DIY Everglades Fly Fishing

The starter shit the bed in the middle of our keys trip a month ago. Forcing us to chase poons armed with a wooden handle and a short piece of rope. I replaced the starter, and water pump, and have been talking real sweet to her in the weeks leading up to this trip. The plan is to push further into Florida bay than I have personally ever been before. I know that some people do it all the time, but that doesn’t quell the nervous excitement I get from no cell service, wild places, and (hopefully) unpressured fish.

The 20+ year old motor fires right up in a cloud of smoke and biting insects. She hums a perfect 4700rpm, slicing through stained glass for 13 miles to the first spot. My comrade fished here a few months ago, and did will. So I have deferred to his intel to start the trip. We pole the leeward side of the bank for a mile or so, as the sun gets higher, the wind picks up. We start to doubt. An hour with nothing but mullet and sharks, not the report from a few months ago. Everything is always changing here.

We run deeper still into Florida bay. More poling, more sharks, more mullet, and more wind.

The same story with the next few spots. The sun is forcing us to begin thinking of the long run home. We have only seen a couple redfish today. We pact to try one last spot closer to the ramp. Refusing to accept defeat. This is the last spot in the bay that either of us are familiar with.

The sun and water are low by the time we reach the final bank. We do manage to see a few wakes and tails, but our best efforts to pole and punch flies into the wind are not rewarded. We load up the boat and head for Mexican food, and to hatch plans for tomorrow.

Day 2

The last day of our quick trip, which means we have a four hour drive home after today’s fishing. Rather than go back to the same spots as yesterday, we decide to cover some new ground. Each spot is punctuated with disappointment, and mapping. We finally decide to change it up completely. We stow gear and prepare for the long run to the other side of Florida bay. Another spot neither of us have fished before.

When we arrive, hopes are low. The water is muddy and we can barley make out the grass a few inches under the surface. We only have a few more hours before we need to point the skiff back towards the ramp.

Within 10 minutes, my comrade feeds the first orange orb we spot glowing on top of the seagrass. Relief sets in. My turn on the bow. Its not long before we start switching off every two fish. Its one of those days that keeps you coming back. Fleeting and rare. Fish doing what they are supposed to be doing. The redfish were eating each and every well placed fly, and rejecting poor shots.

After we boat about a half dozen reds, the sharks come in. We work out a pretty good system. With 20lb class tippet, the angler strips in the fish as quickly as possible by hand, never letting the line clear to the reel. The guy on the platform watches for the tax man. If he shows up while the fish is being fought, he stomps on the deck and jabs with the push pole as needed, until the fish is landed and revived, never leaving the water. This system worked well for a while, but eventually one of the fish got sharked. At this point we decided to move to another spot further down the flat.

At the new spot my comrade was greeted with a small tarpon, and a decent snook. Both laying in separate sandy potholes. We found another redfish, and then the sharks found us. Our deadline for departure was approaching, so we decided to call it early before feeding any more sharks.

New Rig

Upon arrival to the pre-determined public boat ramp I immediately noticed a chip above the rub rail the size of a flattened quarter. The motor looked its 20 year old age, but still glossy and roared to life when requested. Her idle over zealous and spotty for a few moments until she relaxed down to a comfortable 800rpm, the pisser became a solid stream. The boat it self was dated but clean, her 22 year old lines resemble the brand new mavericks of today. The aluminum dry launch trailer was in similar condition.

I always knew I would upgrade my pathfinder 15T one day. I could not have asked for a better first boat to guide me through the excitement and disappointments of boat ownership. I figured out a lot about what I wanted and what I didn’t want in a skiff during my 9 years of ownership.

I had two reservations when it came to purchasing the Maverick. The first being the 10” draft, and the second being and the 22 year old motor. Trusted confidants and mechanically-inclined buddies all assured me that a 1999 Yamaha two stroke is “bullet proof.” But I have become accustomed to the luxury of a 5 year warranty and a 5” draft. My current outboard never crosses my mind until the tiller is in my hand.

My new acquaintance passed me the throttle and the skiff lurched to life in spitting wind across the large central Florida lake. I tried to hide my grin as I imagined the pathfinder bouncing across this sloppy cold front. The Maverick sliced through chop at an alarming pace.

The main reason I wanted to upgrade from the pathfinder was to gain the ability to cross bigger water and make longer runs in comfort. There was no suitable place in this lake to pole the boat, but after a firm handshake I pulled away with my “new” 1999 Maverick Mirage II.

Now to go home and give her a bath, and also sell the pathfinder before my wife murders me.

The following are some of the upgrades I made to my new steed over the past year or so, in case any other skiff nerds are interested…

First things first: I removed the broken fish finder mount and replaced it with two drop in, powder coated aluminum cup holders. After lots of youtubing and elbow grease, I determined that the foggy old compass needed to be replaced with its new counter part.

The boat came with and old ratty casting platform. i removed the 20 year old carpet from the plywood, before sanding and painting it. I also sanded down the aluminum and gave it a quick once over with black rustoleum. not the prettiest platform, but it will do.

After the sale of the pathfinder, I had a little extra money. I drug her up to the Skiff shop in Oak Hill, FL. I had them install a new Minn Kota trolling motor with quick release bracket, and replace the original rope rub rail insert with a black rubber one.

The carpet has to go.

After some paint thinner and about 6 hours of tedious scraping.

I had Castaway customs come out and laser measure the gunnels for Seadek. I saved on cost by applying it myself, it was just like a really large, very expensive decal.

Since I had to remove the old rod holders to replace the old carpet, why not make new ones from mahogany?

I applied a few strips of Velcro and a Yeti Side kick dry bag to store cell phones and other accoutrements. Then I dipped into my first born’s college fund to replace the original steering wheel with and Edson “Special Ops” wheel.

There are still a laundry list of things I want to do, but this is what I have done in the first year of ownership, not to mention working some bugs out of the old Yamaha. She has been on a fair amount of adventures with my in the first year, and has proved to be fishy. I think I’m in love.

DIY Keys Bonefish

A wad of tee shirt is ripped from foggy eyes as a zombie hand fumbles for any snooze button on the bellowing smart device. I crack the trucks frigid atmosphere, the cab inhales humid dawn. The horizon begs to give way to orange. No-see-ums and the tiny kind of mosquitoes dive bomb barren ankles as the obligatory bug dance is displayed while teeth are brushed with a gallon jug and fishing shirts are fitted. We are both surprised to see only one other truck at the ramp.

We hit a few spots we deem as “close to the ramp.” our ultimate goal is to take this marred piece of fiberglass as far as she will take us into the back county, especially if predictions of low wind hold true. The tide is rising all morning. The first spot is too deep. Almost impossible to sight fish in the low morning light. Choice number two is more of the same. We drift off the second flat hunched over cached satellite images. With an abrupt decision, the skiff lurches to life in gin clear drink.

I am on the pole first, as is customary for the boat’s owner. Water this pure my skiff has never seen. We glide effortlessly, even with 15lbs of ice and 22 beers. Skates glide from wood to grass, invertebrates grovel in white sand. Bonnet head and lemon sharks patrol mangroves, tickling deeply ingrained senses. The serenity is intoxicating. Any second now, chaos shall be unleashed by rafts of bonefish or 20lb permit, I figure.

In truth our expectations were moderated between caffeine doses during the six hour drive South the night prior. Both of us have caught DIY bonefish before, but only abroad. We have no expectations that the bonefish will be as wonderfully dumb or aggressive as they are in the Caribbean islands we have visited.

My flat bottomed skiff really has no business crossing giant basins or fighting Atlantic currents. Perversely, this adds to the excitement of bringing a bonefish, or dare I say- Permit, to hand. My buddy may be wondering why he agreed to this trip after mile two in a steady chop. With only a 65 quart stool for comfort. We agree to be content with any size bonefish or permit. A proper mess of young tarpon would also be acceptable. A brand new area, no guides, and a hull shape better suited for aluminum than fiberglass. The odds are stacked against us.

I snap out of my tropic induced coma as a school of three bonefish intercept us on the mangrove line head on. We both do that “instinctive crouch” you do when you are already too close for a cast. My comrade manages to get a fly in front of the trio. The lead fish peels off and the second shows no interest. The third fish gives a halfhearted snap of the jowl. It is hard to tell if friend or foe missed the strike.

New flat and new guy on the bow. My favorite bonefish fly rolls between finger tips. The tropical fever strikes again. Everything is pristine, everything is full of life, everything is beautiful. Everything looks like a bonefish. Three fish come in and break the fever, just as before. The second fish inhales the sloppy plop of my crab fly before it was ever stripped. After successfully clearing line, I turn around to mirror excitement and a thumbs up.

Our first American bonefish.

The first of the big three on my skiff.

Somewhere in the tangle of walking trees and frothing red water. A lump forms in my throat. It was a jack, not a bonefish. Well, half of a jack.

The sun and moral dip low as we make the long run back to the motel/baitshop/marina. But first a stop for the obligatory fried sandwiches and mediocre musical guests. Friendly service and quick beers left the night easy, and the snapper was good.

Day 2:

We run to the last spits of land extending into the gulf and pole all day. Don’t see shit. We fish channel edges, grass flats, mangroves. Don’t see shit. We make a harrowing run for my meager skiff and pop out somewhere in the Atlantic. Poled a couple miles of beach. It sucked. Mapped out a spot nearer an inlet. Staked out. Got a little buzzed, Saw a tail and sobered up. Got a few short lived shots at bonefish in low light, maybe a permit too. Made the orange run home a little more peaceful, with hope for the last day.

Or maybe it was the beers.

Day 3:

Spirits are low. We know its over. Miracles have happened before, but the last morning usually sucks. We see a guide and his sport at the ramp. typically not my favorite sign, but after two days of empty ramps and conspiring how everyone knew something we didn't, it was oddly comforting.

He runs gulf side, as we do. (We left the ramp first which means he followed us). We try a flat surrounding a small helping of mangroves in the middle of a wide channel. More serine landscape, more sharks, no bones. We take yesterdays advice and run toward the Atlantic. After snagging an unmarked crab trap with the skeg, and a few choice words, we are poling once again. Thoughts of family obligations and chores are starting to creep in.

“If we left now I could get some extra stuff done … I would have less making up to do with the ol’ lady.”

I take the leeward line down an ocean side cut. I See wakes to the left and bolt across a small natural channel. My comrade on the bow is numb from hours of shark fins and mullet wakes. We pole into the glare silently. Out of nowhere, he crouches down like hidden dragon and flops out a gotcha after 1.5 false casts. The glare is blinding, all I can do is get low and pray. Somehow he comes tight, line leaps of the deck until the drag is screaming. He turns around to reveal a shit eating grin. Bonefish.

We get a few pictures and exchange high fives of relief. The trip is saved. One of the big three on my modest skiff. I feel content going home now, but I cant help but notice how fleeting the high is.

Guess I will have to get another fix soon.

The Keys Conclusion: Day 3. 6/7/2020

We launch the skiff from a little dirt mound off the shoulder of US1. She glides across emerald and turquoise stained glass sliced open by three blades and 50 horses. Winds are low, the sun is bright, hopes are high. We are on course to the ocean-side flat I have wanted to try the entire trip. The five or so miles of open Atlantic and high winds have made it impossible for my modest skiff the last two days. We split bridge pilings and are welcomed to the calm Atlantic expanse, showing no resemblance to the ocean of 48 hours prior.

We are the first boat to the flat. It’s more vast than anticipated. Lush sea grass mingles with sandy holes under a gin clear barrier. I hardy know where to start. I kill the motor and can’t wait to jump on the poling platform. My eyes already searching while my buddy mounts a rotomolded casting platform and strips out 11wt shooting head.

We debate and form theories about which direction to head and what the fish will be doing. It is not long before a powerful black back and an emotionless eye breach 20 yards off our starboard. We decide to find a sandy hole within the same vicinity and stake out. It is slightly too deep to pole effectively. We start getting shots at 20-30 minute intervals, the fish are swimming all from the same direction and into the tide, but at different trajectories and speeds. Some meander in and set us up for a perfect shot, others barrel towards the back of the skiff at bad angles.

The next fish comes in fast, straight at the back of the boat. It is clear that she is keen to us, as she gives the skiff a wide berth. I have called her location out regardless. We both figure the chance has passed as my buddy rolls out the obligatory black and purple offering. She shears off course by a few feet and bull rushes the fly, stopping a few inches shy of fluttering rabbit hide. Comrade and I instinctively get low as he ticks the fly in short pops. Water flows through fur and feather in a seductive dance. The fish follows the fly until the leader is in the first guide and peels away. Between shaky knees and gentle Atlantic rollers, we both can hardly stand.

As the tide drops our stake out loses depth, and fish become less frequent. Because we are only getting shots every 20-30 minutes, it takes a while to realize they are not swimming this shallow. We bump out further and deeper, desperate to stick a fish before the long drive home this afternoon and work tomorrow.

A few other skiffs come and go from the flat, along with more than a few jet propelled crotch rockets. We watch other skiffs to compare notes and methods to our own. The closest skiff, which is still more than a hundred yards away, and considerably deeper than us, is getting a lot of shots. Before long, we hear a faint “Woop” and we can see that they are on. We are both glad to see how the fighting etiquette is handled in person, and we take solace in the fact that tarpon eating a fly is not just reserved for TV shows, Instagram, and 60k dollar skiffs.

The other boat’s fish is making a B-line right for us, the guide is motoring to lessen the fight. We watch for a while as the stoked crew and resilient dinosaur get closer. we stare in awe at the amount of pressure the angler on the bow is putting on the fish. Through no fault of their own, the other skiff motors right through our line, we pull up anchor with no hard feelings. As they fight the fish, we idle out to even deeper than they where staked. Careful to keep a respectable distance from the carbon fiber place marker.

We are now in seven or more feet of water. Poling is next to impossible. We only have about an hour before we need to head to the ramp. We toss out the anchor and hope for the best, now I am on the bow. I have changed the toad from black and purple to chartreuse. No fish pass by, but 25 minutes do. Filled with jokes about sticking one in the final hour, and fighting them till dark.

“Got one coming from back here.” the seriousness of my comrade’s words slice through the otherwise jovial tone.

I lay out a good shot, but the tarpon is apparently appalled at my choice of fly. I receive the same reception from the next fish and promptly switch back to black and purple. A few more fish come through in the half hour. We are seeing a lot more than we have all day. I make some good shots and blow more than a few. We are both eyeing our watches as we push our wives collective deadline back further and further. The sun is getting lower and the glare increases.

“5 more minutes.” We pact.

At minute four the poon comes through and sees the boat before we can react. We decide to leave the rod and bucket to be stowed last. As we meekly ready the skiff for the final departure, Just as I hoist 65 quarters of slushy ice and empty beer cans-

“Here comes two.”

I lurch forward in my best effort to delicately set down the cooler and grab the rod, but as cooler hits liner the fish head for the Bahamas. Fuck. Everything else is ready to go. Only 11wt, stripping bucket, and anchor remain in use. My buddy stands on the poling platform watching, as I shimmy up the anchor, looking over my shoulder like a 7th grader on pornhub.

“Group of 3 coming right at the back of the boat.”

This time, I set the anchor down with a painstaking gentleness. I grab the rod and start false casting, I stare at the lead fish's shadow, in line with the stern. I lay fly line along side the skiff, in an effort to place the fly far enough so the fish wont see the boat, but not to line the fish.

To my horror, the fly catapults right on the lead fishes prehistoric nose. All three fish make a simultaneous and violent U-turn.

Neither of us say anything. I slide each guide into the rod tube with a painful clack. I blew it. My buddy knows I blew it. He knows he doesn't have to tell me. I should have left him on the bow. I find it hard to enjoy the beauty of blue bird skies and calm seas as we run through the perfect conditions we prayed for all weekend. back to the ramp. I have only my self to blame. I spent too much time pouring over google earth, rigging quick release anchors and greasing hubs. Not enough time casting the 11wt in the yard. I try to blame it on nerves, but no excuse will suffice. We did learn a lot, and we only had one good day of weather- But I blew the last shot.

The only thing I can offer my knotted stomach, as we sit in US1 traffic: We will be back.

The Keys: Day 2. 6/6/2020

Skiff and turbid waters meet rattling joints and pounding cartilage as we run into uncharted territory, tracing the edges of banks and cuts in an effort to avoid open water- until the last possible moment. Every mile or so, we come off plane and bob hopelessly in the open basin, to clear rouge sargassum from the prop. Tunnel hulls and floating vegetation do not get along. Before we can start fishing I am already enthralled with the backcounty. A place so vast, no amount of “google earth-ing” could have prepared me. The spot that is “just over there” on the smartphone, is eight miles through teeth of an angry basin. A place so wild even intermittent channel markers seem sacrilegious.

We decide to valiantly pole some banks known for tarpon, despite the windward orientation. The skiff barrels down the last possible channel from the leeward, no ocean rollers today, but sustained winds carry over miles of open water to terminate at the 15ft hull. We pole a bank with the wind, out of spite, where backcounty meets open gulf. It feels more like riding a longboard than poling a skiff. Hopeless.

The large bonefish spotted yesterday ease our minds into giving up on tarpon for the day. The wind is again blowing from the Atlantic, 18-20mph. We brave another turbid basin until we are leeward of an exposed bank. Miles of shallow turtle grass calms the relentless wind. Sun is high, illuminating grass and it’s grazers.

At home on the southern Indian river, if you find any turtle grass its a good day, and will often hold fish. In Florida bay, there is so much grass it becomes a desert. Plenty of rays and a few sharks. But no bonefish or promises after an hour of poling. We run deeper still into the back country, in search of diverse habitat.

We settle on a pair of islands jutting from a leeward bank, divided by a large channel and surrounded by more turtle grass. We pole to the island begging for shelter from the wind. Hoping to see a tail breach the surface or pronounced wakes of game fish.

Needle fish, lemon shark and barracuda peruse leisurely. Rotating between mangrove, grass and channel. Each juvenile shark offers a spike of hope preceding a letdown just as steep. As we near the natural channel’s edge, multiple wakes push onto the flat, right toward us. We immediately infer that they are not sharks or cudas. I am on the bow with trembling knees. Wakes form in the water and vanish just as quickly, with no clear direction or intention. School after school materialize from the channel’s depth and dissipate before casting range.

Finally a lone wake pushes towards the nose of the skiff, we assume they are bonefish for sure. Until I finally get a glimpse at one of the hollow fish-

Permit.

Each school is comprised of young permit, much more wily and unpredictable than I had imagined. Once I learn this, my knees grow unsteady and my casting gets more arrhythmic. We end up staking out. A couple hours go by, we each try our hand at plopping a fly down anywhere near school after school. Even a 12 foot lead results in blown out fish.

Eventually the frequency of the schools ceased, we have a few more spots in mind before the day’s end. The next flat yields nothing. On a whim, we run to a semi-protected bar that looks likely to hold back country tarpon. We gently pole in the direction of two large logs, suspended by water. Both of us strain eyes in disbelief, until one of the logs flicks a tail and advances a few feet. Holy shit. My buddy fires a good cast too late.

With new hope, we pole windy bars jutting into basins, but the sun is waning and glare is increasing. I would have rather caught fish today, but I am feeling ok on the long run home. We found a couple laid up poons and permit schools on our first trip to the back country. If the weatherman is right, we are going ocean side tomorrow. Winds less than eight mph they say, ill believe it when I see it.

The Keys: Day 1. 6/5/2020

To my surprise, friends, family and skiff made it to the middle keys without a hitch. From 60 feet up, bridge after bridge, my buddy and I comment that the 17mph sustained winds generated from open ocean “dont look too bad” for my 15 foot flat bottomed tunnel. We check into the room and promptly dunk the skiff. From sea level, we find the emerald surface to be more hostile than anticipated.

We viewed this afternoon as kind of a bonus round. We plan to fish the next three full days, any intel we can gather in the first afternoon’s waning hours of light may prune the learning curve for tomorrow. I have never fished the keys before, aside from wading a few flats to escape wedding-related activities. We bump a couple large bonefish poling flats near the ramp. Anticipations are high. The day ends anchored up bay side of a bridge near the ramp. The 11wt is at the ready, but we chiefly admire rollers reflecting the last minutes of golden light in the channel. Sipping beers and scheming for tomorrow, despite forecasts.

The weather the next morning was as expected. 18-20 mph winds from the Atlantic. Low and moody clouds with a hint of hopelessness. We had agreed the night before to seek shelter and look for poons bay side. But after we cross the second bridge and count the 4th skiff ocean side, plans are altered before we reach the ramp. We decide to try a premeditated ocean side flat despite Atlantic rollers and lack of sun. Anchored up wind of a sandy hole, it is clear that poling is not an option.

We hop from hole to hole to no avail, doubting our theories every half hour or so. I figure if we don’t at least try ocean side I will be wondering the remainder of today. Not being able to pole and search the flat feels sinful, staring into dreary water and sipping beer like heathens. There could be a string of fish 30 yards off the starboard and I would never be the wiser.

After wasting most of the morning we ran to a mangrove shoreline peppered with grass in Florida bay. Selected primarily for its leeward orientation so that we could gather thoughts. The sun is out now, My buddy on the bow had a few shots at small bonefish, but no takers. The skiff brushes mangrove saplings aside as we watch silver devils slither away. Our posture straightens. After being beaten down by the Atlantic for a few hours, we have seen our first game fish of the day and the sun is out. We high-tail it to the next flat and pole a few more with little to show for it.

I push into howling wind - the final spot of the day, dead low tide. An exposed flat forms the elbow in a channel. Low water and lush grass protect the hull from chop, but my comrade and I jut out from the deck like sails. A few minutes in, we are surrounded by stingrays, combing turtle grass for morsels while expelling silt from spiracles forming lingering trails, creating a network of chum lines for game fish. As we pole up to another ray I see a dark figure cross the sandy slick. My comrade starts to false cast as the figure turns silver and ravenous. Impossible to lead a fish changing directions like dice in a yahtzee cup. The fly plops down somewhere behind the ray and is immediately inhaled by an eight pound jack crevalle. A strip set leads to fly line ripping into the channel and a broken tippet.

I have never seen a jack feed off a ray before...

He did eat a crab fly...

Maybe I saw a little black on his fins…

We convince ourselves momentarily that it might have been a permit, knowing it is too good to be true. A few hundred yards later we witness the same phenomena, and conclude for certain that it was indeed a jack.

The sun is low, we pole the remainder of the flat investigating each ray. Figuring bones or permit might find the chum lines appealing as well. We bump a few bonefish before dark, existing only as wakes, completely invisible until too late.

The forecast is not good tomorrow. We arrive at the boat ramp defeated but with new hope:

The back country.

POON PREP. 5/28/2020

Close to a year ago, I brought my skiff to the nature coast and had my first taste of fly fishing for giant tarpon. No fish where landed or fed, but breath was stolen by 100+ pound scaly beasts sauntering through crystal clear water. I decided I was going to take my modest skiff the following spring to the middle keys for the fabled tarpon migration. despite weather or her seaworthiness.

As turkey season winds down, I learn the keys are closed to non- residents due to concerns about COVID-19. Before I could start to plan, Monroe county stated that the keys will remain closed “throughout may, and potentially longer given the state of the virus.” My last three fishing trips have been canceled, for one reason or another. An unprecedented global pandemic At the calyx of my most anticipated trip, seems right on cue. To add to personal insanity The beach has been unseasonably blown out for the past few weeks and no one on the treasure coast has seen the sun for the last four days.

One of my favorite (but busiest) fly fishing buddies happens to have a weekend off in early June. I eventually convince him of my gut feeling: They have to open the keys in June. beaches and restaurants are slowly reopening in our hometown a few hours north, How can a tourist based economy survive much longer with only locals?

Thankfully, Monroe county nor my buddy called my bluff. The keys are set to open Monday, June 1. Coronavirus made for a stressful couple months, but all systems are officially go. I immediately put an overpriced 11wt setup on the credit card and begin the usual prep-work.

I have grown to love the build up before a big trip. Lusty hopefulness is tempered with anxiety about weather forecasts and trailer bearings humming for hours on end. I have never had my skiff in the keys fishery before, by my own choice ultimately. Primarily due to tourists, and rumblings of flagrant jet skis and angry guides. A “big trip” for me typically means planning for long runs with no place to buy food or gas. getting as far away from parasailing and alcoholic slushies as possible. The keys are no secret, but the more research I do the more they cannot be avoided. The first journey to a new fishery is always a thrill unmatched. Running my skiff in a realm where 100+ pound dinosaurs slurp tiny flies in crystal clear waters has me manic.

This leads to anxiety and border-line psychotic prep-work. I have caught juvenile tarpon, but have only ever jumped one over 60 pounds. I have feeling I have no idea what I am in for. I want every possible advantage. I delve into fly tying. Multiple nights on end. Every trip, the same inner dialog:

What if you lose this fly? You need at least three.

What if they are only eating black and purple all weekend?

How the fuck am I going to lash a palolo worm to a 2/0??

I tend to put off all skiff maintenance until right before big trips. Maybe not the wisest method but I can never go more than a year with out a good trip, thus bearings and oil changes never go forgotten. in addition to fly tying I have added many other chores to the insanity. Finally Building a stripping bucket from the 12” pvc that has been laying in the woods for a year. Wash and wax the hull and deck. Replace spindles and hubs. Pre-rig leaders. Tie more flies. Research.

Dare I say I hope to have something to report next post. I am almost sure the baby will get sick, there will be a tornado, riots or volcanoes. At this point I will just be happy to get to go fishing

Fucking Fishing. 5/2/2020

I flip through the short rolodex of friends and acquaintances interested in fly fishing, as I do most weekends. This time I am lucky enough to find someone both willing and available. my college outdoors mentor, in many regards. He is almost emotionless, pleased by nothing, and not much for conversation. I cringe at the judgment of my “not Chris Morejon” designed skiff with every hull slap. (The new 50 tohatsu hauls ass though, there is no denying that). I don't mind brushing off these feelings, It has been a while since I have fished the lagoon. I am thankful to have a warm body on the skiff who can cast and pole.

70 degrees at sunrise. Winds are gentle and expected to pick up this afternoon. The sky is impossibly blue and makes you forget there are even such things as clouds. The sun beams so strongly it’s as if no cloud can touch it. I make the long run without a hitch, only a few close calls with the lumbering gray locals. The water is clear and low. Really low. The passing grass and protruding crab traps can make anyone's asshole pucker. Whizzing by at 28mph, attempting to shake my undying faith in the tunnel hull.

We pole into a familiar spot that is almost unrecognizable in the low water. Flats once submerged and obscured are now unveiled and exposed. Shorelines once poled are untouchable, even with the skiff’s respectably shallow draft. Big seatrout hide in plain sight in any nook or cranny deeper than a foot. Camouflaged in stillness, until pushing a ghostly wake, always a little too soon or distant for proper presentation.

Young redfish don't seem to mind the skinny water, but they grow leery of flies and leader. We frequently lead fish by more than 6ft, Bouncing an innocent crustacean perfectly into their path. To no avail.

Shorelines with proximity to deeper flats seem to be key, leading to more shots and bigger fish. My stoic partner stuck a pup mid-morning, prompting the switching of skiff ends. My fly is natural colored, matted and rusty. I am sure it will work but it doesn't feel right - Dragging the skiff 80 miles, running it another 10, poling it another 1 or 3 or 4, Just to present an old ratty has-been. The first two redfish confirm my suspicions. I can no longer resist the spankin’ new chartreuse and tan tied up the night before. A staunch deviation from the fabled black and purple.

A few shots later a middle slot redfish eats it. Engulfs it, more accurately. After fighting with fish and deeply embedded fly on the deck its clear he will not make it. I have not been keeping any redfish from mosquito lagoon or the Indian river lately, but blood red pinholes on the bright white deck convince me otherwise today, this one goes to the table.

We blow a few more shots, some are blamed on fish, others on sapiens. On the run back to haunts closer to the ramp, we glide through school after school of mullet. Bait like I have never before seen in the lagoon. We decide to pole an exposed sandbar near the nourishing waters.

We pole the 2ft doldrums. Yellow bottom bottom and whispers of sea grass. It seems hopeless. We carry on about the best value tarpon rods, and make excuses for why one would never have the reason to cast out all of their flyline at once. I am lulled into mediocrity by morning beers and a uniform bottom- Until the first two gator trout emit a suspended plume of sand and sound into the depths. Ears perk up. Where there is one there are many. We are exposed on the flat’s edge and the wind has picked up considerably. The weather man said 10mph out of the east, we both agreed it to be a “very strong” 10mph. I did manage to get the streamer in front of a couple big trout meandering from pothole to pothole. One even turned on it, I strip-set at the sight of flashing jowls in fumbling excitement, but never felt anything taught.

We finish the day with a few more shots at redfish closer to the crowded boat ramp, then a pit stop on the drive home for well-earned tacos. All is well after fish are caught. While rinsing the skiff I notice a missing bearing (and his buddy) at the hub. Surely laying somewhere on the long shoulder of I95. The skiff and trailer now sport a Jackson Polluck inspired grease painting. Horrid sounds of colliding metal fill the neighborhood as I ease her back into the garage. Thank God I made it home. Glad it happened now so I can fix them before big summer plans.

Life is good, As is tomorrow’s dinner.

Good Bight. 7/20/2019

My obsession with hunting and fishing is becoming harmful. An outing once per week is beginning to seem criminal.

In the recent year I have been the “captain” of these humble excursions more than ever. Bringing my modest skiff to water new to it as well as me. I have been the one doing the research and scouting. I am the one persuading the hen-kept to spend a day or weekend on the water. Bringing my own rig and learning new areas raises the sense of adventure. When you formulate a plan that comes together, the high seems a little sweeter. Just as the skunk is a little more sour. The fish are the driving force, they summon the adventure itself. If I was a golfer I may never find myself pushing a skiff around in a 30mph wind, in a smattering of keys somewhere in the gulf. If I was a golfer I may not know what a push pole is.

I am not as excited as I am when I run my own boat. But being on the bow of a comrade's Whipray with no duties other than poling and trying not to blow shots is a welcomed occasion.

The water is a little higher than the last time I was here. A perfect sheet of glass across the bay, reflecting the sun’s low light from behind the giant nimbus clouds to the east. As we pole through the untouched wilderness, I can hear ominous pounding surf due to the storm offshore. Juxtaposing our leeward bight. The tall clouds blot the sun for the first few hours, most days the boat would curse this. But today, the fish are skinny. I wouldn't say “crawlers,” but burgundy logs with dorsal fins. Finning occasionally, just enough to keep from rolling over.

Redfish breaching the surface unprovoked is always a welcomed sight. But this means presentation and tact are necessity. I was first to the bow, as is customary for whomever is not the skiff’s owner. My first handful of shots were relatively well placed, once my crustaceous concoction was denied a second or third time, we both figured it time for a change. To a fly of the same phylum and weight, only black and purple. The key that unlocks every jowl in the lagoon- So they say.

A few fish later and I feed one on a Hail Mary shot. Perhaps “They” are right. We soon assume the rhythmic dance of a good day. Switching platforms every fish or two, cracking beers and feeding fish like a well oiled machine. In mosquito lagoon fashion, they where still a little snooty.

It was a damn good day, and a long one at that. We left the house at 5:30am to be back by 10:00pm.

Today was the most fish I have ever caught in the lagoon, But I selfishly long for it to be completely from under my own guidance. Two years ago today would have been complete nirvana to me. I still would not trade today for the world. Yet, as I write this, I struggle to come up with content. No hiccups, mishaps-- storms or broken rods. Just shot after shot, eat after eat. I am going back next weekend, with my boat. And a few extra black and purple flies.

Redfish Blues. 2/22/2020

This is the weekend. My first weekend-long fishing trip since the birth of my boy. The boat has a new battery. Eyes nor mind can stop perusing satellite images of endless keys and cuts comprising the nature coast.

Unfortunately, time and age erodes all but just a few pillars of people. After sifting through family, friends and career only a few nuggets of personal freedom remain. For some folks those nuggets are gold, for some they are old iron. For me- these nuggets are most precious mettle.

Two days before departure my buddy backed out due to family health issues. I cannot blame him, I suppose. But devastation comes all the same. Before sobering up, I seriously consider going it alone. A full weekend across the state, poling and fishing my skiff alone. It just wouldn't be the same.

It used to be easier to find people to fish with. We all had multiple hobbies and ample free time. Now its like pulling teeth, although my two dentist acquaintances have not seen a skiff in years. We used to fight over who got a spot on the boat, the week before a big trip was once a time of giddy texting and fly tying. More recently, the week prior seems like a prayer that responsibilities don’t rear ugly heads like lice in a playground.

I don't think the laments will ever understand how these trips feed a soul- just like I don't understand golf. I suppose most look down upon leaving your wife and baby to go fish for a weekend. The more tied down I become the more I long for exploration. When these rare opportunities arise, wind and work are hard-pressed to stifle enthusiasm.

The wife and baby went out of town, as planned. I spent the first part of the weekend drinking and smoking pain away- another hobby that is slips away with time. For the best. I stumble into the last morning of hunting season late. I bump two deer on the walk in, exacerbating temporary depression. My head reminds me of age at the end of each moment with steady throbbing.

Sunday we cobble together enough time for a somber trip to mosquito lagoon. An occasion I am typically thrilled about, Now seems like the shadow of a weekend that could have been. A good day on the Lagoon will leave me insisting the nature coast would have been even better, A bad day on the Lagoon is a bad day all the same.

Clear skies and cool temperatures aid in fighting negative thoughts. Gin clear water and struggling sea grass have fish spooky, but movement free to be spectated by watchful eyes. We find some intermittent singles, Lethargic and weary from the crisp clean water. My buddy manages to stick one from a meandering school, Roaming doldrums aimlessly. Depression melts away, my head clears like February water.

Nothing can be done now but soak it all in. Fresh mangroves shroud weathered and dead main beams of ancestors. Silence is only broken by distant waves and the thrash of a redfish. Light dances across hard bottom into an endless masterpiece. The brilliant blue sky blinds.

There will be more trips. And much to look forward to. The sooner the better.

Solo Mission. 11/25/2019

An unexpected Monday off of work. A high temperature of 70 with a gentle breeze of five knots. Friends and family are busy today, but taking the boat out can not be avoided- comrades or not. Since having my two month old son I have scrounged together a few opportunities to run the boat, but have yet to go on a dedicated fishing trip. Today, I am free. The water is high, and a few recent cool snaps have helped the clarity. Solo trips are tough, I have yet to land a fish on fly from the platform alone.

I plan to fish the banker’s hours today. I pull up to the empty ramp around 9:30am, leisurely sipping coffee. The weather begs that I put the boat in a few ramps south of the area I intend to scour. Extending the run to about 10 miles each way. Even during the first wave of the annual snowbird migration, traffic on the water is light.

I lurch onto plane and gladly watch cobwebs and mummified mosquito carcasses blow from the gunnels. Crisp air stings bare feet. The skiff slicing through glass as it graces the contours of spoil islands. Damn it feels good.

The outboard hums through this same stretch I have fished since I could drive. Escaping the cul-de-sac bass ponds of my childhood. Long before I had a boat, I waded any portion I could get to by jeep or foot. Upon the acquisition of a poling skiff some years ago, extra elevation revealed that this portion of the treasure coast is not highly conducive to sight fishing. Although it can be done, redfish and sea grass have seemingly become harder to come by. Still, every so often a wandering mind pinches and pulls google earth, scanning the same home waters. In search of any clues or patterns. Usually a fish-less trip or two is enough to stifle local intrigue temporarily.

I arrive to the first spot, a known stretch where freshwater flows freely into brackish. After poling for a few minutes the fear seems to be reality. Sometimes the flat is full of new bait and life, this time full of red muck and blue beer cans. The second spot on my list is no more enticing.

I coerce the skiff back to life and charge full speed to the last spot on the list. A previous local outing revealed a glimmer of hope here- product of the aforementioned satellite image study. The water is gin clear, by Indian river standards. More like reposado tequila, good enough for me.

Carbon fiber pushes fiberglass slowly, with the entire mangrove laden pocket to myself I take time to evaluate every shadow and aberration. No influence from the wind. Perfect conditions for one to fumble with a fly rod, 40 feet of coiled up line, and an 18 foot push pole from atop a platform. Redfish in this area can be elusive, but it seems they often show little reservation to eating a well placed fly. I can only assume due to the lack of sea grass and truly organic crustaceans.

The first few redfish immediately prove my theory wrong. Sneaking by presentations like a Mercedes by panhandlers. I change from my favorite redfish pattern to a slightly heavier fly. Figuring the high water renders the fly unseen, fluttering overhead while fish scavenge the barrens for morsels. They aren't to fond of the extra plop. I hastily switch to a baitfish pattern. Each fly change is a frantic blur of feathers, pliers and balance.

To my surprise, I am seeing lots of fish. Also to my surprise, I now have the same fly I started with tied on. Redfish are using the high water to slink in and out of mangrove shoots, trout lay stoically camouflaged on the bottom. The occasional hidden snook darts from mangrove to oblivion. I coerce a few weary reds to follow the fly, but commitment eludes them. The trout and snook don't hang around to investigate.

My mind slips from the world and into this game I play for a few hours, without a single eat to show for it. I often hear people say that it is “not about catching fish,” or “its just about being out on the water.” I always thought that was a nice way to comfort one’s self after getting skunked. While I certainly appreciate the sentiment, I typically am not so easy on myself.

Having my first child has not changed me in any remarkable way, like I thought it would. But I think I have a new understanding of what people mean when they say this. I am honestly just happy to run the boat today. Getting shots at local fish in beautiful weather was an unexpected bonus. I drink in every moment of the prolonged idle speed zones once loathed.

Saint John's River Marsh 9/7/2019

I can’t convince any comrades to fish this weekend. Watching college sports takes priority for some. The Indian river and beach have recently brought on sight fishing depression. The ocean is as opaque as drywall. Remnants still from hurricane Dorian. The river resembles grenadine, ample freshwater spewing out of every gutter and spillway.

I decide going it alone is well suited for some exploratory bass fishing. I have dabbled in a few lakes here and there in the past. The freshwater flame reignited by a few related episodes of the Walkers Cay Chronicles and some new yellow foam popper heads. Not the prettiest flies in the world, but I tie up a few that eerily resemble Homer Simpson.

I decide to try the stick marsh for the first time. A 6,500 acre reservoir that lives up to its name making navigation treacherous at times. Along with a reputation for big bass. Trolling motors are not my favorite but they prove convenient for the lonely angler. mine doesn't get much use any more but it has been resurrected for such an occasion. I can never really tell what level the battery is charged to. I jiggle the alligator clips at my peril as the battery charger spits and hisses.

The 5 speed trolling motor has 3 speeds, give or take. “Turbo mode” can be achieved with the proper sequence of frantic reverse to forward motions of the throttle. Never the less- it gets the job done. I run the skiff carelessly and blindly parallel down a submerged dike, skimming over what I can only imagine was an old levy. Sabal Palms in all stages of life signify the old dike. Jutting out of the water like pungis.

Plane gives way to idle as I push my way into what I deem a suitable spot. The whole lake is sheet of glass, the skiff’s mellow wake absorbed into the cattails and guinea grass until still once again. Under the announcement of black belly whistlers, time loses its importance as I focus on picking apart this shoreline of palm pilings, cat tails and water lettuce. No nook or cranny goes unnoticed by my rude fly. After the ducks have moved through the lake is silent, only interrupted by the splash of a popper or the slurp of a blue gill.

After an hour or so with no bass, I decide to try a spot a few miles south. The perfectly straight levy has lulled me into a false sense of security. Although known to be treacherous, I assumed the perimeter of this perfectly square reservoir could be ran safely. Especially with a tunnel skiff.

Before arriving at the west boundary of the marsh, I realize that no set of gator eyes or turtle snout can go unnoticed. Chiefly because most of them are the stumps and limbs of past trees. Worn wooden nubs barely protruding from the glass- some not at all. I sat the skiff down and began to idle after realizing just how frequent and irregular they are. I lurch forward to catch myself as the skiff gently slides up and off of slick black submerged stump.

Not willing to risk damage to the boat, I opt to crack a beer for the 35 minute set back. Gently idling my way to another known channel. Chopping and sliding my way through a graveyard of gooey timber. I try a few more spots. A number of hours later I am back at the ramp. No eats apart from an early bluegill. An old-timer at the ramp tells me he caught two bass. He claims to fish here every day. Him and I comprise almost half of the people in the parking lot.

The following morning I find myself alone again at another section of the st johns. A thick and shallow little reservoir open to the public. Not known for large fish but aggressive juveniles in numbers. 15 minutes before Sunday’s first light and I am eighth in line. The bass boats in front of me waxing gel coats, eating moon pies and shit talking each other.

My foot leaves the tongue of the trailer as the skiff glides off lifelessly. A few too many cranks later and she begins to purr and scratch her chin on the grassy bank. Another gentleman at the ramp mentions that enough boats have gone by, and should have “blown it all out of there.” by “it” I assume he means water lettuce.

My hypothesis proves true as the humming four stroke winces and coughs slightly as we slide across a matted carpet of frothy vegetation. Just as the day before my yellow popper disturbs the glass. trudging through lily pads and hyrdilla.

after a few missed bass and a large brim I decide to clip off the weed guard. Relaxation sets in. I am now in somewhat of a rhythm from the day before. A fear of submerged stumps is replaced by a nagging curiosity to see how much floating fresh water vegetation I can run over until my warrantied motor gives up. Coots whine and moorhens cluck as the popper glugs through every nook and cranny. A moody green landscape accented by purple hyacinth flowers.

The relaxing nature of a glassy morning slips away. As the wind picks up, the trolling motor remains on turbo mode and the popper whizzes closer and closer to my ear. A few small bass and blue gill prove satisfactory. I tell myself I will leave in 20 minutes, so I decide to try one more spot. After a few minutes the cheap fiberglass bends for a nice size bluegill. Ink black fading to purple. Already 15 minutes late, a perfect end to the morning.

Gear is stowed and the skiff comes to life. The prop gracing shallow hydrilla once more. I race back to the ramp to please my wife and the lord.