all around the globe. After growing up on Puget Sound and living in a coastal Alaska village, he has a soft spot for the North Pacific. Don’s and Lori’s work has appeared in numerous national publications.

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The post Chrome from the Sea first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Chrome from the Sea appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  … victory filled-up

the little rented boat

from the pool of bilge

where oil had spread a rainbow

around the rusted engine . . .

—until everything

was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow!

And I let the fish go.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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