We were running a little behind, as you know sometimes happens on trips you’re trying to really prepare for. My buddy Adam (who writes a hilarious tale) was already at the rendezvous point, and I was quizzing him as to how the water was doing.
“Oh I don’t think we can go out there man. Way too dangerous. There’s three whole sets of surf and they look to be almost 18 inches tall…”, he said in a dire tone of voice.
Music fills the truck, streams out the windows
Guitar riffs crying, drifting where the wind goes,
Roll up, slide out,
Rig a rod, fly doubt,
Yeah. That one… Knot it.
Continue reading
I got the word via text – water looked good, the mackerel were in, and Chris just caught another one. I couldn’t jump in the truck fast enough. “Smacks” are toothy speedsters, usually the first pelagic fish to move in near shore and present fly chuckers a chance from the jetty. A small, flashy fly to imitate the anchovies that were schooled in abundance around the granite slabs, and it was game on.
Quickly popping the hook to return the s’mack to the depths…
The last minute scramble; the boat dock rendezvous with your buddies.
Boat in question belongs to a not-so-favorite family member, but it’s better than no boat.
The pit-of-stomach sinking when the engine doesn’t start; buy a new battery, she starts!
Now the tilt doesn’t work. Great.
We’ll work around that. Just get her off the lift into the water, and we’ll get going.
There comes a time in a young hook’s life when it has a chance to become something greater.
To transform into a beautiful creature of greater purpose, to transmogrify…
Eh. Alright. I got a little carried away there. After all, we are talking about Carp Swap 2013 here. Transmogrify? Oh yeah, I’d catch hell for that one.
ANYway, back to the hook – or rather, the water, where it all starts. “Where does a fly begin?”, you might ask. Well I’ll tell you. It starts with a problem.
I woke up to sounds of exultation.
“Woo hoo! Look at that WATER!”
Obviously my fishing buddy Austin was awake. Walking to the window revealed a gorgeous sight.
Slicked out and mirrored. photo credit Austin N.
We hurriedly grabbed a breakfast taco and loaded the boat. The boat ride to the deep flat we wanted to fish seemed surreal as the water continued to reflect the sky with near perfection. A slight breeze kicked up now and again, but most of the run was spent cruising across a mirrored surface.
Rollin’ out
As we drifted across the potholes studding the grassy flat, I was struck by the beauty of the area. The sun was shining, the water was green and clear, and the boat drifted nicely – not too fast, not too slow. My buddy Austin and I scanned for fish, hoping our eyes could pick out the outline or shadow of a fish in time to make a cast. Suddenly, a big wake started pushing up ahead of us – I strained my eyes trying to make out the fish. Sheepshead! A whole school of the tricky buggers was already spooked and running away from us. Ah well – chances of catching them were pretty slim anyway. Besides the sheepie sighting, pickings were slim so we decided to anchor the boat and strike out in waders. This would allow covering the water slowly and deliberately, usually a must when the water is cold.
I don’t know what it was but neither of us were feeling very confident about the spot, though it fit all the criteria for winter fish-holding water. I was considering walking to an area nearby that looked much shallower, but wanted to make sure that Austin agreed. As I started walking back towards him, he suggested that we should go check out the shallows that I already had my eye on! Sometimes you wonder about things like that… I laughed and said definitely.
So it was that Austin, myself, and his dog Goose found ourselves walking through some mangroves, instinctively trying to step quietly even though neither of us expected to see any fish.
My attention was attracted by a small flock of redhead ducks across the way, but Austin was practically on point when he asked me in a low voice if I saw the same fish he was seeing.
My head snapped around and I immediately found the spot he was looking at – the only ripple on an otherwise smooth surface. I then looked back further into the shallows and spotted three, four, five more glimmering spots…
“Redfish!”, I said with a grin. “Backing redfish.”
Wriggling around with their backs out of the water, these fish were spread out and foraging across the flat.
We started forward, gingerly working our way across the mucky bottom and trying to make as little noise as possible. While Austin approached the first glistening back we had seen, I split off and started to stalk a tailing fish.
Unhappy Dog
Poor Goose was left staring after us on the shore, clearly unhappy with the turn of events.
I stalked after my fish, struggling to stay quiet and push as little pressure wave in front of me as possible. Even so, the fish seemed to sense me and moved steadily away, until I figured I had no chance. Suddenly, movement in my peripheral vision caused me to instinctively freeze; a fish was lazily tailing less than thirty feet away! I swore softly to myself and adjusted for the cast, dropping slowly to one knee as the fish meandered closer. Twenty feet… I flipped a cast ahead of him, the soft plop making him turn his head toward my offering. Twitch… and the fish surged forward, waking violently toward the ‘shrimp’ that had suddenly appeared in front of him. I waited for a sign that he had eaten it as I grinned like a fool; this, after all, was what it was all about. I waited and…
He missed it! Total wiff. Spinning quickly, he snatched for it again, but by that time the fly had sunk into the grass. Resuming his leisurely pace, the fish slid forward a few feet and then rested on the bottom… roughly twelve feet away from where I crouched. Totally screwed!
Crouching fisher, hidden redfish
I was afraid to blink, afraid to even breathe hard. I slowly moved my phone into position and snapped the above shot. Seconds stretched into minutes and he still didn’t move. I could hear Austin fighting a fish behind me and I wanted to get a picture so I lightly tapped the water with my rod tip to disturb him as gently as possible so he didn’t blow up. That worked great right up until he started moving forward – evidently he saw me. Floosh! Away he went. Crap. Oh well.
I sloshed across the flat back over to Austin who was holding his fish up, and admiring it as it gleamed copper and silver in the sunlight…
To Be Continued…
First fish of the day!
I love getting to fish with a partner on days like that – sharing the moments of what I would describe as fishing bliss. The day that came before the day when you ‘shoulda been here’. THE right spot at THE right time.
Austin carefully cradled his fish for a couple quick hero shots, and then eased it back into the water. We watched it swim off and traded high fives.
Splitting up again, we slowly shuffled our way across the flat, staying roughly even with each other as we went. Stingrays dotted the muddy patches between eel grass like landmines. Fortunately when they buried down in the silt they left a tell-tale blackened area, so they were easy to spot. Still a little nerve wracking though, especially when you’re focused on a tail in the middle distance and glance down to see one right in your path.
Tricky tricky. I see you…
Austin spotted a pod of tailing fish, and then I sighted another one; the closer we got to them, the more stingrays we saw. Picking our way to the schools of fish, we suddenly had a problem – we were surrounded! In front of us, a marauding pack of reds was slashing through small baitfish. Behind us, a school was moving up through the silt cloud we left behind as we moved. We thought quickly and overcame our tactical disadvantage as best we could; back to back, we cast at opposite schools and hoped for a double. Forgoing finesse, I plopped a fly into the heart of the school I faced; half a dozen strips and my fly was headed swiftly in the opposite direction, locked firmly in a fish’s jaw. Austin quickly came tight as well, but that red managed to toss the hook in short order.
I managed to pull this little piggy out of the middle of the cruising school
Photo cred Austin N.
As we walked off the flat later that day, I reflected that it had been one of the most unexpectedly successful trips I had had in a long time. I guess after you fish water for a while you start to feel like you know it, and grow a little complacent. You start fishing spots you know instead of breaking out and fishing new water, taking the chance that you’ll catch nothing but a day well spent. What had led us to that shallow backwater? I couldn’t tell you exactly, but it stemmed from our innate desire to explore, to see what lay beyond the mangroves. So, take that journey – go around that river bend, just because it’s there. The best way to go is with friends who feel the same way, sharing the adventure and increasing the safety for everyone.
The next time you head out, I hope you experience the fishing bliss that can be found in serendipity. That’s what it’s all about my friends.
Great fish caught by Austin.
Photo cred Austin N.
There are times when fly fishing – and blogging – can seem a lonely pursuit. Hey, most of the time I kinda prefer it that way. Sometimes though, we need solidarity; we need one voice. These are the times when we need to all be in the same room at once, finally getting to put names to faces and enjoy the company of people who share our mindset. Such was the occasion on January 8, when I joined many of my fellow fly fishers and conservation enthusiasts in gathering to help support the Bristol Bay protection effort. If you are just hearing about this topic, you can visit these resources, or watch the documentary Red Gold that outlines the impact not only felt by, but to be dealt to, the local ecology and the local people. My position is a little biased of course but I feel like the guys at Felt Soul Media did a great job of trying to portray both sides of the story.
It was great to finally meet Christine Warren, aka Fly Fish Chick and once again run into fly slingers like Amanda of Red’s Cottage photography and custom fly tying, Gabriel Langley, Matt Bennet and Chris Johnson of Living Waters Fly Shop, and a host of other comrades who love the woods and water. A special thanks goes to Banning Collins of Class V Outfitters for helping organize and promote this important event.
The raffles were great, the venue was warm and dry on a wet, chilly day, and the networking was fast and furious. A great cause was supported, and even as the specter of utter doom and disaster hangs over one of the most prolific and beautiful areas in the world… a ray of hope shines. We can help, and I ask you now, learn about this issue. Please. If not for yourself, for your grandchildren, and their children’s grandchildren. We only get one chance to do this right.
Sportsmen are standing up and drawing a line in the sand, and you and I and all of us can make a difference here. We are in this together – you are not alone.
When the alarm went off he quickly snagged his phone from the bedside table and silenced the trilling tone. Mental note to self – get better alarm tone. A reel screaming or something. Anything.
Outside the wind is still howling when he pokes his head out for the local weather report. The palm tree silhouettes lash wildly, and the the wind speaks with a low moan where it pushes between the buildings. Pushing 35, and he has a friend in from out of town. Them’s the breaks – time fall back on the contingency plans.
A string of grumbled swearing announces the fishing partner waking up. Best not to speak until the first cup of coffee is consumed.
While the coffee maker gurgles softly in the background, the soft blue glow of the laptop screen illuminates the fisherman’s face. Weatherman says it’s gonna blow out there. Nah, really? By the way, tide is slack til almost noon. Great. Well, the good thing about that much wind is it’ll create its own tidal movement. He clicked over to a satellite map to consult.
Quickly going over his mental list of fallback options, he picks out a couple likely candidates. Both offer secluded pockets of water that are wadeable, within walking range of a parking area so no boat is needed. To fight the wind sometimes you gotta keep feet on the ground.
The truck loaded, fishing partner with large coffee mug in hand, tunes cranked up; they’re off, heading towards the eastern horizon just catching a hint of grey from the day to come. The partner doesn’t say much – he knows today is going to be tough. The fisherman had been warning him all week the weather looked like crap, but he was by golly here to fish and fish he would. Wind be damned.
They pull off the blacktop and wind down a rutted sand track, crawling the truck though holes with the confidence of experience. The vehicle knows the road just as well as the driver, and together they get through as they have so many other times. The fisherman takes time for an affectionate pat on the dusty dashboard. Thatta baby. Good job old girl.
The man knows his partner wants to see tailing redfish, and they came to this spot for that reason. Sometimes reds would get up on this particular patch and tail or cruise. Most of the time there weren’t many but usually they were larger fish, singles and doubles. Large sand dunes and the bulk of the barrier island created somewhat of a wind break for the area – it was the best he could think of.
The sun had snuck up over the rim of the horizon while they bounced down the sand road and now it hung poised, golden-orange and welcoming. Even the grumpy partner smiled.
“If the clouds stay away we have a chance.”
“Yep.”
They flowed through the ritual – sliding rod pieces together, spinning reel seats tight, stringing up, putting on a fresh leader of stiff fluro to help fight wind knots. The gusting wind was there with them every step of the way. The fisherman got ready, then watched his partner finish readying. It had been a couple years since they had last gotten to fish together.
“Glad you haven’t forgotten everything up there in landlocked country. Still remember how to cast?”
“Ha. This guy. He’s got jokes. The crap I have to put up with just to catch fish around here…”
When it came time to choose a fly, the partner just held out his box.
“Pick a good one.”
“So you can blame me later if you get skunked?”
“Ha, yes. Exactly. Now pick me a good one, Mr. Guide.”
“No, your flies smell like you – no self-respecting fish will eat them. Start with this. That way you won’t only catch hardheads.”
The partner’s outstretched hand received a rough-looking cream and tan crab. He looked up with a smirk ready, but realized it wasn’t a joke.
“You’re going to make me fish a crab.”
“Yep. That one’s caught 5 this year already… it’s got the mojo.”
“You know I hate fishing crabs. Aren’t they eating anything more mobile? God, I hate not stripping a fly.”
“Is that the sound of whining I hear? C’mon, the tails are waiting.”
With that, the fisherman pulled up his buff and turned away, becoming inscrutable and obviously done with the fly choice conversation.
The partner only grumbled a little as he tied on the crab – it was the right time of year, he knew, and it wouldn’t have been recommended if it wasn’t working. Still, he couldn’t resist a parting shot at the retreating back of the other man.
“You’re an a**hole! Wait for me!”
“Love you too brother; hurry up, the fish wait for no man…”
The partner swore softly and grumbled, jerking the knot to finish tying on the crab and hurrying after the retreating figure of the other man.
At the water’s edge they stopped for a moment to admire the sunrise and scan for any tails that might be close. When they stepped in, the partner noticed that the water went immediately to their knees; within another couple steps though they were up on the flat proper with shin deep water that gradually slid into deeper water on each side of the flat. The bottom of the flat was hard sand well-sprinkled with grass and punctuated by slightly deeper potholes. Crabs, marine worms and seashells were easy to see in the crystal clear water even though the surface was ruffled by the wind. They shuffled slowly forward, trying not to push a wake or make sudden moves.
The partner finally began to smile a little as he looked around at the life at his feet. Ah, yes, this was much better. He didn’t have to think about all the worries at home, and the…
“Fish!”, hissed the other man. “Two o’clock or so. Maybe 40 feet. Headed to us.”
A few moments of quiet panic ensue – the partner hadn’t even stripped any line out to prep for a shot, and the fisherman chuckled a little at his friends’ expense. Luckily, the fish turned and stopped to tail on something after swimming a few feet closer, waving the redfish flag for all to see in the morning light.
Now, line stripped out and rod at the ready, the partner moved slightly forward as the fisherman moved slightly back, giving him room. The tail disappeared and the wind gusted hard for a few moments, making it impossible to see through the water’s surface. The fish vanished, and the two men strained to pick up a shadow or movement of any kind.
Nothing. It was just gone.
“There’s no where for it to go! It can’t have just teleported!” exclaimed the partner.
The fisherman smiled ruefully and shook his head. “I dunno… they’re really good at that. You’d think it’d be impossible… but they can just dissolve.”
The partner was looking for the fish so hard he actually leaned forward a little as his eyes darted to and fro; the fisherman’s hand on his shoulder brought him back.
“C’mon man, there will be more. You gotta know when to fold ‘em.”
Numbly, the partner just shook his head, and turned back to face the open flat. The organic pattern of the flat spread out before them, eel grass and algae patches interspersed with thin, soft mud and firm sand. Every step was a slight effort. Suddenly, an arm slammed back against the partner’s chest mid-step; wordlessly, the fisherman pointed at the stingray nearly underfoot. A prod from a rodtip sent the ray scooting off.
“Shuffle – I don’t have time to take you to the hospital… and don’t step backwards. They’re attracted to your silt trail and will follow it to you.”
The partner grunted assent, and they resumed the tireless searching. Trying to divide time between searching the water close for fish silhouettes and the far water for tails, wakes and splashes that could indicate feeding. Every dark weed patch became a fish; every mullet leap a redfish crashing bait. The partner tried to pick out the differences, the nuances that helped the fisherman separate the fish from the fish.
Suddenly the fisherman halted, raising his rod hesitantly toward a vague area slightly to their right, quartering downwind.
“That… might be a fish. Hold on, he may move again… Yes! There he is!”
The partner had no idea what the other man saw, but readied himself just the same.
“Where! Give me a mark!”
“Just a sec, I think he’s swimming to us… yes! See the tail? About 50 feet, you got this.You’ll have to lay it in on your backcast.”
The fisherman stepped quietly to the right, leaving the partner’s left side free from obstruction. Tossing the fly to the side from where it had hung in his hand, the partner roll cast to get the line moving and then punched a hard cast into the wind. He allowed the breeze to carry the line, cushioning it, landing the crab with a soft plop a foot from the fish.
The men watched intently as the fish moved slowly over to where the fly had hit the water.
“One inch strip, then let it sit.”
Rodtip low, the other man stripped incrementally, barely twitching the fly.
The redfish turned slightly, body language telling the anglers that their offering had been spotted. Suddenly the fish darted forward, stopping over the crab and tailing.
“Slow strip..strip.. set! You got him!”
The partner’s line came tight and the feeling of connection hummed through the rod. But only for a moment; as the fish turned and started to run, the line went slack, and from the highest height he was plunged to the the lowest low.
“Aw, hell. The hook pull out?”, the fisherman queried.
“No… I don’t… hold on.” returned the partner as he brought his line in.
Quick scrutiny revealed a failed knot where the crab was connected.
“Boy it is just not your day! You wet that knot before you tightened it?”
“Ah… no. I don’t think I did.”
“Here. Quit moping, here’s another crab. We’ll get you one yet.”
I haven’t fished in a month or so now, which honestly is a bit hard on my soul. The upside is that I have been able to spend a lot of time with family and friends on a piece of property that my family owns out in the hill country of Texas. It’s a beautiful, harsh place. Characterized by limestone, deer and little rain, the Hill Country is romanticized by many and lived in by few. I love the time that I get to spend out there. Away from the hustle and bustle of the urban areas, I get to unwind. I get to see things that most others don’t get to see… which was the case one foggy morning a couple weeks ago. I was out on a 4wheeler when the fog bank hit, and it was a good thing I knew where I was going because visibility was ~20 feet for a little while. Then, just as suddenly, it cleared and left behind thousands of sparkling jewels in its wake. Spider webs, having caught the moisture from the air, strung out the beads of dew to catch the sunlight. Some were situated such that they formed prisms, creating rainbows in the heart of the webs. I just had to share such a beautiful phenomenon with you, and so here it is. Some repeat, some are edits, but each picture is unique and I like the different aspects shown here. Hopefully, so do you.
![IMG_1980[1]](http://salt396.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/11/IMG_19801-150x150.jpg)
![IMG_1991[1]](http://salt396.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/11/IMG_19911-150x150.jpg)
