This River is Wild

A December To Remember

2012-01-23T16:50:00.000-05:00

Christmas was only a few days away and up to this point I had spent the majority of the holiday season away from home pursuing steelhead. Feeling a bit guilty, I decided to spend what was left of the holiday season at home with my loved ones…

The thermometer read 14 degrees. I just smirked and put on an additional layer. This addict was three months clean and desperate for a golden fix. I had no idea what I was getting myself into, winter carping remained a mystery to me. Since I've used the words “It isn’t over until it ices over” to describe carp season in the past. It was about time to back up those words.

Rigging took forever as it was mandatory to stop every few moments to clutch my hand warmers. I wondered if what I was doing was even plausible? My question was soon answered. As I approached the pond I noticed a carp slowly making its way along the shoreline. Already in position I just knelt down and waited, it was too good to be true. I took a deep breath and placed my fly. The fish slowly changed course as my fly reached the bottom. When the time came I set the hook but there was zero resistance. Shocked, I watched as the fish continued to search for my fly even though it was somewhere in the grass ten feet behind me. It spooked moments later and disappeared into the gloom.

Two identical scenarios later I picked up on the winter learning curve. At first it seemed as if their depth perception was off. Inaccurately mouthing at the bottom numerous times before the fly was engulfed. The more I thought about it, this behavior was most likely a result of a reduced metabolic rate. I noticed they were using less energy to obtain their food. They inhaled significantly smaller volumes of water while feeding, each fish making multiple attempts before successfully obtaining my fly. During the summer months only one attempt was ever needed.

Once I got the hang of things I did quite well. So well that I spent all of Christmas day on the water too, only to be carp blocked by a feisty rainbow.

So far 2012 has been…for lack of a better word, hellacious. I’ve spent 60+ agonizing hours on the water without seeing a single carp, and loved every minute of it.

January carpin’ is for the birds

The Omen

2012-01-21T13:07:00.002-05:00

Back in the day, Adam and I frequented the Little Lehigh Creek in Allentown, PA several times a month. It was our proving ground as teenagers learning the nuances of casting, presentation, and matching the hatch. Every now and then, we head back to check in. On probably the coldest day of the the winter, we awoke around 7 a.m. and made our way to our familiar haunt. The goal was to catch a few fish and make it back to our warm houses to watch some playoff football. When Adam picked me up, I nearly fell over laughing. He was decked out in his Green Bay colors. Adam isn't afraid to let everyone know that he is a diehard Packers fan. As a prelude to their eventual defeat, Adam didn't catch anything despite using variations of the same flies as I did. Meanwhile, I pulled out stocker browns and rainbows mixed in with the occasional wild fish. Adam's decision to rock the green, yellow, and white with no shame proved to be a bad omen for the Packers.

Ravine

2012-01-18T18:55:00.000-05:00

As we made our way over the mountain, clouds enshrouded barren trees in shades of blue and purple. My hands reached upwards and over a swollen face, a product of wisdom teeth removal less than 24 hours before. A few impacted teeth and a mouth full of stitches weren't about to keep me down. I had a long weekend and I intended to fish.

The temperatures were in the low 20's and dropping with the sun over the trees. We descended into a favorite ravine under evergreens and atop leaves covered in the slightest hint of snow. The roar of the stream could be heard below as it tumbled downhill over and around large boulders.

Stream-side, we rigged under a canopy of rhododendron. Settling on nymphs, when we should have been sorting through streamers. We felt outgunned throwing two weights in the high, deep water, no doubt home to a few hogs hiding in their lairs. Our efforts were somewhat futile but today was more about the surroundings than anything else.

Besides the aforementioned green, brown, and white courtesy of mother nature, man had left its imprint as well. A bridge connecting a trailway above a deep pool looked like it had aged well since its inception. Names were left carved into green stained wood. A sluggo lure hanged on a tree with a rusted hook penetrating its midsection. The plastic and mono remained unchanged as the hook slowly withered away. Assorted trash was left wedged in between boulders, no doubt remnants from summer swimming sessions.

My lone chance came at the base of a fifteen foot waterfall. The water fell into a deep basin and flowed briskly to its escapement along a vertical ledge. I casted my double nymph rig in vain, knowing full well my flies weren't about to reach the zone before they exited the pool. Just as they were about to go over the lip, a brown ascended from the depths and took the lead fly.

The lone fish used the current and made his way downstream as I brought him into the slower water. Careful not to fall amidst the large granite slabs, I cradled twelve inches of salmo trutta briefly before releasing the fish back to his short stretch of home.

Atop the waterfall, we expected greater results but left empty handed. The ravine left us cold and tired from the hike. She kept her secrets on this January day. We will no doubt be back some other time to unlock them and enjoy the company of the river and the ravine it calls home.

Beard Weather Day 2

2012-01-14T07:00:00.000-05:00

The grip of winter has a way of slowing things to a crawl. Common fishing tasks such as waking up early in the morning, rigging a rod, or wading across a river take time. The bitter cold has a way of doing that to you, and the fish.

We awoke around 10 a.m. in New York, and soon stepped outside to a thermometer reading a balmy eight degrees. Outside the truck, I squeezed Red Bull slushy into an insulated bottle for the day. The temperature would later climb into the high teens in the afternoon, but that didn't really matter. It was cold, and along with it came a host of fishing related cold problems. Due to my inability and lack of determination to grow a beard, I had a hard time talking because I couldn't feel my face.

Other problems occurred during my first fish of the trip. The small buck couldn't take out any line and I couldn't reel any in. It thrashed in the current, while I was bending down defrosting a reel and line with my breath. I defrosted in enough time to prevent the fish from breaking 4x and I recovered the only ground I needed to land the fish as my rig refroze. A word of warning, do not use Sharkskin fly line under any circumstance in freezing weather. Thankfully, the cold made the fish lethargic enough to not break me off.

Aside from a few select holes everyone was fishing, the fish were hard to find in the higher flows of 1700-1800 cfs. Not one to join the bottom bouncing majority, we only caught a few. It seemed as though we had to drift the flies into the fish's mouths to get a take, as they were soft and few. Our best luck came in side channels where we could easily find holding lies. Our unfamiliarity with the river in high water made this our best bet, so we tried to take advantage of it.

If you can brave the low temperatures, fishing in the winter time can provide many advantages. For one, there are lighter crowds that can yield moments of solitude amongst snow covered pines. This environment provides quite the scene to enjoy catching a lake-run fish. Even if things are slow, all you have to do is take a look around and imagine a day at work. That should put things into perspective as your hopping on the bank trying to restore feeling in your toes.

The Fish of 2011

2012-01-10T06:10:00.000-05:00

High & Clearing

2012-01-08T08:00:00.001-05:00

With the holiday came a few days off for the old man. After the 25th, we fished his father's stretch of water that he fished in his youth. The water was high and off colored from the night before. We started fishing slightly after noon hoping to hit the water as it cleared.

The early portion of fishing was a little rough. The first several holes yielded zero results for my father. Halfway through our trek, we decided to spend a little more time in a deep run. Taking over for my dad, I probed the run with a double nymph rig. In the high water, their was a large eddy swirling back into the main seam which played havok with each drift. I finally got it right and tied into the first wild brown of the day.

Switching tactics to the hot flies, my father and I took turns making our way up the second half of the stream. Several wild brown trout came to hand including two larger fish approaching sixteen inches. About as big as they get on the small freestone stream. In the bunch, were two stockers, one rainbow and a brown.

One of my favorite times to fish for wild trout in freestone and limestone streams is after periods of high water. The high water combined with a lack of clarity results in the fish letting their guard down. Wild browns that are hiding under logjams and boulders during regular flows suddenly venture out in the regular runs taking advantage of the extra food tumbling downstream. Fishing these waters often, my catch rate usually doubles and the fish are larger whenever the water is high and clearing.

Beard Weather - Day 1

2012-01-03T18:21:00.013-05:00

The most common question faced by someone growing a beard has got to be 'Why?' Friends and strangers have asked, and I've even asked myself at times. It is a fair question, especially when your 'winter' never drops below 80 degrees. I've never had anything better than 'why not' lined up as a reply until last week, on the Salmon River, when I found the answer.

First Tracks

I was home for the holidays. I left behind the sun, sand and salt for family, old friends and winter weather. The plan was to spend three days fishing the Salmon for some thinly-spread steelhead and even more sporadic browns. It would be my first time on this river, with my brother and Adam, who've both experienced it at the height of chinook season. Those dark times they barely talk about, only to refer to it as 'the shit show' while shaking their heads. The weather and the lack of salmon kept about a billion people off of the banks, even allowing us to find a few hours of quiet, snow-laden solitude.

Mark and Adam have become professionals at so-called 'suicide runs' to the tributaries. Leaving late at night, they time their arrival with the sun or the opening of a local fly shop. We left a little after 2am and weren't the first people at the fly shop four hours later.

We suited up in a more or less empty parking lot as the snow fell around us. I miss snow and cold weather. I was almost giddy as we made first tracks down a path to a bend in the river. The quiet of a winter forest as it snows is unlike any other quiet.

The temps hovered below 20F, with wind gusts of us t0 25mph. The fish were not biting, but we were enjoying ourselves. Condensation from my breath combined with the winds and falling snow resulted in a beard that was as iced-up as the guides on our rods, but my face was warm.

We waded, fished and trekked all day in search of fish, finally finding a few in a narrow braid off of the main stem. Water temps of 33F allowed us to net them all in under a minute.

Adam's fish

Mark's buck

Adam, catching up

That night, with temps predicted to reach the single digits, we decided to find a motel instead of sleeping in the truck. Were we getting soft, or was $20 a night for cable and a hot shower just a bit too cheap to pass up?

We slept the best sleep we've ever slept on a trip like this, and woke up a bit later than planned for another day searching out fish on the Salmon.

Jaunts

2012-01-01T14:30:00.000-05:00

Home for the holidays, I have limited time on the water. Family and friends occupy most of it. Every now and then I get to sneak off for a quick fishing trip. Often, these little jaunts are on familiar waters around home for wild trout. One particular stream near home provides a quick holiday fix. Small stream water in a rough and tumble picturesque environment. The water flows fast in and around boulders, slate, and logs. Perfect hiding spots for small trout waiting in ambush for a smorgasbord of aquatic life floating downstream. I had anticipated the water on the stream to be high and slightly off colored. Streams around my house were completely blown out. After I made my way over the mountain, the streams were low and clear. I was shocked.

This altered my strategy significantly. I no longer had the cover of high and dirty water. All of a sudden, I found myself crawling upstream on hands and knees sling shotting casts into holding water. Often, you only have one chance in each particular lie. If you catch one out of a hole, you move on, because all the commotion surely scares everything around.

My short jaunt found success with several willing wild browns. Several more, shook free of my barbless fly as they cartwheeled out of the water and downstream. After a few hundred yards of water, my thirst for the moment was fulfilled and I headed home for some breakfast and the company of the holidays.

Home

2011-12-25T15:42:00.000-05:00

As I made my way up I-95 towards the Lehigh Valley, I couldn't wrap around my head that it was Christmas time. As anglers, time has a way of being warped by our moments on the water. Having spent a large chunk of time on the road and on the water during the fall, the year went by in a blur. My two hour car ride home served as a time of reflection as I contemplated the year's events and tried to think about Christmas time spent with family, friends, and the dogs. However, in the back of my mind was an itch that needed to be satisfied as soon as possible. I had an urge to fish my home waters for the wild brown trout of my youth. It had been several months, and I needed a quick fix.

I spent the better part of my first day home with my brother and father. We went on a trip to Cabelas and ran assorted errands before the Christmas holiday. We made it home in time for a quick one hour fishing trip down the road, where I caught my first fish on fly thirteen years ago. I made my way through the woods to a good starting point. I planned to power fish a two hundred yard stretch before dark. The stream underwent a facelift since the last time I left it. High water events left it transformed and super clean of any sediment. Recent rains had the levels high and slightly off color. It was a good time to be fishing for wild brown trout.

My first cast found a new depression along a run of slate. My indicator plunged and I tied into a slab of gold and brown punctuated by dots of black, red, and assorted blue halos. A perfect specimen from a perfect stream, during a perfect time of year. Satisfied, I left the stream and headed home. I slowly transitioned from the grinch who went fishing to the son and brother that I am. Ready for Christmas, it was good to be home.

Seclusion

2011-12-17T17:25:00.000-05:00

Early in the morning before light illuminated the river, I was patiently awaiting stream side along a favorite seam on everyones favorite hole. I was sandwiched between two fallen trees and only one angler could truly fit in the space and get a good drift in the seam. Nonetheless, a group of four guys came and parked on either side of me in a ten yard space. They didn't ask, just came and set up shop. I left that spot and the river for the rest of the day, perturbed to say the least.

Our search for new water brought us to an unfamiliar/highly trafficked waterway in Western NY. Arriving around noon, every pull off was full of cars and anglers. We decided to check one last pull off farther upstream and found the place deserted. Over the next few hours, we had almost a mile entirely to ourselves. Hard to find on a tributary, anywhere in the Great Lakes.

The afternoon was overcast and drizzly. Topping it off, the temperature was in the 50s. It was a perfect day to be on the water. We took full advantage. For the first time in several days, Adam decided to bring out the indicator rig and preceded to catch several steelhead in the shallow runs and riffles underneath a canopy of trees. He did so, when all he wanted to catch was a brown trout. I preceded to catch the browns, when all I wanted to catch was a few steelhead. Nonetheless, it was fun.

Seclusion can be the hardest thing to find in the entire sport of fly fishing. My favorite times on water, are when I have a small stream and wild fish all to myself. I am free to focus and enjoy the seclusion one cast at a time. On the Great Lakes tributaries, you can catch a fish, turn around, and find someone standing in the spot you hooked up in with zero remorse. There is very little etiquette, unless you find yourself miraculously fishing with guys swinging flies with two handed switch/spey rods. Then it's simply understood. However, that is a rarity, and like seclusion, extremely hard to find.

Uncharted Water

2011-12-15T11:28:00.000-05:00

As the rest of the group headed up stream in search of better water. I opted to stay and fish the first stretch of water we laid eyes on. The stretch was far from prime, its only appeal was the lack of another human being as far as the eye could see. Finding solitude on a Great Lake trib is rare and I intended to take full advantage. I devised a game plan on the bank of what looked like Willy Wonka’s Chocolate River. I faced a wide slow moving run so turbid its depth was a mystery. It was an interesting scenario to say the least.

I chose a weightless Senyo’s That 70’s Sculpin fitted with a custom monster cone (shown above without a cone), fished on a short tippet behind a sink tip. I considered the strike zone to be just off the bottom. To insure my fly got there no matter the depth, I rigged up with a 5/5 MOW heavy tip T-14/Floating.

I fished the run in a typical step down fashion but unable to swing in the super slow current. I decided on fan-casting and some seductive stripping, making three casts before advancing (45˚ up stream, 90˚, down stream 45˚) Midway down the run an unexpected take caught me off guard. My fly was hit hard just as the sink tip entered the guides. Actually scaring me a bit I set the hook in fear. Needless to say I set way too hard and snapped my tippet, or so I thought. I stood in silence and watched the ripples dissipate from where the fish broke the surface. I re-rigged with the heaviest tippet I had and began where I left off. Images of huge brown trout flooded my head and the smile on the face of the next angler to catch it. I hoped it would be fly fisherman because the real prize is dangling from the fish’s mouth and need not go to waste.

My daydreaming was interrupted as my fly received another crushing blow. I was connected. The fish jumped and its coloration had me excited for an Atlantic salmon. Gliding the fish to hand my heart sank as my Atlantic slowly turned into a northern pike. Soon after the release I put two and two together and all images of a sculpin toting monster brown went up in smoke.

Large sensory pores easily locate a water pushing monster

Creating a Monster:Any flat sturdy plastic will do. Cut to shape. Apply color..or not

Coat with UV Knot Sense

Risk/Reward

2011-12-10T16:09:00.000-05:00

The unfamiliar water flowed between my legs as I stared blankly into my fly box. My eyes perused nymphs, eggs, and a few tantalizing streamers. What did the fish want? Would this be any different than the other waters I was more accustomed to? I ended up tying on a streamer that I swung through several riffles. A hundred yards downstream, I misjudged the amount of line I had out during my circle spey, and the sculpin was last seen dangling from a branch on the opposite bank. This forced me to re-enter my fly box where the same questions repeated in my head.

After a few minutes, I changed my entire rig. Back to an indicator and an egg pattern. Why change what always works? I made my way to a riffle pool combo that ran into a bank at the base of a tree that was partially fallen into the hole. There was a large undercut about ten yards long that was protected by the tree and all its branches laying over the water. It was a big risk/reward situation. I knew deep down that there was probably a few trout hiding out in there. I just had to get it in front of their faces. I took my time gradually getting closer and closer to the dangerous snag. After every few casts, I adjusted the length of my drift, along and under the bank, and tinkered with the depth of my rig. I anticipated the unknown.

I roll casted several yards upstream of the bank, before re-roll casting my line above my indicator. My flies sunk twice as fast and my indicator stood tall, revealing a dead drift. My flies entered the undercut as my indicator grazed the grass and root wad. The rig went under the overhang, and I knew this was it. A few yards later, the float plunged under the surface. To get a hookset, I had to set hard, low, and downstream under the overhang. It worked. Head thrashes revealed a nice brown at the end of my line, and she made her way into the undercut. I kept my rod tip low (in the water), and got her out of there. A few moments later, 25 inches of brown trout laid in the bottom of the net, for some admiration.

Sharing

2011-12-06T19:23:00.001-05:00

On the second day, we met up with some new acquaintances. They were some of my brothers friends from Lancaster and it was their first foray on this section of the Great Lakes tributaries. I partnered up with Tom, whom I fished with before, and took him to a seam that I knew held fish. The bank was pretty tight so we decided to rotate the water, fish for fish. Something you don't see that often on the tribs. Any form of etiquette is rarely seen. I wish I could say that for the first few hours that morning, I matched Tom fish for fish. But he outscored me 5-3. However, numbers do not matter. It was a great few hours of action. It was great to not only share in the water, but to also share in his first tributary brown trout and largest steelhead he has ever caught. As I landed the fish, I could see his knees shaking and I could hear a giddiness in his voice.

That's what counts.

Back in the Saddle

2011-12-03T09:15:00.000-05:00

It had been three weeks since making our way north to the tributaries of the Great Lakes, our longest siesta of the fall season. A last second decision had us staying home for Thanksgiving rather than abandoning our families for fish. Thursday night, our stomachs full, we set sail to Western New York for our first foray there in 2011. Our best success on tributaries usually comes here and this mini-trip didn't disappoint as we landed more fish in three days than our combined total swinging flies on the Salmon river over the course of several trips. Mind you, there is a big difference in swinging flies vs. dead drifting nymphs and eggs.

Late November is an interesting time on the tributaries, especially in New York. You have a complete mixed bag of fish. You have spawning and post-spawn brown trout. The majority of the brown trout are in a post-spawn faze where they are pretty aggressive to the fly or are dropping back. Over the course of three days, we caught mainly brown trout. Only two still had their eggs. You also have your steelhead and rainbows, some of which are fresh, and others that have been in the tribs for a few months. Getting in the way, are the salmon. They are on there last legs and tend to not get out of the way of a fly. That, or they end up taking your fly. Then your faced with the choice of landing a frankenfish, or simply breaking the fly off. Adam had a half dead salmon crush a streamer while stripping it back in to cast again.

On this particular day, we were just happy to be back in the saddle. I can't remember the last time we were on a fishing trip and didn't take many pictures. Usually, we help each other land fish and take pictures of the catch. This time we were by ourselves content with just catching fish. It felt good catching steelhead and brown trout, landing them, and simply releasing them back to the water without trying to get a good picture. I also can't remember the last time I didn't take pictures of scenery, wildlife, or people doing crazy things. I think it boils down to the fishing being really good.

Here are some of the few.

High Water Impact

2011-11-30T16:58:00.000-05:00

I hadn't been on my local stream in Delaware since May. I left it full of stockers, some of which were quite large and in charge. Over the summer, I retreated home to Pennsylvania pursuing trout and carp as well as saltwater chrome in the Caribbean. In that time frame, the stream experienced some significant changes due to several high water events throughout the summer and early fall. Most of the changes had to have been from Hurricane Irene. For the most part, I am happy with several shifts. Some new logjams have emerged, an entire bank has been eroded encompassing a large boulder, and a certain mud banked hole's flow has been immensely improved. If the stream remains unchanged, we are setting up for quite a good spring.

The downside to the high water impact was the complete lack of trout in certain parts of the stream. My buddy Ben and I experienced some fishless hours before zeroing in on a few fish. It seems all the new holes might have to force me to relearn the water and selective holding areas. I did manage a feisty and healthy looking rainbow that fell to a caddis pupa before we departed for a Sunday of football. I've decided to periodically check in until spring.

Walk Off Homer

2011-11-29T15:57:00.000-05:00

The weather was warm, and the sun high, as my buddy Tyler and I headed to an unfamiliar stream along the eastern shore of Maryland. Stocker territory. Our descent to the stream brought us to a slow run of water filled with hundreds of suckers. Smack dab in the middle of them all was a lone palomino, completely out of place. Two other rainbows and a brown rounded out the moving ball of fish. We took turns trying to entice the trout to a variety of flies. Our sight fishing efforts proved futile and we left those few trout in search of others. Tyler found success throwing a small olive streamer in a deep eddy, landing two small rainbows. I flailed, tossing a double nymph rig in the channel feeding the hole. On the way back, we stopped for another look at the palomino that had kicked our butts an hour earlier. I slowly changed flies, made a downstream dead drift to find success. The body language of the palomino was significantly different as he arched slowly upwards making a move on the fly. A short while longer, I gently cradled twelve inches of bright orange in my hand. My lone fish of the short sojourn was a walk off homer.

Something Weird

2011-11-28T21:46:00.001-05:00

Every now and then, something grabs your fly that results in the face above. The photo captured Adam at the exact moment he realized he caught something weird. Coho? Summer run steelhead? A really beat the hell fall run fish?

Steak & Eggs

2011-11-17T20:14:00.000-05:00

A much needed break was in store. Instead of driving and fishing around the clock in between work weeks, I found myself sleeping in, sandwiched between two labradors happy to see master. It took two leisurely days of rest and playing with the dogs before I picked up the fly rod again. When I did, I made a phone call, and later found myself on a small stream with the goal of slaying some stocker rainbows.

On the menu are every pig rainbow's favorite morning meal: steak and eggs. For us, its seven foot fly rods in the 2-4 wt. range with enough bend in them to execute slingshot casts between and underneath all sorts of overhangs. It is 100% pure sight fishing with egg patterns and san juan worm atrocities. Tradition is overthrown and the legends turn in their graves as hog after hog comes to hand. There are smiles on our faces and zero shame in our stomachs. The memories of a fishless weekend swinging flies endlessly for a big pull are flushed out of my system. They are replaced with small stream gluttony and football shaped overfed bows.

Too Good To Be True

2011-11-13T22:19:00.001-05:00

We sat patiently on the side of the road for an extended period of time, listening to some tunes and contemplating the days strategy. We had at least a half hour before we even considered stepping into our waders and preparing our rods. We just waited. By the time you could tie a knot without a headlamp, we were on the trail, intent on reaching a piece of water we wanted to fish. We bypassed several famous pools, some great pocket water we knew and loved, and finally crossed the river to a favorite run. Along the way, we didn't see a single soul or another car. Surprised, we even joked that people forgot about changing the clocks. After awhile, I even thought that they closed this section of river. It was too good to be true. So good, that we took turns. I gave Adam the entire run and he promptly obliged by hooking a small male on a black and purple contraption. Meanwhile, the water on the rod worked its way silently into the smallest of imperfections and began freezing. The bend in the rod, courtesy of a feisty steelhead was all it took for the tip to break in half, exactly at the point we deliberated on a few hours earlier. Our perfect morning suddenly began fading as a broken rod gave way to a series of misfortunes that left us shaking our heads. Missed fish were only the beginning. All the water we bypassed began filling up faster than Salmon season and the fishing was hot. Before we could partake in some fun, the sun was high in the sky, and the fishing cooled down. We were left to dwell on a shipping bill and a few weeks without any tributary swinging.

We need the break.

Swinging in the Mist

2011-11-10T17:02:00.001-05:00

In between sips of red bull, I remembered watching the temperature plummet as we drove north towards the closest steelhead. Arriving, I stepped out of the Jeep and into a frozen landscape completely different than the one I had left six hours earlier. It was pitch black without a cloud in the sky as I placed my waders on. My hands unfamiliar to the chilly air, ached as I laced up. I yearned for a handwarmer. Soon, Adam and I made our way riverside down a well worn trail that thousands of anglers march upon each season. We rigged up under headlamps and the glow of Orion's belt finishing with enough time to watch the first light peak over the horizon and shoot through the trees. The morning fog hovered precariously on the water for the first hour of light. The best time to catch a steelhead on the swing.

The run we found ourselves on was slowly moving and had a depth of 4-5 feet. Downed trees lined the far bank providing cover for the fish. My chance came first. I casted slightly upstream allowing my unweighted prom dress to descend in the water column. With a downstream mend, I raced it across the pool and infront of a snag of trees in the water. The pull came immediately. I clamped down on my running line and raised the rod hoping to tie into a nice fish. The running line had other ideas. It slipped through my numb fingers and the hook set failed miserably. A simple headshake by the fish and an eruption of water ensued as my only chance of the day glided back to the snag.

Downstream, I heard a whole lot of commotion as Adam lets out a series of expletives celebrating a fish. The elation soon turned to horror. The steelhead on the end of the line looked like it went through hell. Slightly emaciated, with a bronze color, the fish looked like it had been hooked thirty times over. It didn't even look like a steelhead, even though it was. The fish was released back into the river, where hopefully it recoups or some other angler puts it out of its misery.

Soon, the first drift boats rolled into the run, parked directly across from us, and began hooking up left and right. The first hour of light came to a close and the chances of bringing up a fish on the swing diminished greatly. Along with our chances, the mist and fog receded as the sun came upon the water providing relief to our frozen hands. The rest of the day was spent fighting crowds of anglers, more crowds than salmon season. Looking back, the best part was the beginning, swinging in the mist.

First of the Fall

2011-11-05T08:00:00.000-04:00

Late October and I still hadn't caught my first steelhead of the year. Stubborn as could be, it had to be on the swing and three weekend excursions left me empty handed and broken hearted. During a Sunday spent downriver, I was about to realize my goal.

Hanging downstream was twenty feet of Rio Skagit Short, attached to a T-11 MOW tip, and a few feet of tippet. A purple tandem tube dangled precariously, its magnum rabbit strip swimming against a current of water. The line arched upstream into a circle spey, falling back to the water forming the anchor needed to launch the heavy set up. A spray of water known as the "white mouse" moved upstream as the skagit head arched at a 45 degree angle into a d-loop. The rod bent to the cork before launching 525 grains, a T-11 sinktip, and 4 inches of tungsten rabbit strip across stream. I dropped the rod tip enough for the rig to fall under the overhanging branches on the opposite bank. My upstream hand lifted the line off the water, mending it just enough for my fly to get in the zone. I waited until the perfect moment before leading my fly through the seam. The pull came almost immediately as eight pounds of chrome arched against the current.

The land came a minute later. During that moment in time, the fish ran downstream peeling line off my reel. She turned completely around and stormed back upstream creating a massive belly in my line. I struggled to keep up. In those brief seconds, the T-11 wrapped around a rock and the action ceased. Fearing the worst, I marched into the middle of the river, unwrapped the line, and once again felt the weight of steel. I brought her into the shallows and beached the hen on some cobbles. With the hook coming loose, the fish darted back to its run, as the shutter closed on the DSLR. My first two steelhead of the season evaded capture by the camera, but I was able to take a mental snapshot that won't be forgotten. It is hard to forget the sight of chrome burning its image into your corneas.

A Dilemma

2011-11-01T16:51:00.000-04:00

The crowds of Salmon season have dissipated leaving behind open runs downriver. Adam and I took advantage of the opportunity and headed north intent on steelhead on the swing. We had extremely high hopes thanks to some hot reports and blinding pictures of chrome slabs. We even spent a whole week tying new concoctions in all varieties. We thought we had assembled a fleet of destroyers but the steelhead had other things on their palate. Like eggs.

The night on the road went by in a breeze with intermittent showers and the promise of rain all day long. This only heightened our expectations into a fever pitch. With new skagit lines on our rods, we couldn't wait to get on the river to dial in our casting strokes and entice of few willing fish. It was a whole lot of hope dangling on a string. We were blanked, skunked, and demoralized left shaking our heads, as trembling hands tied on another fly in vain.

With our confidence rocked, we were left with a major dilemma. Our thoughts slowly crept to sharkskin lines on spare reels, to large thingamabobbers, and freshly tied egg patterns veiled in all sorts of awesomeness. Although we both didn't speak about it, we could tell what was on each other's minds. All day long, the thought of a dead drift, a suddenly dipping strike indicator, and jumping chrome tempted our minds and tested our resolve. Adam and I played a game of chicken. Who would be the first to crack under the pressure of catching a fish? As the hours ticked by and the light faded on the horizon, neither of us blinked. Our morals held strong in the aftermath of one of those weekends, one of those days, where we didn't give into temptation.

It was swing or go home.

Fulfillment

2011-10-27T17:43:00.001-04:00

Three years in the making. This was the weekend where we finally came through and landed kings on the swing. However, we would have to wait and fish our butts off to reach that moment in time.

Our first day consisted of swinging flies in the rain, upriver. Wet and cold we were wishing, watching, and hoping that something would tug at the end of our lines and awake us from our tired stupor. Whispers of steelhead in the river only added to our frustration. Our resolve was put to the test as absolutely nothing happened. We took to doing some exploration to find some new water for later in the season.

Early the next morning, we decided that our best chances to fulfill our goal was to head back to the DSR. We took position in a side channel where we had luck two weekends prior. Almost immediately, Adam was into a fresh steelhead. I struggled in the low light to get a clear picture, but I captured a grin of satisfaction in between a thick fall beard. It was the first of the year and my flash emanated off its fresh silver sides.

A few hours later, and a ways downstream, Adam repeated the feat, landing a male steelhead in some super fast water. Both fish fell to Senyo sculpin tubes in orange and pink with violent takes on the swing. I happened to be strolling through a wooded trail, when I captured the take. In between a tall series of sycamores sporting their best fall colors, Adam played a slab of chrome, landing it mid river.

The moment arrived several hours later. Three years of early fall trips, sleep deprivation, a hundred or so cans of red bull, and all that gas money boiled down to being in the right spot at the right time. I decided to fish a small pocket of water near an island in the middle of the river. I simply plopped my fly into the rapids, let them pull my fly and t-11 into the hole before leading the rig into the slow stuff. A hard tug ensued and I set low and hard downstream. A violent symphony of water ensued as my first king head shaked and rolled out of the hole and into the current. Downstream, I beached her on a bed of leaves to admire her spots contrasting sharply with the fall foliage. In the skinny water, she powered away and continued her journey upstream to meet her maker.

The last hour of the day was surreal. We happened upon a hole that had a fair amount of kings along its bottom. They were obviously awaiting the cover of darkness to make the remaining trip upstream. Being close to the lake, they were fresh enough for some fun. Six hookups followed, many ending downstream where tippet broke and hooks came loose. In the middle of the raucous, I subdued a large male sporting a coat of late run bronze. I couldn't believe that three years of effort boiled down to one hour of mayhem. It was worth it.

Adam and I didn't want to leave the fish behind, but we had no choice, and no watch. The gates closed at 6:30 and light was fading fast. We didn't know how to get out. Nonetheless, I decided to take one more cast. I hooked up with another large male before a headshake sent the fly back into my chest. We knew time was of the essence. We found the trail, made the hike out only to be scolded for our lateness. We arrived panting in the parking lot at 6:31. Wet and muddy, we threw our rods in the Jeep and hopped on in. The employees followed us out.

It is always surprising when the effort put into a singular fish is rewarded. Dispositions tend to shift wildly as frustration gives way to utter bliss. A normally long six hour drive back to work the next morning, suddenly goes by in a breeze. The memory of the fish keeps you afloat for the work week, until the next time your on the water and find yourself in that moment. Fishermen strive for that, yearn for it, and often do crazy things to achieve it.

If you want it, why not go and get it?

Into the Realm of Possibility

2011-10-25T22:23:00.001-04:00

I heard it so many times before. Whenever I mentioned heading north to catch king salmon on the fly, friends, family, and strangers all had similar stories of fishing for them. They said, "all you have to do, is get it close to their face and set the hook". I usually smiled and nodded my head in agreement, but deep down inside, my stomach was tied in a knot. That isn't fishing, and never will be.

I knew that Kings can be caught on fly, legally, and thus it became a goal of sorts to accomplish that feat. I wasn't interested in catching spawning salmon that are snapping at flies hanging in front of their face out of pure anger. I wanted to catch one on the swing using spey/skagit gear. On our third year of heading north (once or twice a year) we finally had some luck. We swallowed our pride and bought tickets for the DSR. Forty five dollars to fish the first two river miles of the Salmon River and have a chance at fresh fish. Fish that haven't gone through a gauntlet of tarpon hooks, sinkers, and heavy monofilament. With that goal in mind, we were still wary of our past attempts and failures. Would a Great Lakes king truly go out of its way to slam a large streamer on the swing? Could it be done?

Our first time at the DSR, we admittedly had no idea where to go to swing flies. It is a lot of water to cover so we decided to fish upstream and work our way down. Big mistake. We also thought it would be a utopia of sorts full of "sportsmen" all legally catching salmon. We were wrong. However, the morning started off well. On my second swing, an unseen force crushed a black intruder that instantaneously broke off on my hook set. I didn't think that could happen. Upstream in a super fast section of water, I hooked up again. The large head of a male came to the surface and thrashed violently back and forth before breaking me off on some structure a backing run downstream. What the hell was going on? We wondered out loud if it was truly happening.

It wasn't until later that we witnessed the event first hand. Adam was probing a section of whitewater, swinging a pink and orange Senyo's tube sculpin through various pockets, when a fresh king shattered three years of questioning and doubt. Moving several feet, the fish inhaled the offering and began a blitz downstream, it's back protruding from the water column revealing an adipose the size of my palm. Adam worked it into an eddy and there it was, at our feet. Fresh. Pure. Untouched. No sign of the fly, it was engulfed. As if realizing our admiration, the fish made one last run, opening its cavernous mouth, and shook free of the hook.

In that moment, our confidence sky rocketed and we entered a new realm of possibility.

Chose your own (mis)adventure.

2011-10-23T12:48:00.007-04:00

The tarpon have moved in thick over the past month. Most bays are chock full of small fry and, therefore, the predators of small fry.

Noticing that you can tease the tarpon into a frenzy by dragging tiny bonefish flies around for them to chase, but barely get a second glance from a 2\0 chartreuse toad, I went to the bench last night in anticipation of this morning.

I came up with some very thin minnow flies with a trailing mink tail. They're about 2" long with the body made of floating foam underneath pearlescent body tubing. A few white rubber legs and the mink tail make up the rest of the fly. Plastic toad eyes finish it off. The goal was to create something with some action in the water that didn't sink like a stone due to the huge hook.

This morning, the fly produced 6 eats and jumps, with numerous other follows and boils. For some reason, I could not find purchase for the hooks. I was getting frustrated.

On what I was thinking was one of the last casts before breakfast, a nice fish took and I finally got a solid hookset. As the tarpon went ballistic, a local dude from across the bay saw the commotion and got into his boat to come investigate.

He asked me if I was going to keep the fish. I said no. He asked me if he could have the fish. I said no.

I landed the fish as my girlfriend snapped a few photos. Soon, I released the fish, as promised.

Walking back to the car with my girlfriend, she asked me if I ever felt bad after refusing to give a fish to someone who asked. This dude had been trawling the bay for the morning and came away with what looked like two or three tiny barjacks for his effort. That 40 lb. fish would have been huge for him, and presumably his family.

Once, I gave a tarpon to a person who asked, and I regretted it for quite some time. They're more valuable as a game fish, but there is absolutely no game fishing industry here to speak of. Tarpon are the most plentiful fish in this area, but there are very few fish over 70-80 lbs. Presumably, the fish here are migratory juveniles.

I will admit that I did feel bad about turning the guy down.

What would you do? Every once in a while give a fish to someone who politely asks for it to feed himself or his family, or resolutely hold fast to catch and release no matter what?

Skinny Water Bones

2011-10-19T05:30:00.000-04:00

Skinny Water Bones is a short highlight video of our third week in the Caribbean. Week three consisted of our time sleeping on the beaches of a small island and stalking bonefish on foot in some super skinny water.

Enjoy, and let that fire grow high.

Easy Canvas Prints

2011-10-17T18:18:00.002-04:00

Upon arrival home from the Caribbean, we had a lot of pictures to sort through. One of my favorites, was of my brother and I sharing a moment over a bonefish. My mother had kindly saved a coupon to order one of those awesome canvas prints for my birthday. Naturally, I chose the picture of my brother and I. When it arrived, I was blown away at the quality of the images replication. From afar, it looks like a blown up photograph but upon closer inspection it has the look and feel of a fine painting. A bonus, the image is three dimensional and wraps around the canvas.

About a month later, I was contacted by Easy Canvas Prints, with an offer for a review of sorts on TRIW. Since I already knew of the quality offered, I accepted. It also helped, that my father's birthday was around the corner, and I had an idea. A little over a year ago, I landed the largest carp I have ever hooked, while my father was present. The only words I could utter, were "dad, I've got a big fish". The canvas print became a chance to forever immortalize that moment between my father and I.

As the name suggests, the entire process is incredibly easy. One simply uploads the photo of their choice, chooses the correct size (lots to choose from!), as well as the thickness and style of the wrap around effect. If you are unsure of the style you would like, the ordering process allows you to see what the projected product will look like and even places it to scale against a backdrop of furniture. Less than a week later, I was handing the finished (ready to mount) product to a proud father.

In a sport where catch and release is paramount, canvas prints offer a fine opportunity for preserving those fine moments on the water, without breaking the bank. Easy Canvas Prints is a perfect way to put your photos to canvas. Check them out!

Photos to Canvas

As a bonus deal, if you "like" them on Facebook you have an opportunity for free shipping and 50% off your next offer.

Morning on the Primordial Coast

2011-10-14T19:35:00.009-04:00

The world was upside down. Gazing upward, I peered into the deep blue of a starless pre-dawn sky, seeing for empty light years. Below it was the twinkling surface of the lapping caribbean sea.

My eyes adjusted as the sun's rays crested and reflected over the hillside to spread down the slope behind me. The deepest blue began to fade towards light. The silence was broken by an unseen splash. And then another.

Waiting for daybreak.

Like clockwork, the tarpon awoke. The lightening sky allowed the silhouetting of baitfish. It was breakfast time.

We had to act fast before they became too keyed-in. After twenty minutes of refusals on dark patterns we switched it up as dawn officially broke. Wayne's first cast with a slimmed-down white fly was a sure thing.

Wayne's First Tarpon.

The fish took Wayne into his backing on its first run. This was his first hookup with a tarpon. Five minutes of tutorials and the backing knot has been regained, only to slip back into the water during the tug of war.

An unnerving and loud SNAP echoed off of the stone wall behind us. The backing knot had failed. Ninety feet of fluorescent orange fly line was claimed by Poseidon.

Surrounded by fish.

With our tails between our legs, I rigged up my 10wt. We still had 30 minutes before we had to leave to make work on time.

I casted into a boiling mass of feeding fish and was rewarded with an acrobatic display of leaps and cartwheels.

Good Morning.

Time was running thin.

As pterodactyl-like frigates soared overhead, I fought and subdued the fish in the fresh morning light, and let her go on her way after a quick picture.

We gathered our gear and headed to work, reflecting on the ability to catch a tarpon before heading to our day jobs.

Finding One's Self

2011-10-13T06:30:00.000-04:00

Open Water

I could talk about the crowds, the people wading across the water your swinging, or maybe the few hundred fish that those people foul hooked. Or, I could talk about the difficulties of hooking a king salmon on the swing and controlling that fish in whitewater, while surfing down a bottom of slate. I could even tell you about losing the only pair of keys to the Jeep, having no cell phone service, and spending the night standing in a pitch black parking lot in the freezing cold rain. But, this one goes deeper than all of that.

Crowds

After our month long trip in the Caribbean, I returned home and experienced a let down of sorts. I had trouble getting excited about fly fishing. All that silver spoiled me rotten and I could no longer muster a trip to catch a trout, or even a carp. Over a sixty day period, I fished around three times. There was something wrong, or I just needed a break. I couldn't put my finger on it.

Mend

As it happens every September, the annual fall migrations begin and Adam and I were talking tributaries. When we hopped in the Jeep to make our first pilgrimage of the fall, I was finally excited to go fishing again. I am guessing the thought of a king slamming a monstrous streamer on the swing would get anyone's blood boiling but the weather and scenery added to the excitement. It was prime weather for the fall, with temperatures in the low 50s punctuated by driving rain and wind. It was a perfect time to be on the river.

A Perpetual Series of Occasions of Hope

It was here, a mile or so from the car, where we finally found open water, and had it all to ourselves. I had a chance to relax, get my mind straight and just focus on the task at hand. The fishing was slow as we were fishing the upper portion of the river for "old" fish. However, the rhythm of a skagit cast heightened my senses. The steps echoed in my thoughts, lift, set, forty five degree thrust, and the formation of a d-loop. An acceleration of the bottom hand, guided by the top that stops short, launching cast after cast to the opposite bank. Down and across and the constant question of, to mend or not to mend? The ever present goal of maintaining tension with the fly just incase an errant strike should occur. The task should have been monotonous, but it wasn't.

I was learning on my own, finding the sweet spot on my skagit compact while switching flies in an out. A perpetual series of occasions of hope. What amounted to simply a day of casting practice, was the most excited I got about fly fishing in over a month. I was finding my casting stroke and at the same time reigniting a flame deep within the very chasm of my soul. In a few short hours, I had forgotten what ailed my mind and instead focused on the migrating fish of my dreams, that have haunted me the entire week.

I have to go back.

Practice

The Canal: A Pictorial Tribute

2011-10-11T02:20:00.000-04:00

THE ELITE

First Blood

The Damsel was born...

Lessons were learned...

Emotion ran high...

Skills were honed...

With success comes pure ecstasy...

Our Proving Ground

The Canal

Bonefish Lessons

2011-10-09T06:10:00.000-04:00

A friend has recently picked up the chase of fish with a fly rod and has been dead keen to actually catch something as of late. We took his small boat to an isolated flat and I made it my mission to get him connected.

Pelicans were hitting the water in the channel, which is a sure sign that bonefish will be on the feed. They have to cross the large flat to get to the banquet of fry being served up by the pelican and we would hope to intercept them.

Within 30 minutes of putting boots on the ground we saw our first fish. I had Wayne positioned with his back to the wind to aid in his casting. At the first chance, he had an aggressive charge but no take. As the fish moved off, I dumped a quick cast in its path and had it take. I was into my backing as Wayne looked slightly forlorn for an instant, but took the opportunity as a learning experience. I showed him how to play the fish, when to reel and when to let it run, as well as how to land and handle a bonefish properly. He was also able to train his eyes on the actual fish as it came close and during the release. The hardest part of bonefishing is learning to see the fish, which you can only practice when you've got a fish in close...

Not 10 minutes later, a good fish moved within range. I yelled to Wayne to shoot a cast 25ft at 12 o'clock. He followed orders and placed the fly directly within the fish's path, 15ft ahead of it. I said "Wait.... wait..." and then "strip, strip" and the fish was on. Wayne never saw the fish.

He bashed his knuckled to shreds on the reel handle as the bigger fish took his fly line out of sight. It was awesome to see him so pumped up. He played the fish well and insisted on landing it himself. After a quick pose, the fish was released. Awesome.

Fish had some shoulders on it.

Two hours later, a huge school of bones outmaneuvered me and started to head towards Wayne's position. He picked up on the lead fish and was able to place a cast in the middle of the pack, hooking up with one of the fish bringing up the rear.

He wasn't paying close attention to what he was doing as he got our attention and fumbled with his pack. In a few moments, the fish had popped off, providing yet another valuable lesson. He was gutted when I showed him that his hook has been semi-straightened from his first fish, and that we didn't bother to check it afterwards, allowing this second fish to come unbuttoned.

I said to imagine how he would feel if he had lost a permit due to an error such as that. Lesson cemented.

Fly of the Trip

2011-10-01T08:00:00.001-04:00

Almost all of the bonefish I caught on the trip came from a singular fly. I caught a few bones on the fly before we embarked on our beach excursion so I tied one more to take a long. It ended up being used for 7 consecutive days. Here it is.

The fly is a cross between a kwabbit and a crab imitation. The chenille body is tied in the same fashion as a merkin. That body style combined with bead chain eyes allows for a very soft presentation in super skinny water. It also allows for a slower descent and for the hook point to always ride up as seen in the picture above.

The material list is seen above. We have tan chenille, tan polar fibre, tan magnum rabbit strips, bead chain eyes, tan thread, gamakatsu sc15 size 6-8, and some UV knot sense.

You can choose a variety of rubber legs. I opted for a pearl colored version that I combined with a pink speckled bass skirt. The lighter is used to taper and harden the tips of the chenille.

The hook I used was a Gamakatsu SC15 in sizes 6-8. In those sizes it is a very thin wire hook that landed bonefish in the 8-12 lb. range. To avoid straightening the hook on a large bone, I rarely strip set fish. I stripped tight and let the bonefish set the hook on their initial run. The small diameter of the hook combined with a super sharp point got the job done, even after a dozen bones.

Start by attaching the bead chain eyes with figure eight wraps followed by some super glue. Take the thread to the bend of the hook.

You'll need to cut a nice chunk of polar fibre for the tail keeping a wide base while pulling/tapering the fibre to the desired length. Tie the excess along the shaft.

Cut two equal pieces of chenille for the crab styled body.

Cut them into 5 equal pairs.

Tie each pair onto the hook using a figure eight pattern. After one completion, push the two pieces of chenille into the desired position before tightening your wraps ensuring their position on the shaft.

Repeat that step until all five clumps of chenille are in position.

Trim to desired length & use the lighter to harden the tips. Be careful not to burn the chenille. If you do, and blow it out in time, you will have black tips on some of the pieces as seen below. It still works.

Tie in four rubber legs (two varieties). They should be the length of the fly with two on either side of the hook point. Use figure eight wraps to get behind the rubber legs to prevent them from shifting.

Cut a good chunk of rabbit off of the magnum zonker strip and tie in above the rubber legs. To make it easier, I usually wet the material.

The final step requires you to epoxy the head of the fly.

Finished fly.

The fly allows for a lot of creativity. You can mix and match colors and rubber legs. You can also substitute a variety of materials. Either way, it works, and works well.

Letdowns

2011-09-28T06:28:00.000-04:00

As you might expect, the largest bonefish usually have attendant pilot fish that shadow their every move. Typically small horse-eye jacks, these opportunistic little bastards have carved out a niche by surviving on tiny creatures that a behemoth bonefish's shadow flushes from cover, or the scraps left scattered after a good feed.

Invariably, inevitably and unavoidably these freeloaders rushed in front of their 12lbs+ shadows to eat our flies. The sight of such huge bonefish pushing a bow wave in the direction of your fly is something that you'll just have to experience to understand. The feeling of unexpected lightness, the promise of brutality and speed replaced at the last moment by a frail, pulsating life form, the tingling in your hands and feet from the sudden withdrawal of adrenaline is also something you must experience to understand.

It was frustrating, let me just say that, and it happened repeatedly. I think we caught it on film 3 or 4 times.

So it was, that after 8 days of landing bigger bonefish than anyone can rightfully expect to bring to hand and having monstrous bonefish lost due to what boils down to a goal-tending foul on the part of those damn jacks (we should have counted them, anyway!) that we began to lose our minds a little bit.

Upon reflection, our time in the sand was better than we could have hoped for. We started to get on each other's nerves, but what else would you expect? We drank a fair bit of warmish beer, ate a lot of really unhealthy food, braved the elements and caught some awesome fish. As homage to that time, and in timing with our 100,000 visitor, we bring you "Letdowns."

The video features blown hook sets, goal-tends on big bonefish and some dancing. Enjoy, and thanks.

Atomic Number 47

2011-09-26T18:11:00.000-04:00

SILVER

Not to be outdone by Adam's recent jackpot and the gold rush at Lago X, I checked out some rumors of absurd numbers of tarpon that were gorging on a huge supply of fry that had flooded a local bay. I found the Comstock Load of caribbean silver.

Arriving at 5:30am, the surface of water was just visible as light slowly illuminated the bay. In about two minutes time, all hell broke loose. As the first rays of light hit the water, an uncountable number of tarpon began simultaneously bum-rushing fry. I was standing in knee-deep water only 5ft from shore and there were tarpon breaking the surface on all sides of me, including between myself and the shore. It was surreal.

Over the next hour, I landed one nice fish and broke off two others. 40lb tippet just wasn't cutting it. The tarpon were so keyed in on the fry that they wouldn't even notice most of what was thrown at them. I landed and hooked up on white tarpon bunnies that were skinny enough to mimic the silhouettes of the fry. Toads were ignored, as was most else.

Within an hour and a half, the fish noticeably began to chill out. There was enough food for everyone so they continued a more leisurely feeding method. Instead of hurling their bodies completely out of the water, they began to school up and engulf mouthfuls of fry like whales would. I put down the rod and picked up the camera for the rest of the morning session.

Fish that broke off my white tarpon bunny, still happily feeding hours later.

Short video of the scene that greeted me that morning.

Atomic Number 79

2011-09-24T12:26:00.018-04:00

GOLD

Trying to recall the events of the past few days have been pretty tough. All that comes to mind are blurred memories of screaming reels and backing runs. A busted a knuckle or two and saying hello to my gel-spun for the first time since the Caribbean. Ah yes, I hoisted a lot of gold..and some calico too...

Day one began with Vindication. I dropped Mark off at his house and was no sooner back to do some evening carpin. Only managing one before the sun set. With the taste of gold still fresh I headed out the next day for round two.

Day two was pretty awesome. Amongst the carp I got eats from two of the lakes koi which is quite rare. I managed to connect with only one and brought the calico gem to hand. Day three on the other hand was absolutely ridiculous. I was blessed with an epic day on the water. I brought...a lot...of fish to hand, including fifteen fish in the ten pound range. Day four I gave my forearms a rest.

Sad Fish...Haha!

New Carp Face

Nice & Thick

Airport Run

2011-09-23T20:34:00.000-04:00

Time was of the essence. I made my way down the Pennsylvania turnpike on my way to pick up a friend at the Philadelphia airport. I left an hour early, to give myself a chance at a carp, at a newer spot we discovered last summer. It is a creek, and has a good population of smaller carp feeding between large boulders. The best spot required a hike downstream that you can only access by descending a waterfall/dam and hopping your way downstream to the slower water. You could go through the woods but it is a field of poison ivy. Looking down at my shorts, it was the only way to go.

Having only an hour, I realized I would only have about 10-15 minutes of fishing time. I had to make the most of it. I chose a heavier damsel woolly bugger. In the off colored water I strained for any sign of a ghost. Standing perfectly still, a few swam in my general direction but spooked as they came closer. I spotted a decent fish about 10 yards out, meandering a few feet below the surface. I casted well ahead of him and let the damsel sink into the zone before starting a crawling retrieve. The fish turned and took it on the strip. It was on.

By the time I hiked back out to the car, it was time to go. I worked my way back to the turnpike and south. After the turnpike, I immediately hit traffic and ended up being an hour late. The difference being the carp. It was worth it.

Vindication

2011-09-19T17:21:00.000-04:00

"We'll only stop for a little while, just to see what is going on."

Adam laid out the plan as he put the car into park, and stepped into the chilly early morning air. It was nine o'clock but our day started several hours earlier, as we stalked the banks of one of our favorite haunts. Over a mile of water, we only spotted two fish, casting to neither. They were no where to be found. We moved onto plan b, but decided to stop at c, just for a short while. Several hours later, we were still there. As I made my way to the other side of the water, I stopped and found a sweet spot.

A swarm of tricos danced the tango above the riffle feeding into the lake. Hundreds of them investigated my whereabouts as I made my way over a foot bridge looking for some fish. They moved as a single unit, like a ball of bait evading a predator. Out a ways, dozens of dimples dotted the surface of the water as wild brown and rainbow trout feasted. From the bridge, I had a clear vantage point in the gin clear, fifty degree water. The fish were everywhere. Despite the numbers, I struggled looking for the main prize. My eyes crossed several trophies in the 12-14 inch class that easily could have fallen for some 7x and a tiny nymph, emerger, or dry. With so many fish to choose from, I didn't know where to start.

Suddenly, from the depths, a shadow emerged prowling deep along a sandy bottom. The fish put the others to shame. It had shoulders and yet moved with grace, picking off easy meals courtesy of the current. The other fish scattered, as I reached down and stripped several yards of line off my reel. I had intentions of using the current to drift my offering into the zone, careful to avoid any unnecessary drag. The presentation was perfect, as the fly drifted towards the actively feeding fish. Three feet from the target, the fish suddenly became aware. It turned and darted out of his feeding lane, leaving my fly to drift haplessly through a cloud of debris. So much for easy pickings.

I retreated, intent on wishing, watching, and waiting for another chance. In the distance, Adam worked a ledge, as several fish stuffed their faces yards away. I let him know, that our original plan had been surpassed by some four hours and that we better move on. He simply raised a finger, signaling one more shot. I received the same treatment three other times that day, as one more cast morphed into a few hundred. The fish were pinicky, despite feeding with reckless abandon and creating quite a disturbance all across the lake.

The fly line laid out upon the water raised suddenly and proceeded to travel out into the lake, as Adam's drag screamed. He was into a nice fish and he let everyone in the immediate vicinity know it. You could have cut the tension with a knife as he deftly maneuvered the large fish on light tippet around the weeds. I was waiting for the tiny hook to bend, as the fish made one last gasp towards deeper water. It never happened. As he reached down into the water, several spectators wondered out loud, what size trout he was about to land. From the water came a slab of "what the hell is that thing," as a realized I was about to answer the usual questions for the umpteenth time . Adam had vindicated the last few hours of fishing and landed a trophy in the 12-14 pound class.

The trout received a break.

Sunsets

2011-09-16T19:03:00.000-04:00

Twas the last day of the trip as the sun made its descent on the horizon. Hues of color slowly morphed, revealing a full spectrum as the Caribbean sea was left shimmering in between towering islands. I was left reflecting and letting the moment slowly sink in. It was surreal. I can think of no better way to end a day on the water. Cheers to sunsets.

Carpe Diem

2011-09-14T20:37:00.001-04:00

Seize the day.

Back in the states, I could only think of doing one thing: resting my weary eyes. Meanwhile, Adam immediately returned to the carp waters he fishes almost every day. That is until one day, I decided to head back into the fray.

The transition was a little overwhelming at first. I went from crystal clear flats and sandy bottoms to a partially flooded pond with zero visibility. Golden ghosts have a habit of disappearing in most water, especially when its the chocolate variety. I was rusty, to say the least.

Adam struck first with a perfect stalk along the bank, his fly line never touching the water. Sixteen feet of fluorocarbon laid stretched over foliage, rocks, and goose shit and a fly touched down on a dinner plate, where it slowly descended and met its target. Line peeled off his reel and his Superfine trout bum bent in half.

I was next on deck and found a bank muncher near a pipe pumping runoff from the city. The cast had to be on his nose. Thankfully, I was granted a 2nd and 3rd cast without him spooking before I finally hooked up.

After that fish, we went our separate ways. Adam fished on one side of the lake, while I was on the other end and side. I found a pod of feeding fish that had moved into a very shallow flat that they normally do not feed on.

I was casting to shadows, bubbles, and the occasional tail protruding through the murk. It was a guessing game, reading the body language of the fish. I got two.

As the fog ascended into the air and evaporated before our very eyes, the fishing slowed to a hault. Our morning glory fading, we transitioned to another spot, where the fish are even tougher to coax on fly. Adam hooked a good fishing, pushing 20 lbs. on his 4 wt. Superfine. He was in his second layer of backing before he knew it, before the fish broke him off on some unseen structure.

We ended our day, on a series of ponds near Adam's house. I spooked several nice fish before I resigned to fooling around in the 90 degree heat. Adam landed several small fish, the nicest of which was landed in the only spot I couldn't get a picture.

It was nice to get back out into some freshwater after a month of salt kicking my butt.

We are back in business.

Back To Reality

2011-09-07T18:20:00.001-04:00

The last two days of our trip went by in a blur. After a week of fishing under the hot sun and sleeping on the beach, our bodies were begging us to stop, but our hearts were dragging us on.

Our last two mornings consisted of a long sleep in, dollar a cup coffee, and lazy attempts at coaxing tarpon from under docks. Our back casts went in between tourists coming off yachts and catamarans on their way to breakfast. Their kids eyeing our every move and asking question upon question after each jumped fish.

Eyeing fishing boats from the dock we laid witness to why there aren't any large sharks around. They are lobster bait. Their muscular bodies are chopped up and used as lures in thousands upon thousands of lobster traps throughout the Caribbean. A near constant abuse of the ecosystem that will one day completely collapse.

Our last chance on the flats had some success. Matt hooked and landed our last bonefish in perfect conditions while I stalked the deeper waters looking for any sign of permit. Adam had a horse eye jack rob him of a silver ghost. The little guy missed the fly and paid dearly by losing an eyeball.

Exploring the northern side of the island, our rental broke down and we were stranded for several hours. We snorkeled along a barrier reef full of life, slept away at an abandoned beach bar, and bravely took the pontoon to the break.

The last thing we decided to do on the trip was to actually buy a meal. A decision that made us hypocrites for lamenting all the dead sharks used as lobster bait. Wearing skinny water microfibers coated in all sorts of fishiness, we scarfed down the best lobster I ever had. When a heavy down poor came, the other diners (dressed to impress) ran for cover. I simply sat and ate, while I enjoyed my first shower in 8 days.

Back at the camp site, we set up our tent and hammock for the last time, as rain soaked us to the bone. We hopped into the tent worried of heading back to a life of reality, our annual taste of the dream coming to a fitting end.

Yosemite

2011-09-03T21:44:00.009-04:00

We traveled to Yosemite for some incredible hiking and camping during the first weeks of August. The valley flanked by massive granite cliffs and surrounded by domes worn smooth by the march of past glaciers is beautiful bordering on surreal. There are not words to describe it, no adjectives apply, you simply must see it for yourself.

Skinny Water Culture out of their element.

During our stay, we managed to secure rare permits allowing us access to the summit of Half Dome, so we rested our legs for the upcoming 21 mile hike (from Glacier Point to the summit and back) by stalking trout in meadow streams instead of traveling thousands of vertical feet. We'd have time for that, too.

View of Half Dome from Glacier Point

I was able to fish the Tuolomne River in Tuolomne Meadows, which provided one of the prettiest settings I can imagine for catching some of the prettiest fish you can entice with a fly rod. With a small elk hair caddis I was able to land a slam of trout from the cold melt waters as mule deer drank from the current under my backcasts, songbirds sang and flitted amongst the branches and a prairie dogs goofed in the meadow grasses. Brooks, browns and bows all came to hand, none over 8" in length but they shone like jewels.

Tuolomne Meadows

Tuolomne River

I wet-waded the melt water. This was at about 9000ft. After a few minutes I stopped feeling pain and shuffled along on what felt like stumps.

Mule Deer

The first flowing water I've fished in 2011.

Saltwater fly fishing might be more exciting, but those chrome monsters are just different sized versions of each other and have little character compared to each unique trout that you coax from flowing water. Individual trout have personality while every bonefish and tarpon is just a variation in size of almost the exact same fish.

I spotted two monster (12") brookies sipping something within inches of an overhanging bank, rising amidst the grasses that hung into the clear waters. I changed to a small parachute ant as fast as I could, but the 7X tippet is more than difficult to work with when you're now used to tying knots with 15lb flouro. Twice in a row I tested my knots only to have them slip free.

I army crawled along the bank to get upstream and was able to dead drift a fly into their lane on my first try. I had a rush and an inspection, but then a refusal. I tried fly after fly but was not rewarded for my efforts.

Mule Deer

Prairie Dog

Ground Squirrels can work the zippers on your backpack. Watch out.

Wandering back towards the bridge to meet the rest of my party who chose a small hike over fishing, I was approached by a National Park Ranger who saw my fly rod.

"Catch anything?"

"Yep, a few. Gorgeous water."

"Keep 'em?"

"Nah, the largest was maybe 7" and I would release them anyway."

He then surprised me with what he said next.

"This isn't my uniform talking, but keep every single trout you catch in Yosemite. No one will write you a ticket."

I was seriously confused. However, as I soon found out, I was just ignorant of the reality of Yosemite's fishery. As it was explained to me...

"There isn't a single native fish above 4000ft in Yosemite. All of the trout you've caught are descendants of stocked fish, which was discontinued in the early 1990s, or descendants of fish that have been 'coffee-canned up here by shepherds back in the day. The Sierra Nevada Yellow Legged Frog and the Yosemite Toad are two amphibians that should, and hopefully soon will be, listed on the Endangered Species List. The only reason for their decline in population are the damn trout. They don't belong here."

News to me. The trout are a treasure, but past practices of indiscriminate stocking, like many things when dealing with ecosystems, have unforeseen and unknowable consequences in the future. Our rivers and lakes are melting pots of exotic species. It is exceedingly rare to catch a freshwater fish, especially trout, in the waters that it has evolved. I can think of the brooke trout of Shenandoah National Park as one of the only times in my life that I've done that. See here, here and here. It is so special.

Another surprise awaited me in this conversation with the ranger. I was hoping for some Golden Trout, but apparently they are only native to the Kern River drainage in the southern Sierra Nevadas. Everywhere else, the dozens of lakes and streams they now inhabit, is not where they've evolved. Whether stocked via helicopter or coffee can, they've increased their range exponentially.

We've enabled a trout takeover for the past hundred years or so. Other, less desirable and less economically valuable species, like the asian carp, get the negative press. The reality is that they both have similar impacts on the ecosystems which they invade. One is just much prettier than the other.

The final 700ft to the summit of Half Dome, along some steel cables.

Some people a bit too close to the 3000ft cliff's edge as smoke from a forest fire rolls in.

Why 18+ people have died in this park so far this year...

The cables from the sub dome.

Fallen Monarch: Giant Sequoia

Stace approaching another Giant Sequoia in the Mariposa Grove.

Forest fire sunsets: surreal

The Sweet Spot

2011-08-30T19:08:00.002-04:00

The beast rejuvenated us and reminded us of why we were there: to fish our asses off. That night, we found a place to buy ice, we parked ourselves on the beach, and drank the cheapest beer we could find. It was a celebration of sorts that prepared us well for our best day of fishing thus far.

We hit up all the spots we could access without a skiff and catch a bone. Probably 1/50th of the entire circumference of the island. Once again, the wind and clouds were in full effect which severely hampered the first half of the day. It was slow.

Early in the morning on the first beach, I was lucky enough to spot a bonefish that evaded Adam and Matt working their way east. I made the cast, worked the fly, and the bonefish attacked. They are so opportunistic, that I don't think the pattern matters much. It is all about the presentation.

We shifted gears, and made our way to the less accessible flat and power walked it. At this point, we wanted a permit badly, but whenever we were thinking permit, they never showed up. Only when we least expected it, did they appear out of thin air.

Matt had a redemption of sorts against a small school of bonefish. A few days earlier a school of 4-6 slowly moving fish, snuck by him in super shallow water using mangroves as cover. Near the same spot and gifted with a second chance, he scored his first bonefish of the day.

The second half of the day started very slow, but ended fast and furious. We switched up our game plan and decided to walk into the wind, rather than wait on the beach for tailing fish. It was close quarters combat, where we couldn't see the fish until the last minute and they often took while we stripped leader.

As we made our way up a mangrove coastline, we stumbled upon a sweet spot. Lots of fish were moving into the area in singles and pairs. The highlight of the day came when we had our first double hookup. As Adam landed a solid bonefish, Matt got his second of the day.

Moments later, Adam landed another great fish. Days earlier, he prepared himself for dealing with the wind by placing a 10wt. line on his 7wt. This was the day it paid off, as he routinely bombed casts to unsuspecting fish in stiff winds.

I ended up finding the source of all the bonefish coming our way. I began blind casting out onto the deeper portions of the flat and immediately hooked up with a bonefish that popped off during the land. On the next cast, I hooked up with the smallest bonefish we caught the whole week. We happened to find a sweet spot for an hour before it completely died down, and the fish moved on.

Also on this day, Adam spotted bonezilla cruising towards the horizon. The picture below is him summing up his experience chasing it. If his estimate proves accurate, the fish would have been in the neighborhood of world record size. I wouldn't have believed him if I hadn't seen another fish of epic proportions only to have a horse eye jack rob me of the bonefish of a lifetime.

As we made our way back to the rental, the sky was awash with hues of blue, yellow, orange, and red. It was a fitting capstone to the best fishing all week. The next two days proved to be less fortunate, but still a great time.

The Beast

2011-08-28T21:40:00.001-04:00

This is a shared experience told from two points of view and from a few places in time. Italics differentiate between the speakers. Enjoy.

Dream sequence

The small mullet darted from the shadows, frantically searching for structure. It zigged and zagged and eventually darted underneath the concrete dock I was standing on, sight fishing to laid up tarpon in the dark. A split second after the small fish disappeared beneath my feet there was an unseen explosion of water from under the dock. The commotion settled and the only sound that remained was the whistling wind. The two locals hand-lining for small jacks swung their dangling feet up out of the water as they exchanged a nervous glance. I didn't know it yet, but I had just been introduced to a legendary, supposedly uncatchable fish we'll call the beast.

There we were, in a tired stupor, gazing up at an unknowable amount of stars, entirely spent from four days shuffling in the sun. One rod laid between us, rigged incase any of us could muster a few shots at tarpon between two groups of locals hand lining. The tarpon weren't there, they knew better. Nonetheless, my brother and I decided to have at it, and positioned ourselves indian style at the end of the dock. We reminisced, having a heart to heart, about fish lost during the trip. Talk eventually turned to giant barracuda, the beast, and all the close follows of the previous days and the ensuing heart break. My big goal for this trip was to catch a monster barracuda, the kind that dwarfed the juvenile 30-50 lb. tarpon we caught in the night. The ones that followed them in really close, thinking about going for a slice, leaving us to marvel and throw every streamer in our box in vain.

We returned to the island with the dock that held the beast a few months later. This time I was not alone. Some friends from Europe were along and we had hooked a 3ft blacktip shark while baitfishing with circle hooks at the infamous dock. As the shark came to the surface, the beast rushed out from hiding but veered away within inches of severing the shark in half. Everyone who saw it was shocked, but I knew it was the same fish as before. I asked one of our friends about dinosaur sized 'cuda. He's fished the Seychelles, Cuba, Venezuela, Belize, the Keys the Maldives and everywhere in between with spin and fly gear. I asked him what, in his opinion, was a more difficult species on the fly: a huge, old barracuda or a permit. He paused and looked away, then smiled and said in his Austrian accent "Honestly? The barracuda."

On previous trips to this location I've heard people tell some pretty tall tales. Over beers at a small beach bar, in heavily accented English, a local lobster fisherman told me tales of his days out in his panga. Tiger sharks, threshers, pot thieves, declining catches, and one story of an uncatchable barracuda that has lived under the ferry docks for years. It's presence is made known more from the aftermath of a feeding than from actual sightings, but he assured me that this wasn't a fish story.

From the darkness off the dock, two large mullet came cruising in our general direction mere inches below the surface. They weaved in and out, seemingly playing under the night sky. Oblivious, they had no idea what was lurking below. Standing, my brother and I watched the mullet off the end of the dock while playfully, one of them jumped out of the water creating a disturbance. "Man, those things are just asking to get eaten." On cue, directly under our feet, the head of a prehistoric beast, 10 inches across, emerged from the shadows. My brother and I gasped, as one of the largest barracudas I have ever seen closed in for the kill. It hovered motionless below the surface, winding up, as the two mullet played suspended in the salt. The ensuing attack, would have been missed if I had blinked, but I didn't. The cuda went from zero to oh my god faster than anything I had ever seen, porpoised, all snapping jaws and thrashing tail, and disappeared into the sea. The two mullet escaped with their lives, leaving a trail of shit in the water.

That same night, not a half hour after the small mullet had or had not gotten chomped and I spoke with the lobsterman at the bar, I hooked a 15lb tarpon. As I walked it along the dock towards a small landing ramp, the beast made my acquaintance yet again. My 10wt rod bent dangerously to the cork as the frighteningly huge beast silently struck my small tarpon. The poor poon was crosswise in its jaws, dwarfed by the triangular head of the most massive barracuda I had ever seen. In a fraction of a second the tarpon was practically bisected vertically. I stood in slack-jawed awe as the predator turned and vanished between the concrete supports, where it held court as lord of the local sea.

Giddy as two young kids on Christmas morning, my brother and I started rigging up the lone 10wt. left unused on the concrete. The weapon of choice: twelve inches of mushy mouth tied for stripers on the Susquehanna Flats. Needlefish patterns are laughed upon and we weren't about to lower ourselves for a bait and switch. We had to feed the beast a meal. Successive casts stripped as fast as possible proved futile. Adam began talking of his early years fishing in Canada for Musky and Pike and how a figure eight retrieve at the boat would often elicit a strike. He recommended running the fly along the perimeter of the dock making erratic movements. On top of that, with the fly near the rod tip the steel leader wouldn't be in the water at all. The fly would be in the same position as the mullet that the fish had just missed. A half hour later, I decided to give it a try.

This fish was who knows how old. It owned that section of sea, especially since all of the large sharks have been converted into lobster dinners. Unseen, the monster just hovers among the concrete dock supports. In its younger days I am sure it was hooked once or twice. The thing is so savvy that it rarely takes small fish that are hand-jigged from the structure. No one catches tarpon here, so my baby must have looked like an all you can eat buffet. Every lure that fish sees travels in a straight line as it is retrieved. As Mark ran down the dock, turned the first corner and dragged his fly in a tight 90 degree arc it was easy to imagine the beast turning its attention towards it, running through an unconscious checklist in its brain: leader? not visible. Movement? Fishy. Size? Worth the effort. Pivoting with its pectoral fins, the second 90 degree turn of the fly, only 10ft later, was all the convincing the beast needed. It was go time.

Honestly, I decided to give it a try just for fun, I had zero expectations for what I was about to do. I placed the pattern in and started a brisk trot down the dock with only four feet of leader out from my rod tip, the fly just below the surface. Approaching the second ninety degree turn, I ripped the fly a little harder, accelerating it around the column. From underneath, came the fury of the beast. With bad intentions from his previous misfortunes, he engulfed twelve inches of material in his triangular mouth of razor blades. I stripped and lifted straight up while simultaneously shouting "HOLY SHIT, I'VE GOT HIM!!!!!"

When Mark yelled in astonishment, Adam and I forgot our conversation, dropped our rods on the concrete and ran down towards the thrashing battle ensuring in the circle of light. I could not comprehend how Adam's advice had paid off on the first try. I lost my mind. Quite literally, halfway to Mark I turned around and sprinted back to the vehicle to try to find a camera. I fumbled through the glove box, trashed papers, clothes, flies, fly boxes all in a vain attempt to document the fight. Probably a split second later I found the damn thing and sprinted back down the dock. I supposedly was yelling and hollering and cursing up a storm but I don't remember any of it. I only remember talking about landing this brute. I was going to get my gloves on, as if that would prevent me from losing an arm when we had it in the shallows...

When I lifted my broomstick of a 10 wt. it bent to the cork, while I didn't even move the Cuda' an inch. For a second, the barracuda was confused, (this was not supposed to happen to him) before arching his frame upwards and throwing his head side to side trying to throw a 7/0 hook from his jaws. Realizing, that this was not the normal predicament, he launched himself to my left in an explosion of water and line. The kind where you rod is pointing one way and the fish is going in the complete opposite direction. I quickly regained some control, and I had the beast tight, unable to maneuver him where I wanted him to go. For the next minute, we tangoed under the lights of the dock, neither of us willing to give in during a tug of war I knew I could win.

When I fully regained consciousness I remember standing almost stock still in amazement at the fish on the end of the line. It was much larger than any tarpon any of us had ever caught. It was vastly larger than any barracuda I had seen in my more than 2 years here fishing, swimming and diving. It was the legend. The beast. It surpassed all imaginings of what I'd heard and my memory of it flashing with a tarpon in its jaws. There was almost no chance of landing it, I realized at that moment. Even if it somehow stayed on long enough, how would we revive it in the pitch black water? Our only hope was that Mark could break its will and we could safely get the fly or cut the line with the fish still green enough to swim off under its own power.

I knew the fish would make a move under the dock. It was as if the beast knew that he was about to tire and was saving himself for one last ditch effort. He was thinking, biding his time, waiting for the right moment. When that time came, I couldn't stop him. My drag was to the max, I was palming the reel, and my rod felt like it was going to break. The movement was super fast, as the beast darted under the dock through several pilings and to his right, clearing the surface of the water in a massive jump. We came tight again in a minute long stand off, where I could picture my Rio Clouser line rubbing barnacles off of the pilings of the dock when suddenly my line went limp. He was off. Reeling in my line, it was discovered that the factory wire leader I was using failed. The wire slipped through the knot connecting itself to a BB swivel.

And that was that. The fish was on one side of the dock while Mark was on the other. I tried to grab the line on the fish side so Mark could maybe drop his rod in the water and I could pull it over, but by the time I was laying and reaching the knot had slipped. The fish knew what to do. Once it realized the predicament it was in it slowed down, took stock, eyed us up and realized all it had to do was turn towards the pressure and loop around a concrete dock support. We were outmatched and it was over.

Two nights later and woman who had heard of our battle with the uncatchable fish approached us on the dock. We said that we were worried we'd killed it from exhaustion and the 7\0 hook and wire hanging from it's mouth. She said she saw our fish that very night. It came out from beneath the dock, seemingly just to show itself, before returning to its lair and resuming its position atop the food chain. Above anything else, we were humbled to have been witness to a fish such as that. To hold it for a few moments of reverence before reviving and releasing might have been too much to hope for.

That was one of the most surreal and insane moments I've ever experienced, anywhere. It was as if we summoned the beast by speaking of the mullet at our feet. Then, watching it hunt, oblivious to us, and watching it miss, while the possibility of catching it bloomed in our three minds simultaneously, to using Adam's musky technique and having it actually work... I'll never forget any of it. I have an imaginary picture of Mark kneeling in the shallows, somehow tailing this fish under the water, his eyes draw yours to the terrifying and beautiful monster as the flash from the camera illuminates them against a pitch black background. That is good enough.

Aftermath, calming down, reflecting.

Chances

2011-08-22T18:12:00.003-04:00

Morning of day four, we awoke to a passing squall that spit rain into the tent and made anymore sleep impossible as high winds ripped across the tent. It was the beginning of a day filled with passing storms and wind that refused to die down, making the fishing challenging.

Despite the wind, my brother and I decided to take the pontoons out and drift farther out along the coast. Adam dropped us off near the mangroves and we rigged up multiple rods for bones, perm, tarpon, and barracuda, just in case. It didn't take us long to realize a major problem. Rather than having the wind come from the East drifting us along the coast, it was coming from the Northeast pushing us out to sea. After drifting a few hundred yards, we decided to head back to shore. Matt decided to row, while I found it futile. I hopped out of the pontoon into chest deep water and preceded to walk it back to shore. It took quite a long time as we drifted farther out than we did down the coast. We decided to follow Adam as he waded alone in the distance.

After only mere minutes, Matt shouted out, Permit! Under heavy cloud cover, it revealed itself only by going face down and tail up. Matt shot off a cast but the permit turned in my general direction. I couldn't see anything under the heavy glare and Matt shouted at me to make a cast. I hesitated because I couldn't see, but in the end decided to trust my brother. Following the directions of 20 ft. at 1 o'clock, I laid out a merkin styled crab with a rattle, stripped twice and paused. As I stopped, the fifteen pound permit swam perpendicular to my viewpoint finally showing himself in a lane of visibility. I re-casted and stripped. The body language of the permit changed suddenly and he was on the fly. After each of the next two strips, the permit zigged and zagged to keep an eye on my fly. I stopped, and my crab settled onto the bottom. Ten feet from my rod tip, the permit descended upon the crab in slow motion, while my heart raced. He angled downward for the feed and still I waited, my heart in my throat. I set the hook, but it was not to be. I set too soon. I exhaled deeply, adrenaline coursing through my veins. My only chance at glory darted off the flat and into the glare, never to be seen again. I was left with the fine line between a take and an inspection replaying in my mind.

As the image of the permit lingered in my mind, my brother and I shuffled down the flat looking for any sign of fish. The wind and heavy cloud cover made this the most difficult day of fishing on our sojourn. The lone fish came as I spotted a very large bonefish cruising between a small mangrove and an abandoned lobster trap. Moving perpendicular to the shoreline, I easily spotted his frame. I made my cast and watched him close in on my fly. I stripped tight to a fish that I expected to be the big guy, but it wasn't. A second fish, much smaller, that I hadn't seen took the fly and the two bones took off. I landed the good fish, explaining to Matt what could have been, if the larger fish was a little quicker to the fly.

Meeting back up, Adam experienced a fishless shuffle as he zig-zagged his way down the flat trying to cover as much water as possible. At one moment, he turned around to find a huge permit swimming right by him. They made eye contact and the fish was gone. We made our way back to the beaches hoping to increase our chances of seeing fish in skinny water. In between passing clouds we had two solid chances at very large fish. One of them proving successful.

Heading down the beach, I heard a loud splash. Naturally I scanned the horizon looking for the wrath of a passing barracuda but didn't see anything. Coming around the side of a mangrove I saw the what was making all the commotion. I large tail was sticking out of the surf surrounded by a column of mud and sand. Emerging from it came a large bonefish at my 12 o'clock. I aimed towards 10, let my line go and the wind carried it to the right my leader landing directly overtop the back of the fish. At the same moment, he went down for another meal, my leader safely descending to the bottom just beyond his tail. When he popped his head out of another cloud, I stripped twice. He aggressively turned over ninety degrees for the fly and I was treated to the longest backing run I have ever experienced that prompted me to actually look to make sure I had backing left. It was the heaviest bonefish I have ever caught.

With low tide peeking, the fishing screeched to a grinding hault. We headed to our rendezvous on the dock where we waited out a few storms and caught some sleep on the dock. We repaired wading wounds on our feet, ate some catered ravioli from a can, and watched the sunset. Halfway through the trip, we were beginning to experience some heavy fatigue. However, something was about to happen that was going to wake us all up.

Camp Life

2011-08-16T17:27:00.000-04:00

"I'd rather wake up in the middle of nowhere than in any city on Earth."

- Steve McQueen

If you're thinking of going to one of the wild places for any period of time, there are certain comforts of home that you should be prepared to do without. Like bathrooms. If you'll be spending any of that time in salt water on or a beach, you can expect to be rather uncomfortable for most of your stay.

Without a reliable freshwater source to rinse off with, our rods, reels and skin were left to the mercy of the salt for our 8 day adventure. There was chaffing. Thats all I am going to say about that.

Open blisters are painful, but sand in those areas, inside your wet shoes, makes for an excruciating, shuffling walk. There was no escape.

Our limited supply of clothing was rotated in a three day cycle. I saved 1 of my 3 shirts until the last day, as a kind of reward to myself for making it.

Replenishing lost salts and carbs with canned meat and liquid bread.

A tree and a roof rack supported the hammock each night.

Twice, the wind blew our tent a few hundred yards down the beach. Having your headlights illuminate an empty space where you know your stuff is supposed to be is a pretty bad feeling. We hitched the tent to an 80lb log one morning, only to find 100 yard drag marks and the tent hung up in the bushes upon our return. After that, we took it down each morning.

The baking morning sun woke us each day and alerted us to the few hundred bloodthirsty insects that had alit on the bugshield of our hammocks, unable to reach us until we exited the cocoon.

Five-Star accommodations.

Adam forgot a toothbrush. The general store was closed for the first 5 days of our stay. You do the math.

We chanced upon a closed-down and boarded-up beach bar with some makeshift hammocks. We took advantaged and napped away the hottest hours of the day in relative comfort. We also found a slightly ajar door with 'ladies' scrawled in what looked like blood. Inside was a horrifying scene, but better than the mangroves.

Every step around the campsite was fraught with danger. Jumping cactus, insidious little sharp seed delivery mechanisms, punctured toes and then the fingers that tried to remove them.

Before embarking, we knew how manky we would feel during our journey. That was all part of the charm. We knew that this was an experience that we were very fortunate to have the chance to take part in and that it would stay with us for the rest of our lives. There are very few places left where you can just camp in the sand under a canopy of a million stars bisected by the Milky Way, have a few beers and then wake up and sight fish to giant bonefish. We didn't see another fisherman during our stay and we could have done what we were doing until we spent our life savings on SPAM and beer. No one was going to bother us.

Each day, we scavenged some bits of plastic to bring back to our campsite to make it a bit more comfortable. A broken 10 gallon bucket to use as a cooler\seat, what appeared to be a cattle feed trough found buried in the sand was used as a bench. By week's end, we had built a homey little encampment with a coral fire ring, three seats and a beer pit in the sand that could hold a 12-pack and a bag of ice for a few hours.

Sweaty, sandy, salty, smelly, itchy, bug-bitten and buzzed, but content.

SPAM-sicle. Delicious, but I wouldn't recommend it for more than a few days in a row.

-Matt

The Beach

2011-08-11T20:39:00.000-04:00

The sun crept slowly up on the horizon showering the inside of the tent with beams of light. Tossing and turning, Adam and I refused to get up until the light edged up our torsos and shined directly on our faces, beginning our morning ritual. We needed to get up and into the car as soon as possible to avoid the onslaught of bugs. Our safety net was the dock two miles away. Jutting a hundred yards out to sea from the mangroves, it contained the only respite from the marauders and a stiff cross wind. It also allowed us precious time to change, eat, brush our teeth, and air out the rental of foul smells and bugs. We rushed out into the sand, woke up Matt in the hammock, and hopped into the rental.

Airing Out The Rental.

On the dock, eating our breakfast, we decided to vary our plan of attack and give the main drag a break. We decided to hit up the beaches and stalk large single bonefish in skinny water. Matt opted to take out one of the pontoons and drift out in the deeper water.

Matt Went SOLO, Drifting The Pontoon.

Their Tummies Done Full Up.

Dropping Matt off, Adam and I fooled around on the first section of beach. On this beach, the bottom consists almost entirely of sand extending over a hundred yards from the shore. You can often see bonefish coming from a considerable distance, but the sun had receded behind the clouds starting a long game of peek a boo. For ten seconds, we had great visibility, then someone would turn out the lights and you couldn't see anything. Despite the conditions, we each had chances at fish but failed to get their attention. We headed back to the car and headed to a different beach down the coast. Matt continued to play in the distance.

Risky Business.

Smart Fish.

At the new section of beach, Adam and I started our walk. It was more of a creep, with two sets of eyes scouring the shoreline for any sign of activity. When the sun came out, we slowly moved and immediately stopped when the sun went behind the clouds. It helped considerably that we saw fish on the previous beach because we now knew what to look for. The silhouette was extremely faint. We walked together at first, and I spotted a very small fish a mere 20 ft. from us and it took me a few seconds to realize that it was on the back of a bonefish. I made my presentation and watched the smaller pilot fish run off the bones back and take my fly. I waited for him to spit it out and made another cast. The bone accelerated and took my fly but I pulled it out of his mouth. He promptly spooked.

Since I had the first shot, I let Adam out front and gave him some space to operate. I back tracked down the beach to see if I could get another shot at the same fish but it was not to be. I resumed my trek and came down to a mangrove on the water. From the right came a large silhouette slaloming between mangrove roots. If the fish wasn't moving, he would have been completely invisible. I dropped my fly ten feet off the last root and waited for him to close the distance. When he was in range, I popped my fly twice and he was on it. I was in by backing in mere seconds and was treated to another long run before I regained my fly line. Bringing him in for a quick land he accelerated a third time directly under the very roots where I saw him. I had a quick flashback to my first bonefish I ever caught (the incident) and did not want a repeat. I gave chase and again went for the land. For the fourth time, he went on a run and under another mangrove, this one much more dangerous. Safely navigating that obstacle, I landed a great bonefish.

After discussing the previous events, Adam headed out in front. I waited again and checked my knots to make sure everything was ready to go. I resumed my crawl, and soon spotted a fish coming into the shoreline. I called out to Adam and he trotted toward my direction before dropping at the waist to hide his silhouette. I pointed out the fish, but he was considerably closer this time and over top the mottled bottom making him disappear. I could barely see him and gave Adam directions to cast 20 ft. directly left of a lone mangrove sticking inches out of the water. As he made the cast, Adam spotted the fish. His crab landed almost on top of the fish's head. It didn't matter. The bonefish turned and engulfed it. It took off to the horizon, prompting Adam to say, "He's angry, ohhhh, he's angry"!

We picked up Matt a considerable distance away. He told stories of tarpon busting bait and bonefish swimming under the pontoon completely oblivious to his existence. He had trouble getting ideal positioning though in the stiff winds. We took our routine mid-afternoon siesta feasting on Red Bull and potato chips before heading back to the beach. Immediately after busting through the mangroves, we spotted a tailing fish right in front of us, its fins glistening in the sunlight. Matt took the shot. As he stripped in the bonefish was on the fly visibly following. Matt stripped set on what we all thought was a bonefish. However it was a pilot fish, which we took to calling lieutenants. The only bonefish we saw that evening darted off the flats in a violent symphony of water.

Manny The Mantis.

Waiting For Tail.

Fishing For Crabs.

The Bugs Were Relentless.

Everyday We're Shuffling

2011-08-05T10:52:00.007-04:00

Under the cover of darkness we settled down on a suitable stretch of beach for the night. I was pretty tired after helping Matt and Mark pitch their tent so I decided to rough it in the front seat of the SUV instead of setting up the hammock. Although I’ve done this many times before, I regret the decision to this day. I expected to spend the first twenty minutes or so killing all the mosquitoes, that’s normal. Twenty minutes gone and past, I thought I killed the last mosquito in that vehicle countless times. Each time lying back down only to hear that dreaded sound once again…EEeeEEee! Another great night’s sleep came to an end sitting upright, wide-eyed, and smiling as the sun crept over the ocean slowly shedding its light on paradise.

Arriving at the flat, we decided to change our plan of attack slightly. The first day the middle man in our chain reported seeing some alarmed / weary fish. So we staggered our three prong attack, dropping the middle man back to produce a deep “V" to try and buy these weary fish some time to settle down. Making our way out onto the flat I opted for the outside lane and headed for deeper water, Matt took the inside, and Mark dropped far back in the middle.

Matt and I slowly began shuffling down the flat in search of bones. This morning in particular the flat itself seemed to be alive. There was movement in every direction. As for me, I find these days to be extremely hard to spot fish. I can’t bring myself to ignore how majestic sea turtles and sharks look as they swim by, even if that means I miss spotting a fish or two. One sea turtle made the mistake of trying to hide from me by lying motionless on the bottom directly in front of me. I slowly crept up to it and placed my foot gently on its back and reached down and picked it up. Haha! I have to hand it to the little guy for sticking to his game. I’ve seen these guys jet off a flat faster than a spooked permit in the past. Hopefully it learned from the encounter so it doesn’t end up as table fair.

A few minutes later I got my first shot of the day as two bones entered my view. I placed my fly and no sooner was I connected. One of the bones blitzed the fly the second it hit the water. I don’t recall even transferring the line to my stripping finger, it was unreal. After a brief battle my first of the day came reluctantly to hand. As we continued down the flat I had a pretty unnerving encounter with a large Caribbean reef shark. Mark had spotted the shark 100yds off to my right heading in my direction. I just stood there and watched as it approached. As it got closer I locked eyes with a gorgeous a seven foot shark. It was on course to pass twenty feet behind me and I thought nothing of it until it turned on my mud trail and was coming straight up my backside. Fuck. At this moment instinct took control of my actions. I extended my 7wt. and poked it in the face twice and it slowly turned and swam off. It was pretty awesome. Continuing our way down the flat I connected once more as a loner bone thought it could escape my peripheral vision.

After lunch and a successful search for Red Bull we were ready once again to comb the beach for tailing fish. With two fish under my belt for the day I sat back and watched as Matt and Mark tried their luck. Matt was up first, spotting some glistening tips he crept into position. Kneeling on the beach he waited for the fish to position itself just right before he made his cast. A few strips later his fly was in the crosshairs of a bonefish on a mission. Matt was connected in moments. It’s awesome to watch a bonefish accelerate to a fly in water not deep enough to cover its back.

Shortly after Matt’s fish was landed, Mark found himself in an identical situation. His eyes were locked on a set of glowing fins in the setting sun. Already in position he made his cast and got the response he was looking for, a V shaped wake quickly making its way to the fly. Once hooked the bonefish suddenly didn’t like the seclusion of the mangroves anymore and took Mark’s fly line on a tour of the main flat. Landing this fish concluded our fishing for the day with enough time to enjoy the last colors of the setting sun.

-Adam

Pure Bliss

2011-08-03T07:39:00.145-04:00

Our arrival signaled the capstone of our month long sojourn in the Caribbean. As the ferry workers unloaded our pontoons onto the dock, we patiently awaited the arrival of our wheels with our eyes affixed towards the flats. We were pumped to say the least, our minds warped by heightened expectations and two long weeks of very slow fishing and bad conditions. This was our time to shine.

The SUV rocked from side to side with two pontoons awkwardly placed on top, as we made our way down a dirt road. Soon we were sinking into a drying salt pond as we drove all the way to the edge of the mangroves. Stepping into the hot Caribbean sun, we slowly rigged up several rods, tied and checked our knots, and examined boxes of flies. We settled on a three pronged attack over almost a mile of water. Adam settled on the inside lane with Matt in the middle, and myself on the outside. Overlapping our peripheral vision to increase our chances of spotting the elusive golden ghost.

Elusive may be an understatement. This is not Andros South, and we are limited to foot pursuit fly fishing. On a daily basis, walking several miles, we only had 1-4 shots at bonefish each day. The bones are not in vast schools and instead are in singles or pairs. Our time on the flats was spent hoping that the shadow of a bonefish would come into your viewpoint, when they had the entire horizon upon which to roam. Our patience and concentration was pushed to the limit. When the chances came, we tried to be ready, and either reveled in glory or dwelled on our failures.

After an hour of walking, a shadow crept into Adam's cocoons. Without saying a word, he flipped personalities and his body language changed. He bent at the waist and knees to hide his profile from his quarry. He made his presentation and varied the retrieve, matching the pair of bones advancing towards his position. Matt and I heard the fly line in the air and turned our heads, reluctantly losing focus on a foreground of nothing but sand and water. Stripping tight to the first bonefish of the trip, Adam let out a hoot and several sentences that did not make sense. He was in a state of pure bliss and was wearing his emotion on his sleeves.

Ten minutes later, the scenario repeated itself. Adam quickly landed another great bonefish leaving Matt and I down 2-0 with several hours of day light remaining. Matt and I had our chances during our three hour march downwind but we came up empty handed. Exiting the water, we had a hike back to the car. The sun had depleted our bodies of hydration and our water bottles were empty. Nonetheless we headed back to the car where we found hot water and roasting cans of ravioli to refuel upon.

With only a few hours remaining on our first day, we headed to a shallow area along the coast, looking for tailing fish. We found them. With Matt and Adam sitting on the sand, I stalked a large tailing fish in mere inches of water. He was completely unaware of our presence, while actively feeding on a bottom of rolling piles of sand. A close presentation and a very light fly was needed in such skinny water. On my third cast, he noticed an easy meal and charged leaving a wake upon the water. Just like that, I am into my first fish of the trip and he took off towards the mangroves. I placed the brakes on him and brought him to hand. Although you couldn't see it beneath my stalker mask, a smile finally spread across my face.

With the sun setting behind the tiny island, we made our way down the beach to our new mothership. We had to find a place to stay for the night amongst marauding no see ums and mosquitos. Along the way, we exchanged stories of our chances during the day. We talked of stand offs, spooked fish, and a large 10-12 pounder that snuck up behind us on the flat, carrying several pilot fish with him. We tried to comprehend where we were and what we were experiencing but we could not. A shaking of the head was all we could muster. Such is the case when one finds themselves in the moment.

The Capstone

2011-08-01T09:29:00.001-04:00

As the rising sun flooded the volcanic hillsides, we piled our gear on the dock to await our ferry. In a few short hours, we'd be wet-wading, in the moment, for the next 8 days.

For the previous two weeks we shared the waters with a group of friends. But now they had departed back to their homes across the pond, leaving us in the caribbean with the fish all to ourselves.

The plan was to hit the prime location hard for the remaining time before family arrived for a vacation at the end of our fishing trip. The night before we departed, we caught an early movie and then tied some key flies while talking strategy as we packed our bags for a little boat ride to an off-the-grid island surrounded by miles of flats and a large barrier reef.

There would be no mothership this time, no apartment to shelter us from the elements when mother nature decided to turn on the faucet, and no escape. The ferries to this place are infrequent, and we weren't about to fork over a buck fifty a night to stay in the one guesthouse on the island. We stocked a hefty first aid kit, as well, because there would be no evacuation until the ferries showed up. We had everything from Band-Aids to tourniquets.

The three of us planned to sleep on the beach for the 7 nights we counted on prospecting the island's flats and reefs. We would have a tent with a rainfly, a hammock and a tempermental 4x4 with two pontoons strapped to the bare roof. The trip was personally catered by Chef Boyardee.

We were fully aware of what awaited us on this leg of our adventure. Bonefish. Big ones. As well as sore feet, poor nights' sleep, unhealthy meals, millions of mosquitoes, pervasive sand, trench foot and maybe, just maybe, a shot at a permit. There is always, of course, the expectation of the unexpected.

This was going to be the capstone to our 5th annual taste of the dream. This was going to be awesome.