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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But this isn’t their story.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Silver flashes on the water. Rolling tarpon.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sábalo! The terror from the mangroves!

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

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

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

“Would you leave?”

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

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

It’s just a small wound, fox.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You might also like:

Stripers in the Suds – John G. Sherman

Striper Redux – Jack Gagnon

Worm Hatch – Northeast – Striped Bass

California Corbina: Sight Fishing the Surf

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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.

Back in 1980, before its famous king salmon run crashed, the Kenai River was Alaska’s most heavily fished stream. At the time, I was living and working near its banks in Soldotna, the small town at the fishery’s epicenter. When the run was near its summer peak, the river grew crowded with visiting anglers, which is why I almost always fished elsewhere at that time of year.

As an internist, my primary hospital duties came in the intensive care unit, but in a small hospital with a limited medical staff, everyone had to take a turn in the emergency room. I had already learned that most visiting tourists arrived with an agenda to fulfill in Alaska, which usually included seeing a bear, watching the northern lights, and catching a salmon. Determination to accomplish the last of these goals seldom reflected competence as an angler, which meant the guide boats were full of inept clients hurling large, barbed hooks buried in globs of salmon eggs across the powerful glacial current with more enthusiasm than accuracy—and predictable results. The ER staff always saved the hooks and lures we removed from the victims and posted them on a board running around the walls. By the end of summer, our emergency room looked more like a sporting goods store than a medical facility.

We were already off to a good start one long day in late June when a large, loud woman with a thick Bronx accent arrived demanding immediate attention. Sensing trouble, I began the evaluation with my most charming bedside manner.

“What brings you to the emergency room today, ma’am?” I asked sympathetically.

“My goddamn husband hooked me!” she bellowed back, pointing angrily behind her at a terrified man cowering against the wall. I’m ashamed to admit that I already felt more sympathy for him than for the patient.

“I gather the hook is still in you,” I replied. “Where exactly is it?”

“In my boob!”

Oh boy, I thought, as our capable nursing staff reassured the woman, led her to an exam table, and began to remove her shirt and bra, an operation that required snipping some clothes and elicited a wail of protest about her ruined shirt. And there it was, a magnum-sized Spin-n-Glo bobber riding a leader as thick as an anchor line above the eye of a vicious looking hook. Cursory examination revealed both good news and bad. The good news was that it was a single hook and not a treble, which can be much more difficult to extract. The bad news was that it had a barb, which was now firmly embedded adjacent to the nipple.

“This is so embarrassing!” she wailed as I gently poked and prodded.

“I’m a doctor, ma’am. I’ve seen thousands of breasts.”

“Bet you’ve never seen one like this!” She had a point.

“Don’t worry,” I reassured her. “We’ll have this out in no time, and it won’t even hurt.”

“You’re going to put me to sleep, aren’t you?’

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Maybe not for you! Can’t you at least use a lot of Novocain?”

“That won’t be necessary either. It will hurt less without it.”

“Can’t you send me to a specialist or something?”

“Ma’am, we’re in Soldotna, Alaska. I’m as special as it gets around here. Now try to relax and I’ll draw you a little picture of what we’re going to do.” Intending to involve the guilty husband in the discussion, I looked around for him, but he had already retreated—to the waiting room or, as I suspected, the nearest bar. Then I gave the nurses a look that said, “We’re all in this together, team,” and prepared to go to work.

Fishhooks are supposed to wind up in the water or, even better, in a fish’s lip, but fate does not always treat us so kindly. These events are usually little more than a minor distraction, especially for fly rod anglers who use small hooks and take time to crimp down barbs. However, salt water often demands large hooks, and even if we are careful about barbs, our fishing companions may not be, a point (no pun intended) I’ll illustrate later. Every angler should understand how to extract an embedded fishhook or, better yet, prevent the problem before it happens.

During my tenure in Alaska, I removed hooks from almost every conceivable part of the human body, with anatomic details best left to the reader’s imagination. (Yes, even there.) The eye was one important exception. A hook embedded in an eye represents an emergency that should always be handled by an ophthalmologist. Should you encounter this situation in the field, keep the patient as comfortable as possible and seek expert consultation. Do not attempt to remove the hook.

An ounce of prevention being worth a pound of cure, let’s turn our attention to avoiding these problems in the first place, beginning with the most vulnerable part of the body. I never fish without appropriate eye protection and strongly encourage companions to do the same (to the point of being obnoxious, according to some friends). For those who don’t wear corrective lenses routinely, protection usually takes the form of polarized glasses, which improve the ability to spot fish anyway. Most of today’s high-quality sunglasses allow clear vision even in low light situations, so clouds are no excuse for not wearing them. Now that my aging eyes have trouble with light tippet, small flies, and knots, I also appreciate the small near vision correcting lens incorporated in many models, which save me the trouble of fumbling around with reading glasses when I’m trying to fish.

The next important preventive measure should be obvious: crimp down those barbs! Fly rod anglers are usually good about this anyway, out of concern for the welfare of released fish. Barbless hooks produce much less tissue damage and are far easier to extract than those with barbs, from both fish and anglers. Barbs have been around forever, largely because of the incorrect assumption that they will result in fewer lost fish. In fact, the increased diameter of the hook point produced by barbs decreases the chance of a firm hook-up.

Unfortunately, most commercial hooks come with barbs, because so many anglers (especially those fishing with conventional tackle) believe in them. Barbless hooks are more expensive to manufacture and to buy. Fortunately, the problem is easy to solve with a good pair of needle-nose pliers. I try to crimp down all my hooks before they leave the tying vise, to avoid neglecting this task and having to fumble around with it on the water.

Now to the heart of the matter: proper technique for removing a barbed hook if these preventive measures fail. For years, conventional wisdom advised pushing the point forward through the skin, clipping off the barbed section, and then withdrawing the hook the way it came in. Unfortunately, as with lots of conventional “wisdom,” this method isn’t wise at all since it is painful and causes more tissue damage than a readily available alternative.

Although it’s simple, this technique is difficult to describe verbally, and I hope the accompanying photographs will make it easier to visualize. Think of the process in three steps:

1. Pass a length of stout tippet or line through the bend in the hook to create an open loop.
2. Press down on the hook’s eye.
3. Give the tag ends of the loop a quick snap, with the force directed parallel to the skin surface.

Done properly, this process will disengage the barb and allow the hook to pop free with little pain. Since you don’t want the loop to break when you tug on it, I like to use line of 15-pound test or stronger. Depending on the location of the hook, this can often be accomplished without help, but it’s easier if it’s done by an assistant. There is a natural tendency to tug gently on the leader, but that may be unsuccessful, prolonging the process and leading to more discomfort. If someone else is performing the maneuver, encourage them to act counterintuitively and give the leader a sharp, hard tug as if they were strip-setting the hook on a fish.

The body part containing the hook should remain still during extraction. If the hook is imbedded in an ear or an extremity, immobilizing it with a firm grip may be useful to prevent flinching. Distracting the subject’s attention may be useful if they are nervous or agitated—and who wouldn’t be?

Here’s how the process plays out in real life. One summer day near our Alaska home, Lori and I were offshore in our skiff with two friends. She and I were catching nice silver salmon near the surface on streamers with barbs crimped down, while our companions mooched herring with conventional tackle. When one of them brought up a particularly vigorous fish, I netted it, dropped it on the deck, and made a dumb mistake. Eager to get my fly back in the water while we were still into fish, I decided to remove the hook with my fingers while the silver was still in the net. Using our readily available hook-out would have prevented what followed.

As soon as I touched the hook, the fish thrashed, tangling the hook in the net, and driving the point deep into my forefinger, leaving me attached to both the net and the fish, which was still very much alive and continuing to roll. (Yes, it hurt like hell.) I yelled at Lori to dispatch the fish with the priest. She did so promptly, but the fish and my finger were still in the net. Some quick but delicate knife work soon had my hand free, but the 3/0 hook and its barb remained deep in my finger.

Since we were fishing with heavy line, I had no trouble locating a spool of stout tippet. As I issued instructions, I could tell that Lori was uncomfortable with the job I outlined even though she is an experienced registered nurse. Just as I feared, her first effort resulted in a loss of nerve and a gentle tug that accomplished nothing except more pain in my finger. “Strip set!” I bellowed, and when she did so on her next try, the hook flew out easily.

With nothing more to be done at that point, I took the obvious course of action, picked up my rod, and was soon fast to another nice silver.

***

What about the unhappy lady in the emergency room that day? Although I thought I might have to sedate her to get the job done, I distracted her with a long series of questions about her day on the water. (She proudly reported landing a Dolly Varden.) With her thus engaged, I slid a loop of suture around the hook and popped it out easily.

With the hook free at last, I grabbed a large Kelly clamp and showed her how to crimp the barb down.

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The post Unhappy Hookers: When hooks wind up in fishermen instead of fish first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

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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.

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

To date, I’ve taken seven large ‘cudas that were close to 30 pounds or larger. I remember how many because those catches are very significant and exciting to me. Only snook more than 20 pounds fall into that category for me. Let me share my most memorable ‘cuda catch.

Chico Fernandez circa 1970

In the winter of 1988, I hosted a trip of 12 anglers to Los Roques, Venezuela. Fishing was fantastic in those days. On the last day of the trip, four of us rode a 24-foot panga to a large sandy flat that had a very sharp drop-off at one end. There were schools of bonefish everywhere, so my anglers got off and started wading after them right away. I stayed on the panga, eating half a sandwich while standing on the tip end of the bow. Soon, everyone was hooked up, and schools of bonefish where racing all over the flats as far as I could see. It was fun to watch.

Then I saw a very large dark fish in the distance. It was following one of the schools of bonefish. I couldn’t see it well enough, but it was either a shark or a large barracuda.

I had a feeling it was a ‘cuda. So I grabbed my 9-weight rod with an old Seamaster Mark II and a ‘cuda fly with No. 4 wire. I had been looking all trip long for that big barracuda, and this could be my chance.

I got off the panga, and once on the hard sand, I had to wade a long time before I got within casting range. And then I could see it clearly; it was a big ‘cuda. My heart was pumping, my throat was dry, and I have to admit that I was nervous.

It wasn’t too windy, and I was up wind of the fish anyway, so it was a fairly easy 60-foot cast. The fly landed 8 or 10 feet from the fish. The ‘cuda was excited upon seeing the fly, but still, as usual, followed the fly halfway to me before taking it. Once hooked, it made a couple of short runs, 20 yards or so, and then made the most spectacular jump I can ever remember out of a ‘cuda. It was a long jump that had to be more than 20 feet. I’ll never forget it.

But a few minutes into the fight, the ‘cuda decided to leave the flat and headed for the deep drop-off at high speed. There was nothing I could do about it except wade after the fish as fast as I could, which wasn’t very fast, so I was quickly losing line. Meanwhile, the ‘cuda got to the edge of the drop-off, only a few feet from the staked out panga, and kept going. Several of the anglers and the guides saw her go by. The next time it jumped, it was an estimated 150 yards away. The big fish was running infinitely faster than I could move by wading.

I kept losing line, and by the time I got to the panga, I could see the bottom of the reel with only a few turns of backing left on it. It was a big effort to climb on the panga’s tall freeboard, but as soon as I did, the engine was running and we were chasing the ‘cuda.

Now I could start to gain line—very slowly since the reel’s arbor was about the size of a quarter. But eventually I was back in the fly line, and by then the fish had sounded, so now it was just a matter of time. Eventually, I was able to bring the fish to the boat and land it. It tipped the guide’s old scale to 34 pounds. And as I held it for a few quick photos, I knew I would never forget this fish. Not even if I ever caught a bigger one. Which I haven’t.

For pure excitement in shallow water, fly fishing for big barracudas is hard to beat. You are looking for this big alligator-like, sinister-looking fish, often sitting still on the water’s surface. It’s exciting when you finally spot one.

Then, when it chases the fly, it will be pushing a big wake behind it. Equally visible is the strike, often very fast and with a big splash and lots of foam. The whole thing has vicious written all over. Because the barracuda is big and fast, it has the ability to make some long runs. And a large ‘cuda is capable of some of the most spectacular jumps you’ll ever see. They can be very high as well as very long, and all this happens as your reel is screaming. Tarpon also can make spectacular jumps, of course, but ‘cuda jumps have their own personality. It’s different. It’s cool.

There are times when the barracuda decides to turn right or left in middle of a run, and now your fly line starts to cut through the water, leaving a big tail of foam. It’s a sight you won’t soon forget.

A big barracuda is probably the most underrated gamefish in the bonefish flats—a truly unsung hero. On the other hand, sight casting to a big ‘cuda in shallow water is not easy, and that, too, makes it exciting

Sphyraena barracuda is commonly known as the great barracuda. The extent of its worldwide habitat is phenomenal. They can be found from extremely shallow bonefish flats to reef areas and open ocean. I’ve taken them in a foot of water, trolling in blue water for marlin and dolphin, and right on the bottom in more than 200 feet of water while deep jigging for grouper and snapper. They go anywhere they want.

And they grow large. The largest on record is 102 pounds, taken in Africa. But fishing the flats today, one close to 20 pounds is a good one, and 30 or larger is a trophy.

More than 40 years ago, I was wading after a school of bonefish on the south end of Turneffe Atoll in Belize. Behind me, the flat dropped off to perhaps 3 feet. I had been busy stalking the school of bones, trying to get in position to cast. I don’t know why, but something made me look behind me, and when I did, I found myself looking at a giant barracuda only 20 feet away. It was right on the surface, looking straight at me. Our eyes met. Neither the ‘cuda nor I moved a muscle.

This went on for a few seconds, and then, almost instinctively, I cast the bonefish fly and passed it by the fish. It never acknowledged the cast or the fly; it just kept looking at me, obviously not afraid. I was not as confident; the fish intimidated me. Finally, after what seemed like a long time, it slowly sank to the bottom, where I could still easily see it. It was big, fat, and dark. Forgetting all about the bonefish school, I then decided to back off slowly and head to shore, where I waited for the skiff to come get me. I honestly believe the ‘cuda was bigger than 60 pounds. Later that evening at the camp, when I told my story over drinks, a couple of the old guides told me they also had seen the fish. I still think about it.

Best time of year

Barracuda don’t like hot weather, so the best time of the year for them is late fall through early spring in most places where I’ve fished, including the Bahamas and Florida.

“The best time is during colder weather, because it brings baitfish to shallow water and the ‘cudas follow them,” says Captain Alex Zapata, who loves to fish for them from Miami down through the Florida Keys. “My favorite months are February to April. November through January are also good months, providing there isn’t a severe cold front. Then everything can shut down.”

Chico Fernandez in Los Roques with a big barracuda

Looking for big ‘cudas

Good areas include deeper flats, like the areas you would fish for permit. Any light-bottom pothole is always a good place to check out. 

Shallow wrecks or markers, even in 10 to 20 feet of water, also will have big ‘cudas, often visible right on the surface. And when I can’t find them, another good bet is blind casting in channels around the flats, especially on outgoing tides.

In the Bahamas one of my favorite places to look for big ‘cudas are areas with large schools of small bonefish, especially if it’s an outside flat closer to deep water. Some of the biggest ‘cudas I see in the flats are in those conditions.

“In the Keys, I love a strong incoming tide because it pushes the baitfish into the flats, and the big ‘cudas follow them,” Zapata says.

Approach and fly placement

This type of fishing is about making long casts—the longer the better. Large barracuda are very worrisome animals, and they won’t let you get close. And if they do, they simply won’t take the fly. Another reason for the long cast is that ‘cudas have the habit of following a fly for a long time before taking it. A long cast gives a ‘cuda plenty of room before it takes the fly. With a shorter cast, the fish following the fly will often see the boat before making up its mind to take the fly. Then it’s all over. 

You want to cast a leader’s length beyond the fish so that the fly passes 5 to 8 feet from it. That’s ideal.

The retrieve

As a rule, ‘cudas like the fly to be moving fast. Remember that you’re using a fly that imitates a baitfish, which moves very fast when it’s trying to escape a predator. It usually can’t be too fast. I mostly use a one-hand retrieve because it’s faster than a two-hand retrieve, at least for me. And always keep the tip of the rod close to the water. 

But Captain Paul Tejera mentions a situation where a two-hand retrieve makes sense. “I use a one-hand retrieve also, but there are situations, such as using a popper or casting to ‘cudas sitting on a strong current, where a steady mid-speed retrieve is called for,” he says. “Then I prefer a two-hand retrieve”.

Hook-up

As with most situations, you need to strip-strike. But often the cuda will take the fly fast, while still coming toward you, creating lots of slack. In this case, you need to use both the strip strike and a rod strike to absorb the extra slack and be able to set the hook.

Clearing line and the fight

A big ‘cuda can move very fast, especially in short bursts—like a cheetah. So when you set the hook, be ready to see your fly line leave the deck lightning fast. Also, keep the rod tip low to the water when clearing the line. It reduces the possibility of any slack, and helps keep tension on the line.

The fight in the flats won’t be long; those super-fast runs and acrobatic jumps soon take their toll. The same fish in deep water will fight a bit longer, but still not real long.

Land and release

By the time a big ‘cuda is next to the boat, it is exhausted. I much prefer to handle them by hand as opposed to lifting them by lip-gaffing, which is not good for any fish.

“I handle the big ‘cuda like it’s a bonefish,” Tejera says.

I like that philosophy.  Be careful, however, because a barracuda can cut you to ribbons. If you are with a guide, let the guide handle the fish. Using gloves may also help. And to remove the hook, I always use one of the many long tools available for the task. Just be careful. 

Finally, take your time reviving the fish before you let it go. Sharks are usually nearby.

Barracuda flies 

Some of Chico’s cuda flies

When selecting a fly for big barracudas, remember you have to be able to cast it far, generally in the wind, and with some degree of accuracy. So don’t be tempted to select a fly that is too big or too bulky. I prefer a short-shank hook to a long shank because they are lighter for the same size gap and have better hooking capabilities. But certain streamer and popper patterns that I like require a long-shank hook, so I still use them when I can afford to accept the trade-off.

Stinger hooks—adding a second hook to the fly—can be effective. Barracuda often strike in the middle of the fly, trying to cut the fish in half, causing them to miss the main hook up front. But these flies are heavier, so it’s harder to make that long cast that is so important. I also don’t think these flies swim as naturally, so you get more refusals, especially in areas that have a lot of pressure. Personally, I don’t use them.   

When selecting a fly, just remember that a big ‘cuda’s diet is mainly fish, not shrimp or crabs. Good choices are the classic baitfish patterns with big eyes in a variety of light colors with a darker back. I also love an all-white, all-orange or all-chartreuse fly. All patterns should have some flash as an attractor. In terms of size, most of my big ‘cuda flies are about 5 to 6 inches in length. 

Another popular pattern is tied with braided hair, long and skinny, often on a long-shank hook. It may have painted eyes and epoxy on the front of the hook. It has taken lots of ‘cudas over the years. But somehow it’s not my first choice.

I also like a long popper, especially for blind casting in deeper flats, channels, or around shallow-water wrecks. A popper is a great dinner bell.

Fly rod, reel, and line

I like 9- and 10-weight rods because their fly lines are heavy enough to cast the weight of a big fly and wire bite tippet a long distance, but they’re still light enough that I can cast them all day if needed.

Any reel that balances with a 9-weight or 10-weight is going to have more than 200 yards of backing, which is more than enough to stop most barracuda.

A weight-forward floating line is all you need. If you are a good caster and can carry a lot of line in the air, then a line with a long belly would help you make longer casts. Also, you can try a clear weight-forward floating line so that the line is less visible to the fish. You may not be able to see the fly line in the air as well, but the big fly would be easy to see during the false casting, and that’s good enough. I often use them with good results. And they’re perfect for blind casting. 

Leaders

A 10-foot leader with more than 50 percent butt section will perform well, although I usually prefer 60 percent butt section. If the fish are spooky and you’re a good caster, go to a 12-foot leader, or better yet, go to a clear floating fly line. Tippets from 12 to 20 pounds are ideal. My preference is usually 16 pounds.

The wire bite tippet can be plain No. 4 or  No. 5 wire or any of the plastic-coated cables that can be tied like monofilament. They both work. But don’t use a very long bite tippet, because it’s harder to cast and you’ll get more refusals, especially from the bigger fish. My wire bite tippet is usually 4 to 7 inches, depending on conditions. That’s usually long enough that the ‘cuda probably won’t get to the mono tippet if it swallows the fly, but light enough that I can still make a long cast. If conditions are making it tough for me to make the long cast, I’ll usually reduce the wire’s length to 4 inches to reduce weight.

Be prepared

If you really want to catch a big barracuda, the most important advice—besides practicing a long cast—is to have a rod in the boat rigged and ready strictly for barracuda. Generally, when you see one while fishing for bonefish or some other species, there’s no time to take out a heavier rod, check the leader, find the wire, tie it to the tippet, and so on. There’s just not enough time.

But if you have a 9- or 10-weight fully rigged and ready, it’s just a matter of dropping the bonefish rod, taking out the cuda rod, and starting your false cast.

If you are committed to barracuda fishing and not concerned with other species, then I suggest having two rods rigged with different flies—maybe a streamer on one rod and a popper on another. When you get to a deep channel that looks good, take out the popper ring the dinner bell. When you go back to a shallow area, it may be preferable to go back to the streamer fly. And if you get a refusal, you can quickly pick up the other rod and offer the fish something different.

Eating barracudas?

If you are considering a barracuda to eat, keep in mind that ciguatera poisoning is an issue. It occurs more often in larger fish, but can also be present in smaller fish. Ciguatera poisoning is caused by eating a fish that contains toxins from a marine mircoalgae. People who have ciguatera may experience nausea, vomiting, and neurological symptoms such as tingling in the extremities. Symptoms usually go away in a few days or weeks, but sometimes they can last for years. Ciguatera has no cure, but it can be treated.

My advice is to release the ‘cuda and eat a mangrove snapper.

Bison Of The Flats: The Bumphead Parrotfish

Stripers in the Suds – John G. Sherman

How to Catch Big Fish by Andy Mill

Go-to Flies for the Everglades by Chico Fernandez

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The post Barracuda Breakdown by Chico Fernandez first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Barracuda Breakdown by Chico Fernandez appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

Fishpond Thunderhead Backpack

Most of us know Fishpond for its impeccably made products with unique design features. They’re made to tackle some of the harshest environments an angler can expect to encounter. The redesigned and updated Thunderhead series of packs and slings certainly lives up to demanding standards. We finally had a chance to put the fully submersible backpack through its paces. The biggest brother of them all did not disappoint. The pack’s sheer toughness is impossible to overlook. Being made from 1680D TPU coated nylon, it looks and feels bombproof. What really sets it apart from its competitors is the waterproof TIZIP zipper closure system. While other packs utilize a roll-top enclosure, the Thunderhead zipper offers conventional top access using finger loops on either end to slide the mechanism. It just feels completely impenetrable, and on our tests in the elements, it was. Like most waterproof gear, the backpack has a simple interior. The only extra storage is a removable zipper pocket for small items like cell phone or wallet. The exterior, however, has a number of gear attachments and ergonomic—and surprisingly comfortable—shoulder and hip straps. It can be integrated with other Fishpond products like the chest pack. It also has attachment points for Fishpond’s Quickshot Rod Holder for wet wading with multiple rods. The Thunderhead Submersible is a versatile, highly durable, backpack that maintains comfort and fishability while offering uncompromising protection from the elements. Thumbs up! $299.95 (fishpond.com)

Scientific Angler Regulator Spool

Switching out fly lines from reels and spare spools and keeping them tidy and organized is a headache all fly anglers experience. Well, Scientific Angler just made our lives a little less complicated. The Regulator Line Winder is an ingenious device that allows seamless line removal and storage in kink-free coils. Its retractable inner pegs fold in once the line is wound, and notches in the housing keep pipe-cleaner twist-ties in place to secure the line in a neat bundle. The housing disassembles with an easy twist, retracting the inner pegs, and voilá, your wound line is perfectly delivered. 

Its light compact design makes it an easy addition on travel trips. And with no metal parts, it’s completely saltwater-proof. Our only suggestion would be another model with a bigger overall diameter, as many prefer to store lines less-tightly wound to prevent memory. $29.95 (scientificanglers.com)

Loon Quickdraw Rod Sleeve and Ergo Quick Release

Loon Outdoors has been making industry standard fly-tying tools and adhesives for more than 20 years, but if we thought fly tying was their only bag, we’d be wrong. Loon has released a number of cool gadgets that we think fly rod owners will love as much as we do. One of our favorites, the Quickdraw Rod Sleeve, allows anglers to store rods fully rigged and ready to go. It ensures the rod’s finish, guides, and lines won’t get damaged, whether they’re on the floor of a skiff or in the back of a truck. It’s a great way to keep multiple rigged rods from having their lines become twisted when walking out to the boat or through the woods. They’re available in a variety of sizes and lengths, easy to use, and take up very little space in a boat bag. The Ergo Quick Release is a hook-removal tool with just the right angles and edges. It allows an angler to efficiently unhook landed fish with minimal handling. While there are many similar products out there, we really like this tool’s ergonomic handle, durable stainless construction, and versatility. We also appreciate its ability to handle a variety of hook sizes and flies. $13 and $19 (loonoutdoors.com)

MacKenzie’s Hand Scrub and Salve

The folks at MacKenzie’s like to say that this stuff will liberate the stinkiest of blood, scales, and slime from hands. And even though fly anglers may aren’t usually handling bait and bloodying fish, we all can benefit from this hand soap’s perfect blend of scouring walnut husks and pleasant deodorizing essential oils. Whether oil and grime embedded from a garage project or garlic/onion essence from the preparation of a fresh fish dinner, Mackenzie’s will keep hands feeling smooth and smelling fresh. Their hand salve is able to tackle the driest cracked palms and fingers. We keep a supply at the kitchen sink and the boat bag—and use it regularly. $9.95-$46.95 (fishermanhandscrub.com)

Skwala Fishing

Skwala Fishing, based in southwestern Montana, is a fledgling apparel and gear company focused on fly fishing. The founders bring years of high-level industry experience and meticulous attention to detail to their design features. We couldn’t be more excited about a new player in the business and welcome the fresh perspective on products we all use on the water. We recently got our hands on two items in their Sol Collection: the Sol Tactical Hoody and the Sol Wading Pant. The durability and quality design hooked us first. These feel like huge upgrades from the average solar shirts and pants. The hoody has moisture-wicking, quick-drying breathable fabric and 50 UPF sun protection that we’ve come to expect from high-end products. But these items stand out from the crowd because of unique features like the Primeflex ultra-durable fabric in high-wear areas and low-profile pockets in key areas that don’t compromise mobility. Likewise, the wet-wading pants are made from a microporous unique fabric that feels solid enough to slog through the flats all day but light and liberating enough to remain comfortable and unobtrusive. Skwala also offers a full line of fishing jackets and waders, and we look forward to field testing them. $119 each (skwalafishing.com)

Tervis Tumbler

Tervis is a third-generation, American-owned-and-operated company known for durable drinkware with great insulation properties. The company’s 20-ounce and 30-ounce stainless tumblers are not unlike those offered by their competitors, who are perhaps more recognizable to the average consumer these days. But we think Tervis offers a great alternative at significant savings. They promise their tumbler’s double-walled design will keep beverages hot for up to 8 hours or cold for 24. We did our own overnight ice water test with a big name tumbler and found the melt rate basically identical. We especially love the look and feel of the tarpon, redfish, and mahi-mahi skin prints—reason enough to own a new Tervis Tumbler. $27.99 (tervis.com)

Wilkie Brand Mesa 5

Wilkie Brand shirts may not be typical fly fishing gear, but they are essential for making an impact when arriving in a tropical airport for a week of fishing with friends. Sure, most anglers will arrive in typical high-performance fishing shirts, but stepping onto the tarmac in the dark grey, short-sleeved western shirt with the tan Hawaiian-pattern yoke will immediately get a fisherman into the proper island state of mind. Don’t be afraid to fish for ditch tarpon after dinner in this 65/35 cotton-poly blend shirt with snazzy pearl snaps. It’s an article of clothing that won’t be too badly wrinkled after it’s been stuffed in a duffle in the overhead. We like to couple it with a shapable-brim, raffia straw Stetson, but we’ll skip that review since our fishing buddies no longer allow it on the boat (too many windy mishaps while flying across the flats in search of big bonefish). We highly recommend this shirt for the discerning traveler who likes to make a splash. $59 (wilkiebrand.com)

Toadfish Non-Tipping 10-ounce Wine Tumbler

There’s a lot going on with the Toadfish® Non-Tipping 10-ounce Wine Tumbler, including a couple of features that make this vessel completely different from others we’ve seen or used. The first is the SmartGrip® technology that keeps the cup upright even in the choppiest sees. It’s a suction system that can be stuck to any smooth surface such as the fiberglass on a skiff. The system’s upside is also its downside—it sticks hard. While great on the boat, be careful with that glass-top coffee table in the lodge. The other great feature is the glass insert. The company says the insert is designed to enhance the aroma of wine, but we use it exclusively as a convenient container for bourbon, tequila, or mezcal. We wish the lid was a bit more leak resistant, but overall, this is a great boat cup that will not tip over. $24 (toadfish.com)

Orvis Flats Hiker (Spring 2023)

These are without a doubt the best flats shoes to hit the market in a long while. The Flats Hiker is like a sneaker with a built-in rain coat. This stylish shoe has a top layer covering the actual protective shoe within. The Michelin soles are flexible and have a non-slip tire tread, making them feel good when walking as well. Zip open the outer layer to reveal a well-padded and comfortable sneaker-type shoe on the inside. Theres’ a wide-grip handle on the heel that makes them easy to pull on, accommodating even the thickest fingers. The laces are hunting-boot style and loosen easily even when wet. Once on and laced up, zip the outer layer and adjust the velcro closure at the top to your preference of tightness around the sock or lower leg.  A very well-designed and comfortable flats shoe—something we all needed.$249 (orvis.com)

Tornado Anchors

Designed for river beds, this hand made anchor is also quite handy on the flats. While it was designed to adjust to the constantly changing bottom of stone river beds, we asked to try one in the salt. We didn’t think this style of anchor would hold a skiff in a strong current or high winds, but it surprised us. The Tornado will plane a bit if dragged. This adds resistance and allows for the shifting plates to grab and catch. It actually grabs in sand pretty well, even better on softer bottoms, and best on hard bottoms. It didn’t get caught up in underwater debris nearly as often as traditional anchors, but it did hang up once (all anchors do at some point). The best part is it’s easy to rinse and store and has far better aesthetics than other anchors. It you’re looking for a better anchor, check out the Tornado. The 24- to 45-pound models should be sufficient for most skiffs, and you can also add the “Anchor Nest,” which is a nice storage box to fit in your hatch, for an additional charge.

$160-$250 tornadoanchorsusa.com

Monic Phantom Tip – Permit

Readers know we like Monic lines because they’re made in the USA and PVC-free. They’re also really great lines. The Phantom Tip permit taper employs a gradual head and 15 feet of clear tip for a delicate and stealthy presentation. The head design allows for a more delicate presentation on long casts, while 20 feet of belly provides the ability to make that cast. We’ve found that the sweet spot for casting this line is about 35-40 feet, which coincides with the last part of the belly. $119.99 (monic.com)

Vannkriger Solar Stealth Performance Shirt

In a virtual sea of apparel for anglers and outsiders in general, some are well done while many are . . . well, let’s just say some are well done. Vannkriger is a new entry in performance wear, and they got a lot of things right. The rolled double-stitched seams and sleeves are aesthetically appealing and very comfortable on sticky summer days. The “athletic” fit is accurate, so you’ll have to suck in that gut for your grip-and-grin. The sleeves are a little long, providing an extra bit of sun protection. It’s definitely not your standard tech shirt, and it’s a very good value. $45 (vannkriger.com)

Fish Hippie Drift Performance Short

The Fish Hippie Drift Performance Short is lightweight and quick-drying, constructed from 93 percent Nylon and 7 percent Spandex. The shorts have a decent amount of stretch but still hold their shape well. The company has been very responsive to minor flaws we’ve encountered, and they stand behind their products. One pair had some loose stitching after months of hard wear, and Fish Hippie quickly replaced them. These shorts make great fishing or hiking shorts because of a high level of comfort and ability to dry quickly, but they can double as dressier shorts if necessary. $88 (fishhippie.com)

Skullcandy Crusher Evo Wireless Headphone

As fly anglers, we sometimes subject ourselves to long flights to get to the remote destinations required for bucket-list fish. A crying baby or overly talkative neighbor in the seat next to us can make a long day of travel even longer. The Skullcandy Crusher line is a noise-suppressing headphone that performs very well at a lower price point than some of the better-known brands in the high-fidelity space. One of the more impressive features is the 40-hour battery life that’s coupled with rapid-charging technology. The expanded bass is great for the island music we like when traveling to the Caribbean, and the the ear cups are very comfortable. One of my favorite additions to this product is the Tile finding technology, which is great if you’re like us and constantly losing things. Very nice headphones for the price. $199 (skullcandy.com)

The post Saltwater Fly Fishing Gear – Fall 2022 first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Saltwater Fly Fishing Gear – Fall 2022 appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

by Joseph Ballarini

On my first cast to a bonefish, on Biscayne Bay near Miami in August 2008, I hooked up.

We rolled out of Black Point Marina, into a skinny-water eel grass flat that was as smooth as melted glass. The sun was starting to surface in its awesome orange glow, illuminating the horizon. We saw spiders the size of birds high up in the mangroves in the early morning light; there may have been a bird caught in one of the webs. What am I doing here?

We traveled by canoe through a very small creek. It was shallow, muddy, smelled like sulfur, and there were lots of bugs. What was I thinking this morning?

The creek fed into a small cove named Black Point about 10 miles south of Miami Beach. As I was admiring the sunrise, just as we entered the creek mouth onto the flats, the guide whispered, “See them? There they are!”

I was nervous—very nervous. I had just started fly fishing after being a bait chucker since age four, and frankly, my fly casting wasn’t good. “I’ll get you closer,” the guide said. “Get ready to cast.” My heart was racing at about 120 beats per minute. I felt my palms getting sweaty, and the grip on my cork handle started to loosen. The cork was indented from the raw pressure of my grip, but it just didn’t seem tight enough, so I just kept squeezing. My body felt heavier, and there was little I could do about it.

“Twelve o’clock, about 45 feet. See them?”

I did. There were six or seven big bonefish right in front of me—tailing. I’d never seen them tail at such short range. This was my chance to catch my first bone on a fly. I was excited, and I could taste success.

I completely flubbed the first cast, throwing the fly about 20 feet short and about 30 feet to the left of the school. I picked up my line with a water haul, which at that moment I really didn’t know existed. Somehow, maybe with the adrenaline or just plain luck, I fired a 40-foot laser into the center of the small school of tailing bones. I saw a flash of silver and heard the guide scream, “He ate it! Set it! set it!”

Huge Fish and a Bad Knot

I pulled back on the line and set the hook on a roughly 7-pound bonefish. My rod bent like I had never seen it bend—because I had never had a fish of that brawn on it before. With the reel screaming, the mighty bone pulled off about 150 feet of line in a blazing initial run that only took seconds.

“You are the luckiest guy in the world,” my guide bellowed. “No one catches a bonefish on their first cast.” Technically, it was my second cast, but it didn’t matter. As quick as the fish was hooked, it was gone. My knot gave way, leaving a pig-tailed leader shooting back at the canoe. I quickly retrieved my line, and the guide grabbed it for a closer look.

“You need to check your knots, man,” he said. “You just lost a huge fish because of a knot.”

I had a pit in my stomach, and for the first time since I was four years old, I didn’t want to fish anymore. That was probably good, because there weren’t any more fish that morning. I felt like a complete failure, but there was a part of me that thought I could do it again. The optimism kept me coming back.

Finally, near Matheson Hammock in Miami, it happened again. It was the same scenario,

but I had been fishing without a guide for about a week. I launched my kayak from the public beach on a pebble shore which wasn’t far from a channel. It was overcast and warm for the time of year, the tides were very dramatic, and there was rain on the horizon. Only lightning would make me leave the flats, especially after waking up at 4:30 a.m. to get on the water by sunrise. But indeed, there was lightning amid the raid on the distant horizon. I didn’t have much time. My favorite 8-weight was ready, handle at my feet with the tip off the bow. This time I tied my own leader and checked my knots twice. I even tied my own fly, Peterson’s Spawning Shrimp, my go-to bonefish fly at the time.

While poling my kayak over a deep boat channel, I saw something in the distance. There they were—six or seven bonefish tailing in about a foot of water on an eel grass flat. They were fat and happy. It almost looked like the same school as that first connection, but the chance of that was virtually nonexistent.

Here we go again

I pole with a rope looped around my wrist. The rope is tied to the anchor line, which allows me to loop the rope around my push pole and gently drop it behind the kayak to drag behind my vessel, well out of the way. I pushed hard one more time to get into a better position.

I looped my rope, dropped the pole, picked up the fly rod, and attempted to visualize my attack.

This time I was ready. Calmer, more experienced, and a much better caster, but still no bones to date, so the nervousness persisted to a significant degree. In this moment, you just accept the tachycardia and sweaty palms, knowing that the hunt is on.

I began my cast, very sloppy and too fast on the backcast, which seems to be the norm while casting when fish are actually present. I threw a 35-foot lob that hit the water like a rock, just to the right of the tailing fish. Fortunately, they were just starting to move right. Sometimes it’s better to be lucky than good.

There was almost no light, so little that I was surprised I saw them in the first place. I couldn’t see what was going on, but before I could react, something took the fly, and a fish was on.

Again the rod had a ferocious bend and a crazy bounce. But this one wasn’t as big as that first hooked bonefish. It took off into the boat channel that I had just crossed, and before I knew it, it was well into the holy crap part of my backing. Over 250 feet of backing was gone, and at no point did I have any control of the fish.

Then it stopped suddenly. My heart sank as I thought the fish was lost. In frustration, I began to reel as fast as my hand could move and watched the kayak start to drift toward the direction

of the fish’s run. It was still on. In a few minutes I had retrieved my backing and was back to fly line, but at that point the resting fish recovered.

Another screaming run began and soon put me back into holy crap territory. I noticed that the lightning, which had been far off on the horizon, was much closer, and rain began

to fall. I was standing on a kayak in Biscayne Bay in a lightning storm fighting a bonefish that just wouldn’t make it easy. I debated whether I should break it off and head for shore, but my ego got the best of me, and I refused to let it go. I was tired of failure and frustration, and I was going for broke. Succeed or die trying, which in retrospect was incredibly stupid.

I started to pressure the fish hard. Really hard. I was expecting him to break off at any moment and become another “almost” story. To my amazement, however, he began to wilt. He lost his mojo and any desire to fight. Again, my heart raced. I could taste success.

Within five minutes, my leader was to the tip, and I had a bonefish—my first bonefish—to the

side of the kayak. He had surrendered. Soaking wet from the rain, not remotely concerned about the lightning, I pulled him out of the water, so excited that I dropped my rod in the

water. But it didn’t matter.

There it was—mirrored silver scales, blackish green stripes, unrealistic pink lips, and my

Peterson’s spawning shrimp stuck in its top lip. It was slippery, slimy, and stinky, but it was a bonefish, caught on a fly, finally, in my hands.

It was glorious. The most beautiful fish I had ever seen. I just stared at it, taking in the details for too long before realizing it was raining hard, there was lightning nearby, and this poor bonefish couldn’t breathe. I lunged for the camera for a quick photo, but to my dismay the battery was dead. Adding more insult, I dropped the fish in the water and stepped on the fly. I can be such a bonehead.

One rookie mistake after another. But after months of frustration, repeated failure, and countless hours of research and investigation, I had just caught my first bonefish on a fly. I soon realized this was more than an obsession. Perseverance in the face of constant failure and determination to succeed had turned my obsession into a healthy addiction.

I still had so many questions. Why was it so hard to find good information about fly fishing in salt water? Why did it take me more than six months to land a bonefish when I’d been

fishing my whole life? Where are other places to fish? What other species are as challenging? Where can I get really solid advice and real data? I didn’t have any answers. Then it hit me. I’m a bonehead … a fly fish bonehead.

A quest in earnest

While heading back to my truck, riding the high of catching my first bonefish on a fly, lingering questions substantially limited my joy. My father had me out fishing since I was four; it was something I had been doing my entire life. Why did I have such a hard time catching a bonefish?

Was this the pinnacle of my fishing experience? Are other fish going to be as difficult?

What other fish are out there?

Well, I found other fish, plenty of them: tarpon, permit, snook, tuna, shark, barracuda, billfish, and roosterfish. There are milkfish, trevally and queen fish in Australia. There are fish similar to permit in Asia, as well as a fish in the Indo-Pacific called snub-nose pompano. Hawaii has giant bonefish. There are many targets for fly anglers. Each one requires a fair amount of knowledge and competence.

So my search for competence began, emphasis on “search.” There were hundreds if not thousands of websites for fly fishing. To my dismay, most of them were utterly useless. I found plenty of dead links and lots of self-serving information that was just trying to sell products or book a trip.

My research and quest for knowledge was stymied by a glaring lack of good information. I wanted data on species, migration patterns, typical foods, which flies mimicked which foods, destinations, weather conditions, and tides. It was stuff I couldn’t find without reading hundreds of pages and rooting through piles of garbage. The internet was full of information that was mostly unorganized, incomplete, and inaccurate, and there were a lot of people masquerading as authorities.

I remember searching for “bonefish fly” and getting results for nymph fishing in Pennsylvania.

Trout fishing is fun, but I wanted to learn about saltwater fly fishing and get better at it.

I wanted to learn how to fly fish effectively in salt water for the top ten or 15 species. One fish in six months—that’s not fun, but it was a learning process. I was done putting in time and paying dues. The addiction had taken over now; I wanted to hunt for fish, not information.

For the next 18 months, I researched saltwater fly fishing information and began to create database. I fished with every captain that I could from Florida to the eastern Caribbean, from California to Australia, and made notes and took photos and video. My travels took me to the Florida Keys, Panama, Costa Rica, Mexico, California, Australia, the Bahamas, the Windward Islands—anywhere to learn. And I did just that.

I practiced casting and specific techniques for casting in wind and less desirable conditions. I began studying the art of fly tying and collected flies from all over the world.

My science background enabled me to search data, organize it, and understand it. It became more of a study of the species and the ecosystems that they inhabit rather than a fly fishing study. If you understand the behavior of the fish, then you understand how to target and hunt for that fish. If you know a species’ migration patterns, for example, why would you need fishing calendar?

I gathered a lot of solid knowledge from all of that traveling, as well as many tips and tricks, and most important, an understanding of how to read water and how to read fish. During my travels and time on the water, perhaps the biggest thing I learned was that our waters are in trouble. It was all too common to hear captains talk about how plentiful the oceans used to be.

Seeing debris washed up on scenic Caribbean beaches and even in Biscayne Bay, polluting the system and endangering the wildlife, was troubling. Rips and scars in the sea grass and on manatees from the carelessness of recreational motor boaters. It’s just a matter of time before it’s all gone.

Every time I go out fishing on the kayak, I come home with a bag of trash. Not my trash, but trash that was floating in our water that I collected for proper disposal. I can’t tell you how many beer bottles, plastic bags, and chunks of Styrofoam I’ve collected.

I found that not only was I becoming a knowledgeable fly fisherman, but also an informed and very concerned guardian of the ecosystems the fish inhabit. I wanted to make people aware of the problem and do something to help support the trusts that study and protect the waters and species.

And so it began

This was the catalyst for Flyfishbonehead. “Hunt for fish, not information.” That’s catchy, but there’s a bigger goal. Let’s create awareness of dangers posed to our ecosystems. Perhaps we can create a global network of members, and maybe this network can make a difference.

What if I could create a website with accurate, organized information that promotes the sport of fly fishing in salt water and supports the charitable trusts that support the ecosystems?

So I did.

In 2010, I started organizing my database and planning a website. I had thousands of photos and hours of video: tuna, blue marlin, sailfish, roosterfish, all kinds of sharks, striped bass, weakfish, bluefish, tarpon, bonefish, trevally. I had so much information to sort. It was overwhelming at first, but after a few years and many terabytes of storage, it’s now somewhat manageable. And I’ve kept fishing and traveling.

My friends and fishing buddies were initially a bit concerned about my “addiction.” They later recognized that it had become a healthy outlet for the good of the sport and the environment,  and they began to help. Like old college buddies chanting “chug, chug, chug,” they kept me moving forward and contributed as much as they could, and in 2011, we created Flyfishbonehead.com and Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

Little did I know how insanely difficult it was going to be to launch a website and magazine. With so many details, countless considerations, photos and videos to edit and process, writing copy, and verifying copy to ensure accuracy, there wasn’t enough time in the day to get everything done. We wanted it to be great; everything had to be perfect. But it didn’t work out that way.

We were almost a month behind schedule, and due to some major obstacles and a few failed designs, it was another year until Tail Fly Fishing Magazine launched in August 2012 during the beta trial of Flyfishbonehead.com.

In September 2012, the beta tag came off, and Flyfishbonehead.com was finally officially launched. My addiction was fly fishing for bonefish, but now it has become fly fishing and also making sure future generations of fly anglers get to enjoy the same waters and experiences that we now enjoy. Perhaps together, as a global fly fishing community, we can even make it better.

I still remember catching that first bonefish. Almost getting struck by lightning. Dropping a Sage rod in the bay. Stepping on the fly and hooking my foot. I’m a bonehead….a fly fish bonehead. You’d think that would’ve been enough to make me quit. But addiction is a very strange thing.

Reflections from the Mill House Podcast

Alive & Well in the Florida Keys

Chico Fernandez joins Tail Fly Fishing Magazine

The post Addiction first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Addiction appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

REVEL GEAR Day Tripper Solar Pack

We’ve all been there: On the water with a dead cell phone or camera. And Murphy’s Law dictates, of course, that those are invariably the times you land the one you’ve been waiting for. But with no picture, it might as well never have happened, right? The Day Tripper Solar Pack solves that dilemma. It’s a battery pack that can be charged in civilization with a micro USB cord or in the wild via a built-in mini solar panel. Sealed in a shock- and moisture-proof housing, the 8,000-mAh battery charges cell phones, handheld GPS devices, portable speakers, head lamps, cameras, and more. Simply plug your devices into one of the two USB outputs and power up from the sun’s rays (even two devices simultaneously). Operational at up to 113 degrees Fahrenheit, you can hang the Day Tripper from the included carabiner clip on your backpack or on your boat console and keep it charged all day. It even has a 1,000-lumen LED grid light that will blow your headlight or flashlight away. $49.99 (revelgear.com)

Duck Camp Drifter Pant

The Drifter is Duck Camp’s signature fishing pant. Made from a two-way stretch nylon fabric with UPF 40+ sun protection, these pants are light enough to keep you cool on the flats but substantial enough to not feel like your pajama bottoms. The moisture-wicking material dries quickly when wet. They sport a variety of zippered pockets as well as a couple of pockets that have cool magnetized snap closures rather than traditional buttons. The articulated knees and gusset crotch provide more room in those important places. Available in three colors and two fits: regular fit for a slimmer athletic cut, and a relaxed fit for, well, you know, those of us who need a more forgiving cut. If you’re looking for solid-performing pant for both wading and boat-fishing applications, we’re sure you’ll find it in the Drifter. $89 (duckcamp.com)

12WT SUNwt Glove 2.0

12WT Fishing Apparel always combines Teflon-tough resistance to the elements with ultra comfort and performance. The SUNwt Glove 2.0 is certainly no exception. Utilizing lightweight stretch polyester fabric boasting 30+ UPF sun protection, the glove design is as light and non- obtrusive as anything we have encountered. Let’s face it: Fishing gloves can be downright uncomfortable, especially in direct rays of the equatorial regions where your hands need sun protection the most. We recently fished these gloves in Ascension Bay, Mexico, and found them surprisingly easy to wear and use. Each finger has a small elastic band at the tip producing a snug fit that eliminates snags or catches. The fit seems almost tight when first donned, but the gloves quickly stretch out and relax to the right feel. Comfortable for all-day use, quick drying, and breathable, the SUNwt Glove 2.0 doesn’t compromise dexterity or function in the slightest. Bravo, 12WT! $29 (12wt.com)

Sage R8 Core

The R8 Core represents the first release of a high-end, medium-fast action, multi-purpose fly rod in more than five years. Designed to replace the ubiquitous and beloved Sage X, the R8 Core has been at the center of an intense buzz and excitement. While rumors swirled around the development of the R8, Sage says the aim was to produce a rod with maximum versatility using  new revolutionary material technology, including new graphite consisting of high-density fibers with improved sintering. The result combines feel and responsiveness in a smooth, efficient, easy-casting fly rod that will adapt to a variety of casting styles and fishing techniques. We took the 9-foot 9-weight to fish the El Palometero tournament in Ascension Bay, Mexico, and put it through its paces chasing permit on the flats. We paired it with the Scientific Angler Amplitude Grand Slam fly line. Overall, the R8 was a pleasure to fish with. It loads quickly and allows precision at short casts inside 40 feet. With longer casts, we found it takes a bit longer to load than the traditional fast-action, saltwater-specific favorites, but the reward is unparalleled feel with plenty of power. After a few casts with it, our boat partner shelved his favorite “go-to” 9-weight, marveling at the R8 Core’s capabilities. The R8 Core is indeed a freshwater/saltwater crossover, and an R8 Core Salt series is an expected future addition to the lineup. But don’t discount the upper end of the Sage R8 Core current releases to perform well in a variety of saltwater applications. $1,050 (farbank.com)

 Mpowerd Luci Lights

Luci Lights have been around for a decade, but the product lineup keeps getting better–and the company behind these inexpensive but powerful personal lanterns continues to make a difference in the fields of sustainability and social impact. Mpowerd offers a range of products, but the small, inflatable solar-powered lanterns that launched them into the market remain the core of their lineup. The Luci Original features a pair of small solar panels on the top of the 5-inch diameter lantern that can be fully charged in seven hours. The lights, which weigh 4.4 ounces, can run up to 24 hours on a single charge, illuminating the darkness with 65 lumens. Other models feature USB charging ports, string lights, and even a Bluetooth speaker. The Luci Base Light has a USB charging port and shines at up to 360 lumens. We’ve used the Luci Color Essence lights for several years; they’re invaluable for backcountry camping and fishing and have traveled around the world with us on far-flung fly fishing adventures in remote outposts with off-grid electrical situations. Best of all, Mpowerd, the company behind these innovative lights, works with hundreds of NGOs and nonprofit organizations to put their solar-powered lights in the hands of remote communities around the world, where access to affordable, solar lighting truly can change lives. Mpowered also has a program to distribute products for disaster relief and humanitarian aid around the globe. $19.95-$74.99 mpowerd.com

All-Waters Coffee

Coffee is critical to many of our fly fishing adventures–if you’ve ever been around our editorial staff before they’ve had a cup, you’ll understand–so we were delighted to stumble across All-Waters Coffee Co. It’s damn good coffee, and better yet, the company donates 3 percent of every bag of coffee sold to conservation groups such as Bonefish and Tarpon Trust, Save Bristol Bay, and Wild Steelheaders United. A guide buddy recently returned from a Laguna Madre fly fishing trip with one of All-Waters’ owners and put a two-pound bag of the Bristol Bay Bold in our hands. With a growing number of new coffees being marketed to outdoors enthusiasts, we weren’t sure what to expect. But we found the brew to be strong and tasty, with hints of dark chocolate and nutty undertones. The company’s other offerings include the medium roast Captains Brew Blend, the medium-dark roast Wild Run Blend, and the light roast Mayfly Blend (proceeds from this version benefit The Mayfly Project, which works to change the lives of children in foster care through fly fishing and mentorship programs). All-Waters Coffee Co. also offers a subscription service that delivers their coffees straight to customers’ doors at desired intervals from weekly to monthly. $15-$35 allwaterscoffeeco.com

Patagonia Swiftcurrent Jacket

Patagonia touts the new Swiftcurrent  jacket as a rugged, waterproof/breathable technical shell outfitted with fishing-specific details and built for steadfast performance and advanced storm protection–tested to withstand the harshest weather conditions. We agree. While not specifically identified as rain gear, the Swiftcurrent has kept us dry and comfortable on skiffs running full tilt through tropical downpours. Conveniently located pockets both inside and out and adjustable velcro straps to keep out the wind and water–and it’s made from recycled fish nets. The Swiftcurrent will be available in the fall of 2022, and it’s definitely worth the investment. $399 patagonia.com 

Patagonia Black Hole Rod Case

The flexibility of the interior spaces may be the defining feature  of this case. The design isn’t rigid, so all of the interior spaces can be customized to fit your gear. It’s a soft case, so it doesn’t afford the protection of a rigid molded frame, but it has accommodated just about everything we’ve needed on a slate of recent trips. It’s perfect for travel, but it’s also great to store and keep your gear ready to go in the car or garage. $249 patagonia.com

Fiberglass Rods for Saltwater Fly Fishing

How to Catch Big Fish by Andy Mill

Saltwater Fly Fishing Gear Guide

The post Fly Fishing Gear first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Fly Fishing Gear appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

Story by Michael DeJarnette
Photos by Patrick DeJarnette

Our flight arrived about an hour late in Cancun. It was the Sunday before Christmas, and it had been snowing in Utah. Airports and airlines had been working through significant staffing issues related to the Omicron variant of Covid-19, causing flight cancellations nationwide. Although 6 p.m. doesn’t seem like a late arrival, there was still a two-and-a-half-hour shuttle ride followed by a half-hour ferry boat trip. It really starts to feel late when the journey winds through rural Quintana Roo in a drizzling rain in the dark.

Our ultimate destination was Isla Holbox, an island just off the northeastern tip of Mexico’s Yucatán Peninsula, where the waters of the Caribbean Sea and the Gulf of Mexico intermingle to create a rich marine ecosystem. The island remains laid-back and car-free. There’s enough tourism infrastructure to make it comfortable, but its relative inaccessibility means it isn’t overrun with visitors like some popular beach destinations along Mexico’s Caribbean coast. It would be a welcome holiday getaway for our family—and for me and my son, Patrick, it would afford an opportunity to include fly fishing for baby tarpon in the family vacation plans.

But we weren’t there yet. Ivan was a great driver, although he drove a bit faster than what seemed humanly possible in the wet conditions. The aging Volkswagen van had seen better days. A perpetual oily glaze streaked by the windshield wipers added even more excitement to the drive. When Ivan learned our group was happy to pony up the 175 pesos for the toll road, which would shave half an hour from the trek, there was genuine joy in his eyes.

Our plans hadn’t taken into consideration that the last ferry between Chiquila and Isla Holbox left at 9 p.m., so we were surprised by the fire drill that erupted as the Volkswagen bounced into the ferry station. “Five minutes, five minutes, the last ferry!” We quickly grabbed our bags, bought tickets, and loaded onto the Holbox Express Fast Ferry.

On the other side of Laguna Yalahau, the boat was unloaded without delay. The port was lively for a rainy Sunday night. Yellow golf carts with lifted suspensions and balloon tires stood in a line, awaiting passengers in the muddy street. We loaded onto two of them, facing backward as we splashed from pothole to pothole through the town center toward the beach road and our hotel, where a long day was followed by a long sleep.

With poor fishing conditions on the horizon, we waded through the mire to explore the town on Monday. Holbox is a small fishing village, not unlike many others that time had forgotten until an Instagram-fueled tourism boom washed over small beach towns in the Yucatán. Pictures in front of colorful signs with the names of towns—blue water and white sand in the background—have emboldened even the previously less adventurous to leave the traditional cruise ship ports like Cancun and Cozumel to crowd into sleepy towns like Playa del Carmen and Tulum and startle them awake. Holbox is blessedly still off the beaten path enough to retain its identity as a fishing village. We were reminded of this as we saw an American family walking through soupy, ankle-deep sand in the town center with their shoes in hand, the mother walking as quickly as her bare feet would take her while yelling repeatedly that she was “over this!” I smiled.

There are still street vendors and markets where English isn’t spoken and credit cards aren’t taken. Prices are in pesos, and cervezas cost about 40 or 50 of them. Culinary highlights include cochinita tacos at the stand at the end of the mini mercado across from the air strip, the empanadas a few doors down, lobster pizza at Roots, and the “meat in its own juice” at La Tapatia.

Holbox is a place where a beachgoer can walk a couple of hundred yards from the shore and still be in ankle-deep water. The loudest sounds on the island are the gas powered golf carts. You can swim with whale sharks, explore mangroves by kayak, and check out the area’s abundance of marine and bird life. You can also fish.

I connected with Kevin Webb and Darwin Vega Cruz on social media prior to our trip. Having never been to Holbox, I sent messages to a few guides who had pictures of gamefish and fly rods on their feeds. Kevin was the first one who replied, and we eventually booked a few days to chase tarpon and snook on the fly.

Wind and weather didn’t cooperate, but after ongoing conversations with Vega on WhatsApp, the forecast finally became more favorable for fishing on Tuesday. This was set to be a father-son fishing trip like many before it. Patrick was on break from his first semester of college in Boise, and he seemed genuinely excited to be here. Vega was waiting for us at our hotel at 6:15 a.m. We loaded our equipment into his Can Am and drove to the brightly lit port on the south side of town. The ferries and fishing boats had already started their day. Vega loaded us up, untied the Hells Bay, and pointed it into the darkness.

I doubt there’s ever a bad sunrise over the mangroves while going out to fish, but you know it’s exceptional when the guide pulls out his phone for a picture of it. Vega added a couple of images to his phone and then set a course for the mangroves. We approached an opening in the mangroves at full speed and didn’t slow down, effortlessly winding through the trees before coming out into an opening.

Vega chose a red and white Seaducer from my fly box. We cast at the mangroves for some time and missed a beefy baby tarpon. That empty feeling of missing the trip’s first fish hung in the air for a few minutes. The breeze stiffened as the day progressed, and we moved to a sheltered spot. We switched to a Clouser and waded barefoot in soft sand along the mangroves and missed another baby tarpon. Just as frustration started to creep in, we hooked and landed a snook. But our luck was short-lived; the wind continued to increase and was approaching a gale when we ruled the conditions impossible and called it a day.

We returned the next day, only this time, the sky was clear and the wind speed was in single digits. We were developing a good rapport with Vega and he insisted we call him “Darwito,” the name by which most of Holbox knows him. A lifelong resident of the island, Darwito opened up to us about his battle with grief after losing his wife to cancer four years ago. He said the first three years were dark, but a year ago he got sober and started focusing on the health of both his body and mind. He told us he works out everyday, which was obvious when he showed us the story in black ink on his left arm, an extensive tattoo telling an artful story of triumph and tragedy through images of fly rods, skiffs, and tarpon.

We arrived at the mouth of a creek in the mangroves and saw the baby tarpon rolling. The mosquitos had started to bite, which seemed to excite Darwito. He told us that the mosquitos bring the tarpon. He was probably just trying to make us feel better, but we went along with it, and after a few overly excited casts, a yellow and white Clouser finally found its mark in a cut in the mangroves. The tarpon ate, and the dance had begun. We call them baby tarpon, but they feel bigger than babies when they jump. The silver prince earned his bow before I brought him to the boat. Somehow my 9-weight snapped at a ferrule just as we landed the fish, but I considered it a small price to pay for the experience (and the rod has a good warranty), and it didn’t dampen the celebration.

We moved to a canal in the middle of the mangroves and backed into the trees, making long casts across the channel as tarpon rolled by. We lost a few flies in the tricky back casts, but we were rewarded by a good-sized shiny silver specimen. The tarpon fought hard to get into the mangrove roots, but finally relented as a young sea turtle looked on.

We fished more and talked more, but once again the wind picked up and sent us to port. My wife and daughter thought this was a beach vacation and not a fishing trip, so there were family obligations. But any time a family vacation during the week before Christmas can be tweaked to include a few days of skiffs, tarpon, and fly rods, it’s a success. Holbox is a place where this can be done.

Hopefully, Holbox never paves the roads. It would be a shame for the traffic to get to the levels that are now seen in Tulum and other previously unknown beach destinations. For now, it’s still an escape for both the vacationer and the angler who prefers to be away from crowds and is willing to give up a bit of comfort to do so.

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

Remembering Josie Sands

September – George V. Roberts Jr

The post Holiday in Holbox first appeared on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.

The post Holiday in Holbox appeared first on Tail Fly Fishing Magazine.