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.

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

By Trey Reid

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LONG SHOTS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“LIVING OFF THE VIBES”

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

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

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

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

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

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

FAMILY MATTERS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wading The Flats for Permit

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

A Passion for Permit by Jonathan Olch

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Trout on Chernobyl Crab

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

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

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

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

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

Marabou Madness

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

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

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

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

Borski’s Chernobyl Crab

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

Puglisi baitfish patterns

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

Clouser Minnow

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

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

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

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

Dave Denkert Shrimp

Dave’s Little Tan Shrimp

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

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

Hot Lips Snook Fly

Hot Lips

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

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

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

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

Snook on Hot Lips fly

Worm Hatch – Northeast – Striped Bass

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

10 must have flies for saltwater fly fishing

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

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

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

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

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

Cinder Worm Spawning Dynamics

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unique Event, Unique Approach

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

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

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

Angling Tactics

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

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

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

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

Flies for Worm Fishing

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

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

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

Until We Meet Again

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

by Alan Caolo

Worm Swarming—At Long Last

Atlantic Striped Bass: Pisces in Peril | Mark White

That Albacore Season – T. Edward Nickens

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

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

Inshore Surf Sight Fishing for Corbina

I’m wandering the beaches again on an early April morning, looking for California corbina. I walk three beaches for about  7 miles, looking at structure and looking for fish. The third beach doesn’t show much promise until I’m about to leave. I look down and see two corbina sitting right at my feet like a pair of silver ghosts. They immediately blow up and run for deeper water. 

Okay. We have some fish here, and it’s the early season. Soon I see a pair of fish, then a triple, and finally a pair in the distance. I line up a cast at an angle and slightly past them. I’m fishing a fly I developed for sight fishing, a bright pink Surfin’ Merkin. I can see the bug in front of the fish. A couple of quick strips puts the fly right in the distant pair’s path, and I let it sit. My type-6 line is on the bottom, the bug is anchored, and I have a good position. 

As soon as the fish near the fly I start bumping it to look like a burrowing sand crab, which causes the fly to kick out puffs of sand, its legs simulating the paddle legs on the real thing. Both fish begin to follow the bouncing fly, and eventually one lunges ahead of the other to eat. I watch both fish and fly to judge when to set the hook. As soon as I see the fish lunge and arch its back and the pink fly disappear, I know it’s on. 

Immediately both fish blow up and flee to deeper water. The head of the hooked fish is shaking all the way into the backing. Montana-based Sweetgrass Rods designed this bamboo rod for me, specifically for this fish—and it’s a great stick. The click-and-pawl reel is screaming now, and the bamboo is bouncing with each shake of the fish’s head as I clear the backing. Eventually I surf the corbina in on the waves and slide it onto the wet sand for release. The overhead light brightens the purple iridescence of its back and the chrome sides. The bright pink fly looks like a wad of bubble gum stuck to the fish’s lip.

This is the season’s first fair-hooked, sight-caught corbina—a fish to which I’ve been addicted for a very long time. 

Corbina, which run from California’s Point Conception down through the west coast of Mexico, tend to show up with the mole crab beds in the spring as the sand pushes into the beaches. Although the season generally runs from April to August, the unique and challenging corbina are really only available for surf sight casting in the summer. You can fish for corbina blind. You can also cast to suspicious swirls or short sightings—what we call vicinity casting. But the real deal is sight casting and actually watching corbina eat your bug. Corbina are easy to snag, so most of us only count fish hooked in the lip.

A lot of factors need to line up for a good shot at sight fishing: good sun overhead, no fog, good structure, low wind, and solid sand crab beds to hold the fish for a while. But great conditions aren’t guaranteed, so you have to work with what you have; when the stars do align, however, sight fishing for corbina can be awesome.

I’m always scouting locations, looking for beaches that are cut up with structure like buckets or troughs, which will fill up at different tidal cycles. As corbina push in looking for a meal, they’ll pile up in some of this structure, which gives the angler a better opportunity to present a fly. Scouting multiple beaches at low tide can pay off when I find one that is set up better than others. 

Troughs will have lateral current, and corbina typically feed into it. Anglers can follow a fish and get multiple presentations. My favorite is a trough that dumps into a bucket and turns 90 degrees out to the ocean with a flat right next to it. The fish will pile up at that corner and hop onto the flat to feed before rolling back to the deeper corner water.

Some sections of beach will be structured more like a flat, and water will push in a sort of sheet. In this situation, fish will sometimes ride that water in with their backs up out of the water, feed, and then leave with the tidal recess. Swirls, backs, and wagging tails clue anglers to the presence of fish. Without structure like buckets and troughs, you may have a short window to present before the fish has fed and left. 

Most of us sight fishing for corbina use rods from 4-weight to a 7-weight with a variety of lines: 30-foot sinking head integrated lines for most situations, intermediate heads for calm days, and in rare instances floating lines.

The fish will swim right over the sunken head. You can use a larger-test leader and pull on the fish harder to get them in quick. If you are fishing a sinking line, give it a test cast and see how much the line swings in the current before anchoring in the sand. This will give you a rough idea of how much to lead the fish to avoid presenting the fly on top of them or behind them. 

My go-to sight-casting fly is a pink Surfin’ Merkin, which is based on the Merkin permit fly. The Surfin’ Merkin has been tweaked to make the fly look and act more like a burrowing sand crab. It is also pink (rather than Merkin gray) for improved angler visibility, which doesn’t seem to bother the fish. You’ll see that bright salmon pink at a distance and at some depth in structure. Being able to see the fly and the fish greatly improves your odds of getting a grab and setting the hook.

I mentioned a bamboo rod earlier; over the years I’ve migrated to slower rods because most of this game is in close—as in 5-to-30-feet close. No kidding. A corbina will sometimes follow my fly until its head is out of the water at the sand’s edge before eating. So I often have to cast with part of the fly line’s head still inside the rod. I’m not casting to the fences here, so a slower, more accurate rod works better for the close game.

Sight fishing for corbina in the California surf is by nature a tricky and local endeavor—and for these reasons a like-minded community has developed around this fishery over the years. Initially there were just a few of us nuts out there; now there are more. Those interested in giving corbina a try might enjoy my friend Al Quattrocchi’s book The Corbina Diaries, which covers the history and techniques of this game. 

For many years we used to fish a spot we shared with an older spin fisherman named Matt. Initially he was a bit grumpy when we took to fly fishing in his area of operation. He fished live sand crabs and wore a hat right out of the Crocodile Dundee movies, so we nicknamed him “Corbina Dundee.” One day I was sight fishing a single fish that was ping-ponging between a group of swimmers on its right and left. Matt, who had finished fishing, was busy watching. I couldn’t get a good presentation. My only option was to lob out a cast perpendicular to the fish’s travel—and sure enough, the fish turned 90 degrees and followed the fly. I kept slowly bumping it all the way to the edge of the waterline, and my fish ate the fly with part of its head out of the water before screaming off to the deep. Laughing, I looked to Matt, who had observed the entire incredible show. 

Sight fishing corbina in the surf isn’t easy, but the cool people and the crazy fish keep me coming back. And even if you strike out, you get a nice walk on the beach out of the deal.

Bio: Paul Cronin has been fishing local California beaches for 20 years. When he isn’t fishing, he designs and builds robots in his workshop.

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Los Cabos – Saltwater Fly Fishing

Saltwater Fly Tying – The Salty Stripper

Fiberglass Rods for Saltwater Fly Fishing

Lessons Learned Inshore Surf Fly Fishing

Within Tail Fly Fishing.com are several great articles on inshore surf fishing for several species of saltwater fish.  Stripers in the Suds is another great article to learn more about the sport of inshore surf fly fishing.

The post California Corbina: Sight Fishing the Surf first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post California Corbina: Sight Fishing the Surf appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

You’ll find countless answers to these and more questions on the internet, most written by people who want to sell you something or generate content for a website. That means that they’re not necessarily qualified to answer in the first place. I always chuckle when I read an article from the resident “permit freak”—who works for a travel booking agency-—about where to throw the fly when you’re fishing for permit. In reality, there’s no firm answer to this question. Life has taught me to be wary of people who try to simplify something complicated with a single solution. If nuance isn’t part of someone’s opinion when they’re advising how to feed feathered pieces of metal to wild underwater animals, I’m willing to bet that that someone is missing a lot more of the picture.

As fly anglers, we are clearly thrilled by difficulty. If the end goal were simply a fish in the hand, we wouldn’t ever pick up a fly rod. Bait would be a better choice, if we even used a rod—though in short order we would find a way to send an electrical current through the water and collect our stunned prizes as they floated belly-up. Like rock climbers, we don’t just value standing on top of the mountain. We want to get there in a way that we feel comfortable with. 

There is no getting around the fact that we like to fly fish because it’s hard—and that we enjoy the difficulty. We are also constantly looking for ways to make it easier, which is part of our hunter’s nature installed long ago when catching fish meant more of our DNA in the future gene pool. So we are pulled in opposing directions as fly anglers: Our fascination with limits is in competition with our phobia of failure.

What I hear most frequently from anglers who come to the Keys is that it’s hard. The fish are smart, having learned what tricks not to fall for, and the number of shots in a day might be fewer than a person traveling down here to fish would prefer. Our permit ignore the fly; our tarpon jump as soon as they bite and do their best to throw the fly. It’s a challenge, and that’s what gets our attention. Nevertheless, over the years I’ve learned a few things I can do to lean into the difficulty of the sport while developing the skills I need to improve as an angler.

Fish with an IGFA-Compliant Leader

There’s a reason this topic comes up while fishing for tarpon more often than it does for permit: Tarpon are large fish that fight hard. Some will argue that fishing with a leader that has a heavy class will allow the angler to pull harder on the fish, shortening the fight. In my experience this is only true in theory rather than practice.

When I began fishing with an IGFA-compliant leader, I learned to keep maximum pressure on the fish at all times. Larger-than-necessary tippet had compensated for my mistakes, so I was forced to learn from my errors when I broke off a fish. This taught me what I couldn’t get away with as much as what I could; the consequence of a hard limit was that it made me a better fisherman. I catch fish faster now on 16 than I ever did when I was fishing a heavier class, because I’m more aware of what I’m doing; when I do err I simply break a fish off instead of staying attached through a mistake. If you’re fly fishing and you want to improve, this limit will give you a repeatable reference point to consult as you develop your abilities.

Have a Plan and Execute It

There are two parts to making a shot at any fish with a fly rod—and the first is actually the one that anglers struggle with the most: Where do I put the fly? Take a fish swimming at you slowly: Sure, you want to get the fly out in front of it so it can swim into it. The same fish swimming faster might mean you make one less false cast and throw the fly even farther in front of it. A slight current might mean a bit of a lead in the up-current direction; more current will mean more. In places where the water is off-color you might want to throw the fly close to a fish so it sees it. In clear water, success is likely to follow a fly placed away from the fish.

These things are obvious to most fly anglers, and the internet is full of similar pieces of advice, but it’s worth remembering that, in the moment of a shot, our ability to assess these elements deteriorates. We are reactive—especially when we see a fish that we want to catch—and we are all susceptible to crooked math that favors what we want to do rather than what we should. Make sure you constantly run the plays in your head. The current speed and water clarity might change in a few yards; staying aware of the implications of a dynamic environment is a good goal.

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Fly Fishing the Lowcountry – Part Three: Migratory Species of the Lowcountry

Why fish get on skinny flats

Saltwater Fly Fishing Gear: June 2021

The post Fly Fishing FAQs by Nathaniel Linville first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Fly Fishing FAQs by Nathaniel Linville appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

One of the redeemable qualities about striped bass is that, when they are plentiful, these fish are incredibly accessible.  We fish for them on foot in downtown Boston, from quiet beaches in Rhode Island, in the brackish water of the Chesapeake Bay, and by boat all the way from North Carolina to Maine.  In fact, data from 2017 shows that almost 18 million angler fishing trips were taken in pursuit of stripers.  That impressive number represents 9% of the total angler fishing trips taken across the entire country (NOAA – Source).  

If you’re a striped bass angler, you likely know that the population is in trouble.  Striper populations are currently at a 25 year low and the age structure is out of whack.  If our fisheries managers at the Atlantic States Marine Fisheries Commission (ASMFC) don’t correct the trajectory, we all stand to lose this iconic resource.  ASMFC is in the midst of trying to adjust their own mismanagement of the striped bass stock and rebuild the population through a new plan.  Anglers aren’t particularly confident in ASMFC, and with good reason, the commission’s track record is less than stellar.  I share this context to simply set the stage.  I’ll halt right there and shift gears.  This is not an article of doom and gloom but rather, one of hope, and a reminder that: 

STRIPED BASS ARE IN OUR HANDS

This year, the angling community will have millions and millions of chances to care for this species.  Anglers pursue striped bass in myriad ways with a number of goals in mind:  some hope to feed their families, some go fishing to simply catch-and-release, and some to make money in the commercial fishery.  Regardless of how you access and utilize the fishery, it is your right to legally operate within the regulations that your state defines.  

Whether you catch-and-release or catch-and-keep, commercially or recreationally, releasing fish is something that all anglers do.  We are all united by the perfect moments of getting a striped bass to hand, regardless of our ambition and regardless if that fish goes to the cooler or back to the ocean.  

According to the most recent Striped Bass Stock Assessment released in 2019, the number of stripers that unintentionally die from catch-and-release angling actually exceeds the number of bass that are recreationally harvested.  To simply break that down, recreational anglers kill more fish by catching and releasing them than by actually intentionally killing them for food.  That fact might come as a surprise to many but ASMFC estimates that 9% of the fish that are caught-and-released throughout the striped bass season die.  These stripers that die from catch-and-release might be a fish gill hooked in Maine’s cold june water, or a gut hooked striper in New Jersey during the fall migration, or a Maryland bass that just couldn’t survive a summer release in a low oxygen environment, or even a bass that was simply held out of water longer than it could handle after a strenuous fight.   

When we slow down and think about each encounter during the season, it becomes clear that careful handling during every single interaction is not only vital to that individual fish’s survival but to the entire future of the striped bass population.  An encounter with a 14” schoolie and it’s safe release potentially solidifies a future 40” warrior bass that crushes menhaden, eats surface plugs, lives for live mackerel, slurps chunk baits and inhales a well placed fly. ASMFC’s most recent stock assessment, estimated that approximately 3.4 million striped bass died from the practice of catch-and-release, the direct result of our handling and angling practices. That’s an enormous number and one that we have control of through our individual behaviors. Yes, we are individual anglers but together we are the users and stewards of this resource and have an enormous impact.  

Keep Fish Wet is an organization focused on helping recreational anglers improve the outcome for each fish they release.  They do this by taking the best available science on how fish respond to capture and handling, and translate the research into simple techniques that anglers can use to ensure that released fish survive and are healthy.  When doing the math, Sascha Clark Danylchuk, Executive Director of Keep Fish Wet, reminds us that if we decrease release mortality by just one percent (something that is very doable using best practices), then over 250,000 more stripers would remain in the fishery.  Those fish that have been given the best chance at survival will live on to support recovering stocks and be caught again another day.  Whether you fish from a center console, the beach, a rocky shoreline, a skiff, or a downtown piece of city concrete, these principles will help to make sure that your catch is released safely.  

• Minimize Air Exposure.  10 seconds or less is best.
• Eliminate Contact with Dry Surfaces.  Wet your hands before touching fish and avoid bringing them into boats.   
• Reduce Handling Time.  Release fish quickly and only revive fish that cannot swim on their own.

We have high hopes that ASMFC sets the management plan for striped bass on a course to rapid recovery, but in the meantime let’s take this fishery in our own hands and safeguard that each fish we release swims off strong and healthy because:

STRIPED BASS ARE IN OUR HANDS  

Expanded Best Practices for Catch-and-Release: 

Below are the best practices you can use to create better outcomes for each striped bass you release.  

Best Practice Principles: 

The actions that will make the most difference to the survival and health of the striped bass you put back – whether because of regulations or voluntarily.  Regardless, we all catch-and-release.

1. Minimize Air Exposure.  10 seconds or less is best.
2. Eliminate Contact with Dry Surfaces.  Wet your hands before touching fish and avoid bringing them into boats.   
3. Reduce Handling Time.  Release fish quickly and only revive fish that cannot swim on their own.

Best Practice Tips:  

Actions that help you employ the Principles

• Use barbless hooks
• Limit your use of lip grippers, and when doing so keep the fish in the water
• Always hold fish with two hands and never hang fish vertically in the air
• Photograph fish in or just over the water  
• If you are fishing from a boat with high gunnels, reach down to meet the fish or use a long handled net.  If you have to bring the fish into the boat, be prepared to make it quick.  Have a hook removal tool at the ready, and get that fish back into the water quickly and gently. 

Written By: Kyle Schaefer in collaboration with Sascha Clark Danylchuk, Andy Danylchuk, and Bri Dostie

Atlantic Striped Bass: Pisces in Peril | Mark White

A NEW NORM FOR MONTAUK’S LEGENDARY RUN

Ted Williams Is On Assignment at the Eastern Funnel

The post Stripers In Our Hands first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Stripers In Our Hands appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Tarpon training: offseason work with retrievers first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Tarpon training: offseason work with retrievers appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

In a nutshell, worm swarmings (often erroneously referred to as “the worm hatch”) occur when sexually mature annelid worms—in the Northeast we’re talking about clamworms of the genera Nereis or Platynereis—leave their burrows to mate, sometimes in huge numbers. When enough spawning worms are present in an area, striped bass will feed on them selectively, so the pattern you fish should approximate the size, shape, and action of the natural. My first few encounters with swarming worms were incidental; in my ignorance, I was skunked.

My friend Harry Graff has a home on the Bass River in South Dennis and has fished this event for decades. Understanding the science behind worm swarmings is helpful, but it’s no match for experience—or for having your finger on the pulse of the river.

Harry dropped me an email to tell me the game was on. In his area, swarmings occur in the vicinity of Memorial Day weekend. They tend to begin at dusk and end when it gets dark. The bulk of it, he notes, often takes place over three consecutive evenings.

I pulled into Harry’s driveway at about 7 p.m. The tide was still rising as we got to the water. The Bass River is a good early-season spot, as the fish will arrive here before we see them on the northern side of the Cape. In my mid-20s I caught my first striped bass in this river, where it runs by Wilbur Park in Yarmouth. I used a soggy glass Garcia Conolon bass-bug rod (the rod my father had first let me use at age seven) to fling a small Lefty’s Deceiver into a subtle current seam. As if on cue, the fish pulled. It wasn’t big—certainly no more than 16 inches—but I don’t know that I’ve ever caught a striped bass that has thrilled me more.

There were lots of small fish in the river, Harry said; he’d taken one last night that was only 7 inches. Small fish are a promising sign; the fishery isn’t what it was back in the late ‘90s—no one seems to know why.

We stepped into the water, and it was only moments before I spotted a worm. The spawning form of the worm—referred to as the heteronereid or epitoke in the scientific literature—is shorter and stouter than the non-spawning adult. This worm was approximately 2 inches long and about a quarter-inch in diameter, reddish in color. During the process of sexual maturation, the rearmost legs of the worm (parapodia) transform into tiny scoop-like oars–only slightly in some species, radically in others such as the worms at hand. Swarming worms are amazingly proficient swimmers. Their pirouettes at the water’s surface call to mind skywriting airplanes.

Much has been made about the flies needed to fish the swarmings. The way some authors have written about it, it’s nothing short of voodoo. For one article submission we received at TFFM, the Rhode Island guide who was featured in the piece had refused to let the author photograph his worm fly. (I’ll let you guess how that ended.)

At the other end of the swarming-worm-disorder spectrum is Harry Graff. The flies Harry uses during the swarmings are straightforward. Harry handed me a 2-inch red bucktail with a body of small orange cactus chenille. Dressed on a 1/0 carbon-plated hook, it was well-worn from years of action. The fly Harry was using was Page Rogers’ Cinder Worm—basically a length of red velvet tubing fastened to the hook and a head of black chenille. Harry likes this fly, he says, because it’s very durable.

I wanted to satisfy myself that the fish were actually being selective, so I tied on a white Tabory Snake Fly, which I’ve used to catch everything from smallmouth bass to tarpon. I quickly picked up a 12-inch schoolie on the Snake Fly, but nothing after that. About five minutes later, Harry had landed his second fish and had missed probably a half dozen due to short strikes. That was enough to convince me. I tied on Harry’s worm fly.

I worked the fly with a retrieve appropriate to the natural—hand-over-hand, briskly, but only 2 inches at a time. It wasn’t long before I felt my first tug—short, as were many of Harry’s. It felt as if the fish nipped the tail. I also think a 1/0 hook is a bit large for fish in the 12-inch range.

Ten minutes later, the event was in full swing. Upriver or down, as far as you could see, the surface was dimpled with the swirls of feeding stripers.

The house on the river has been in Harry’s family since the 1950s. Harry’s father had done all of his fishing with a spinning rod. Harry recalls evenings like this as a kid when the river came alive with activity but the fish wouldn’t look at a Rapala. The first time I experienced a swarming, I knew virtually nothing about the life cycle of clam worms. I simply knew the fish weren’t interested in whatever I showed them. This evening I only actually saw that one worm, so it’s easy to see how an angler can get stumped by such an occurrence.

Anyone can go down to the water and cast flies—and very often this approach pays dividends—but it always helps to be mindful of your environment, particularly when you know the fish are there but they’re not cooperating.

If the fish are being selective, first try to approximate the size and shape of what they’re feeding on. I recall one September afternoon along Plymouth Beach many years ago. Large schools of striped bass in the 22- to 24-inch range were gorging themselves on 6-inch silversides. I was able to hook up consistently with a 6-inch white Deceiver. The action was prolific enough that it left my thumb ragged. I watched a guy standing on the jetty with a surf rod as he hurled a 14-inch bathtub toy into the breaking schools. Cast after cast went ignored until finally—I presume in frustration—he reeled up and went home. Had the man simply changed to a lure that more closely matched the size of the prey, I’m convinced he would have landed his share.

Sometimes what the fish are eating isn’t so obvious. In such situations, you’ll do well to look around the water’s edge to see what might be available. More than once I’ve experienced striped bass feeding selectively on grass shrimp just under the surface. In the moonlight I could see their sides flash white as they took; they bulged the surface similarly to a trout feeding subsurface on emergers. Had I not shined a flashlight along the shoreline I never would have seen the many thousands of shrimp flitting about. Only then, after trimming my black Deceiver to an

inch and working it in 2-inch strips, could I catch fish—one after another, and I was surprised at how hard they hit.

The rule of thumb in selective feeding is to first match the size of the prey and then the action. Many will disagree with me, but I generally don’t consider color of much importance (I’ll change retrieves before I change the color of a fly in which I have confidence). And fish don’t see color at night, so I think black is as good a color as any. After discovering selective feeding on grass shrimp, I began carrying a few suggestions in my box—simple reverse-tied bucktails with wool bodies on a size 2 or 4 hook, an inch or so long, solid black for night fishing. When I’ve found the bass are keyed in on shrimp after dark, this fly has done the trick.

When night proper fell on the river, the worm swarming turned off, as Harry had said it would. We’d each landed some fish, but lost many more.

I met Harry through Henry Weston Outfitters in Pembroke, one of the many fly shops that popped up along coastal Massachusetts when the striped bass fishery made a comeback in the early 1990s (and after A River Runs Through It caused the industry to explode). This was the first time we had ever fished together. I think I’m going to have to give him a call and see if I can finagle another invitation.

I left Harry’s and made it over the bridge in time to get to Katie’s Burger Bar in Plymouth before the kitchen closed. After an evening of fishing on the South Shore you could do worse than to sit down to a Hell Burger and an IPA. I’ll be glad when we can sit at the bar again. Beer and burgers always taste better when you sit at the bar. Piscator non solum piscatur.

by George Roberts

George Roberts is TFFM’s Acquisitions Editor.

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THE VOICE OF SALTWATER FLY FISHING

A NEW NORM FOR MONTAUK’S LEGENDARY RUN

Running the Coast for striped bass

SEEING ON THE FLATS

The post Worm Swarming—At Long Last first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Worm Swarming—At Long Last appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.