To Everything There is a Season

Redfish Ecumenicism

“To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven”.

The author of these well known words remains in dispute by Biblical scholars, though many believe the likely writer was King Solomon. Widely regarded as one of the most brilliant minds in recorded history, Solomon’s philosophical musings in the book of Ecclesiastes continue to provide intellectual stimulation to today’s readers, as it has to so many for the past three thousand years. My goal is to uncover messages hidden in these ancient words which I, as a fisherman, might find instructive and useful in my pursuit of the decidedly non-philosophical activity of fishing.

A brief review of the etymology of the word “Ecclesiastes” reveals that the Hebrew form of the word, which I will decline to attempt to reproduce here in its original form, refers to “The Book of the Teacher”. Further study shows us that the original Hebrew word includes a participle meaning “to gather”. I find these two ideas intriguing.

I look forward each year to the beginning of the month of October. As the cooler temperatures begin their gradual intrusion onto the pleasant warm days of September, many of nature’s creatures initiate their preparations for the coming winter. A happy dividend of this phenomenon is the increased presence of redfish on the flats. There they feed with an abandon that creates fish filled afternoons for the fly fisherman. Typically, large numbers of copper colored fish cover the shallow flats of coastal South Carolina during this time.  They are eager eaters, devouring flies readily. It has been my observation that more of the larger fish can be found at this time as well. I vividly recall afternoons of so many rubric tails wafting gently in the dappled sunlight , that I scarcely could decide in which direction I should cast my gold tinged flies. These large gatherings of my favorite fish suggest the possibility of an ecumenical movement. One might even say an Ecclesiastic fishing phenomenon occurs in October on our flats here in South Carolina. “Praise the Lord! ” continues to be my sole response.

The speaker in Ecclesiastes is called, in Hebrew, “Qoheleth”, translated as “Teacher”. I readily acknowledge that I am anything BUT a scholar, however, I am inclined to disagree with this interpretation. In my mind and life experiences, “Qoheleth” would be much more accurately translated as “Mike”. When first I began this quest to become a fly fisherman and flats man, I knew nothing and could barely cast the line past the tip of the rod. Mike displayed amazing patience and took me on as a special project, hoping to take me from my raw untrained state to that of a real fly fisherman. I remember those times when I stood clumsily at the bow of his jon boat, making even clumsier casts at the redfish arrayed before me in the shallow saltwater of Mike’s favorite redfish flats. Over time, his instructions in every phase of the saltwater fly fishing game ever so gradually transformed me into a reasonably capable fisherman.  It was he who had shared with me the magic time of October on the flats. As a result, my mind has accumulated memories sufficient to sustain me when that time comes that I no longer am capable of a journey to the flats I hold so dear. That time, the end of days in a way, seems to be approaching with ever increasing rapidity.

“A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing”

This fishing year has been a aberration for me. After learning so much from “Qoheleth” about the ways of the redfish, I have achieved a level of fishing success that has left me mostly satisfied. Most trips to the flats have resulted in the capture, and subsequent release, of satisfactory numbers of redfish. I suppose that I had become accustomed to such results. This year has been different. As I write, it is October 5. It is a time of joy, as it is the anniversary of the birth of my elder daughter. But it also is a time of some dismay as I reflect on the fact that I have brought to hand not a single redfish this year. As the Teacher says, there is a time to every purpose. It appears that the purpose this season is to learn another lesson., a time not to gather stones, or in my case redfish, perhaps a time to cast away stones.

My numerous recent trips to the flats have yielded an unusually low number of fish sightings, and even fewer casting opportunities. It seems that the redfish are gathering elsewhere.  I have not been invited to these conventions, and my manifold efforts to crash their parties have uniformly failed. I believe that there is a life lesson in all this. As Qoheleth says:

“A time to tear, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak”

Now is the time for my silence. A time for me to think on all that has been given to me. A time to consider the wonders of God’s creation.  A time to reflect on how precious is the gift of family and friendship. And, yes, a time to give thanks for all the redfish of previous years. It is not a time for remorse and bitterness or frustration.

Epicureas, whose philosophy is easy to like!

Scholars expert in the study of Ecclesiastes feel that Qoheleth may have been familiar with the Greek philosophers Epicureas and Zeno of Citium, founder of the school of Stoicism. These great Greek thinkers held opposing world views. Epicureas promoted the idea that pleasure is the greatest good. That philosophy holds great attraction for me. However,he is careful to point out that overindulgence can lead to loss of pleasure, a point perhaps lost on me. I might argue that that overindulgence in catching, or even merely seeing redfish in abundance on the flats, can never lead to dissatisfaction. However this season, overindulgence remains merely a theoretical possibility for me.

Zeno of Citium, the original Mr. Spock

Zeno, on the other hand, felt that happiness is best derived from shedding desires and passions. This path, he reasoned, permitted decisions to be made with pure, cold logic, leaving emotion and passion out of the equation. Imagine Mr. Spock with a fly rod. For me, life devoid of passion is merely a robotic existence. If ever I find myself machine-like on the flats, casting with mechanical precision, using a fly selected using a handheld computer, and unemotionally setting the hook and landing every fish, it will be time to find a new pastime. Oh, and read some more Ecclesiastes.

I was a young man at the time when “Turn! Turn! Turn!” became a hit by a band called the Byrds. An unpopular war in faraway Vietnam threatened to tear asunder the country. Many young men such as myself were exposed to the risk of involuntary service in the military and possible death on the battlefields of southeast Asia. It was Pete Seeger who set to music the words of Quoheleth. The haunting vocal harmonies were matched by melodious sounds of the twelve string guitars used on the track. I have read that satisfactory recording of the song required 78 takes over several days. Perhaps the most memorable words from the song are those Mr. Seeger added to those of Quoheleth- “I swear it’s not too late”.  I pray that is the case with my redfishing as well.

The Reluctant Captain

A Fishing Philosopher, Perhaps?

There has always been an unending debate among politicians, military leaders, philosophers, and other thinkers revolving around the often conflicting concepts of means versus ends.  This interplay seemingly forms the very core of what most refer to as “morality’. Although a detailed discourse that explores completely this basic part of human nature is beyond the scope of the present writings, (not to mention the writer’s mental capacity), it is an interesting point of discussion.

I suppose that I have fancied myself a follower of Kant most of my life. Immanuel Kant , a Prussian born philosopher, felt that it was not enough to merely do the right and good thing, but it was the motive of the actor that determines the true morality of an action. Kant held the position that despite the fact that an action might have a favorable effect on a person or group, if that action is undertaken for dubious or underhanded reasons, it would be immoral.

The opposing view of this ethical dilemma might be a methodology of thinking common in the modern world, Utilitarianism. The Utilitarian would argue that as long as a positive benefit was achieved by the action, it was, by definition, moral and just. This philosophy allows that only the end result matters, not the motive or the means. This concept seeks to disassociate actor from action, emphasizing the greater good over that of the individual.

A commonly used scenario to highlight the basic differences in these ideas is that of the borrower and lender. If a person borrows a sum of money from a friend, and then repays that friend because he understands that repayment of a debt is the right thing to do, Kant would approve. If, instead, the borrower repays the loan in order to make it easier to get a second loan, or even simply to retain his friendship, Kant would be very disappointed. The Utilitarian would respond that both parties were pleased with the outcome, no matter the motives of the borrower. The Utilitarian might say that anything we do is acceptable, so long as no one is injured in the process.

Which argument is correct? Who am I, your humble writer, to say? I suppose that philosophy, like politics or religion, ultimately lies outside the power of even the most craftily worded arguments. After all, how can a person be persuaded that his or her favorite color is actually blue, instead of the green that they have adored since childhood? Such changes in deeply held attitudes and ideas must, of necessity, be internal. This is not to say that alterations of such precepts cannot occur. Clearly, people do make fundamental transformations quite often, but generally not by force of argument.

What has all this heady theorizing to do with the simple act of casting a hook disguised with feathers and tinsel before a fish? Here I am tempted to move closer to that slippery slope of exploring the morality of fishing. But, that broad and controversial topic is best left for another day and another post. I actually began to think a bit about means and ends a week ago when my eighteen foot flats boat took it upon itself to act out during a local fishing trip. I had invited two friends, Ross and Woody, to join me on my boat for a morning of redfishing. I had spent a goodly portion of the preceding day making preparations for the trip. I had gathered and sorted the tackle, arrayed checklist ready, on my work top. Of course, I had inspected the boat and motor, both of 1998 vintage, ahead of deployment. Attaching the cleverly designed garden hose connector on the 130 hP Yamaha permits starting the engine in my driveway, sometimes to the consternation of my neighbors. I will decline entering a discussion of that particular morality for now.  Suffice it to say that despite an initial reluctance to easily begin the combustion process, the Yammie fired up and ran quite smoothly. I repeated this process several times over the course of the day, each subsequent start being accomplished without fanfare or distress.

I launched the boat with a fool’s confidence, assured that my detailed preparations had left nothing to chance. Falsely bolstering my confidence, the Yamaha came to life readily. We motored away from the dock and came up on plane easily once past the no wake zone. Life was now wonderful. The motor propelled us along at some forty mph, and would have easily reached greater velocity had I so commanded. Thoughts of lovely redfish, tails invitingly swaying in the salty air, filled our heads as the Hewes’ hull sliced the water.

Our reverie was rudely interrupted by the buzzing of the overheat warning on the motor. Almost before I could react, silence. The engine had entered auto-shutdown mode to protect itself from the damaging effects of excessive heat. I waited a few seconds and cautiously turned the key. The Yammie cranked immediately.  I saw a steady stream of water emanating from the tell tale, indicating that at least the water pump was functioning. I made the command decision to continue to the flat, not far away by now. Better to be stranded where we could fish, I reasoned.

We reached our destination flat with no further incident,taking care to maintain a low rpm setting. We had an enjoyable morning, and after a few hours, reboarded and headed for the ramp. About half way there, we were treated to a repeat performance by the motor. It restarted quickly and we limped back to port.

My engine behaved badly that morning, like a naughty child who embarrasses his parents in front of guests. I was, in fact, quite embarrassed to have to deal with engine difficulties with my friends Ross and Woody aboard.The decision to take it in for an examination was straightforward and it currently resides at the maintenance facility. I hope to once more take charge of it in the very near future. Hopefully, some behavior modification has taken place and I will find my engine significantly better mannered on my next adventure. My wallet will, unfortunately, be some $1100 lighter when I reattach the trailer to my SUV.

I find myself a bit of a reluctant mariner. Many people find immense pleasure and enjoyment by simply spending a day on a boat, cruising about, often without specific purpose other than finding some fun, and truth be told, a few adult beverages along the way. I do enjoy the sensation of speed and power my boat provides, as well as the simple joy of being in the natural world despite performing the unnatural act of boating. Nonetheless  I occasionally question the entire affair. In the final analysis, the boat is merely a means to an end for me. Flats boats, designed and manufactured specifically for use the the shallow marine environments where I typically fish, commonly come with price tags in the $30,000 range. Are the large sums required for acquiring and maintaining a fishing vessel justifiable? Is all the annoyance associated with boating in and of itself truly worthwhile? Perhaps the most insightful observer might be the wag who noted that the only thing better than having a boat is having a friend who has a boat.

Would Kant find my motives pure and approve? Or am I just another Utilitarian fly fisherman? You decide.

A Day on the Flats

Happy Redfish Hunting Grounds!

Despite the fact that I have been a very serious flats fisherman for all too many years now, I still occasionally find sleeping difficult the night prior to a trip. Even though today’s trip was a short one to the redfish laden flats of McClellanville, I was already into cup number two of coffee at 4 AM. My eyes had sprung open at 3:30 AM and I , like the proverbial child on the night before Christmas, was unable to do the sensible thing and get some more shuteye ahead of the trip. I had spent the better part of the previous day making preparations. I carefully selected my flies, assembled my rods and reels, affixed new leaders to the lines and laid out my gear.  As I did so, I looked lovingly at my paleolithic wading shoes, a faithful old pair of Orvis flats booties. They had served me well for many years. We had shared uncountable days together, wandering over flats from Mexico to Andros to the Keys , and finally back on my home flats here in South Carolina. My mind began to replay some of the wonderful memories of redfish, bonefish, and even permit, whose capture these shoes had made possible. With some remorse, I examined the large rips, tears, and gaping holes in their sides, realizing that they had now made the ultimate sacrifice for my fishing pleasure. I felt, at least a bit, like the hunter who is forced to put down his old, sick hunting dog and beloved companion. I briefly considered using them just once more, for old times sake, but instead walked smartly to the rubbish container and cast them inside. I never looked back.

Right on time at six fifteen, a white SUV , an olive drab flats boat tucked behind it, pulled into the local McDonald’s where Mike and I had arranged to meet. I had arrived early, enjoyed a breakfast of pancakes,then waited in my Tahoe.We had decided the night before to leave my vehicle at a local home improvement store  parking lot in order to facilitate Mike’s return to his office once the fishing day had ended. So, I went ahead in my Tahoe, while Mike followed with the boat. After only a few minutes, my cell phone rang. Mike explained that he had heard a loud bang, and assumed that a trailer tire had blown. When he pulled into a parking lot, he discovered that the flat was actually on his vehicle.  We were determined to catch the morning tide, so elected to switch the boat to my Tahoe, and attend the deflated tire upon our return from the flats in the early afternoon.

The remainder of the trip was uneventful. I had the radio on an oldies station, and we listened to the gravelly voiced Janis Joplin belting out her classic blues tune “Me and Bobby McGee”. “Busted flat in Baton Rouge” she sang as we motored down highway 17, the coastal road reaching ribbon like ahead of us over the monotonously level ground.

Conditions were near ideal that morning. We launched the skiff without incident, and set our course for our favorite flat. There was little wind,  which made the ride quite comfortable. On occasion, the wind can kick up even these inshore waters a bit, resulting in a bone rattling experience in a lightweight flats boat on the journey to the redfish strongholds we fish. Today, however, the water was as flat as the land we had traversed earlier. After a pleasant ride, we found ourselves at what we hoped would once more be redfish nirvana. Mike deposited me at my “Most Likely to Succeed” spot, and sped off to his own. The tide was coming up nicely, and I turned towards the heart of the island, my eyes straining to locate the tell-tale signs of feeding reds- tails wafting gently in the air as they till the soil of the flat in search of crabs, wakes from their movements, or that delightful coppery color glinting in the morning sun. I walked along slowly, my knee creaking and paining despite a significant dose of oral steroids that morning. “At least I can’t walk fast enough to make sufficient noise to frighten the fish off”, I thought as I continued my march. The brand new replacement flats shoes were comfortable enough, but after a while, my feet began to become a bit achy. These shoes are built to protect the wearer’s feet from sharp shells, coral, rocks, and other hazards found in these shallow marine environments. The totally flat soles provide absolutely no support for the angler’s feet, which can easily become sore after prolonged ambulation. “Maybe I’ll see if a thin set of orthotics will fit inside these shoes”, I pondered as I searched.

Soon, I spied a good sized redfish tail writhing slowly in the morning sunlight. A single, large black spot adorned its tail. This was a good sized specimen, weighing as much as eight or nine pounds, I speculated. I slowly made my way to firing range, expecting the fish to work into the taller nearby spartina grass, where my fly would be rendered ineffective. I slowly closed the distance separating angler and fish. As I approached, I realized that I had misjudged the size of this redfish. It now looked much bigger than originally estimated. My best guess was ten to twelve pounds. My heart nearly flatlined as I prepared to make my presentation, so intense was my anticipation. Although it is somewhat rare to find so large a fish in so shallow a spot, my experience has been that they are generally indiscriminate and quite aggressive while feeding so intently. I decided that there was no need to change flies, but made the tactical decision that one final step closer might greatly increase the odds that my fly would land at its intended target- the fish’s feeding zone. My heart now pounding, I lifted my right foot and set it a couple of feet closer to the fish, which continued to happily root the bottom. As I transferred my weight I suddenly found myself falling forward towards the still surface of the saltwater. With acres of flat level earth all around in every direction, my foot found a hole and I fell instantly to both knees. The pain produced by flexing my severely arthritic right knee beyond its disease limited range of motion was exceeded only by the pain of watching that magnificent redfish bolt away towards the safety of the grass and deeper water of a nearby channel.

The Object of my Desire!

Optimism, along with an analgesic pill stowed in my chest pack, allowed the hunt to continue. I slowly trudged around the flat, keeping as close a watch as my sixty year old eyes would allow, for more reds.  Alas, there no more to be seen. I did manage to observe a fairly rare sight on the salt marsh flats of South Carolina, however. As I crossed a shallow pool of water lacking the green spires of spartina grass that cover most of these tidal islands, I saw a somewhat longish slender animal, jet black, slowly swimming towards a nearby hummock. I recall a few years ago when I first spotted one of these creatures, on a flat very near to the present one. I remember asking Mike what in the world a cat was doing way out here. He replied with a chuckle (or was it a snicker?) that this was a mink. “A mink?” I responded. “I thought they lived up north in, maybe Minnesota or Alaska.” He then explained they are native to South Carolina, and often make salt flats their home, along with otters and muskrats. It was another lesson for me about the saltwater flats ecosystem I thought I knew so much about.

A mink out for a swim on the flats

My radio crackled on. It was Mike. He, being by a very great amount, the better fisherman, had spotted a number of redfish. He brought two of these to hand. “It looks like I am running out of fish now. How about you?” he inquired. ” Looks like I am done as well”, I replied, discreetly failing to mention that I had not felt my fly line tighten all morning. “I’ll be there to pick you up in a few minutes. I am headed back to the boat now”. Sure enough, a flats boat appeared from the south shortly thereafter. I climbed aboard and began doffing my vest and stowing my rod as Mike slipped the Mercury into gear and started for the ramp.

As is our custom, we stopped at our favorite restaurant in McClellanville, Graham’s, and enjoyed a sumptous and satisfying seafood lunch. Fortunately for us and other fishermen, the dress code at Graham’s is quite relaxed. They never seem to mind our flats apparel, even if it is still wet. As we ordered, an old friend came through the front door and we exchanged pleasantries, as well as the day’s fishing stories.   It was a wonderful way to complete our day on the flats.

After lunch, we motored on back to the parking lot where we had left Mike’s vehicle that morning. The tire was “flat as a flitter” as my mother frequently says. I always wondered exactly what a “flitter” actually is until I did a little research. It turns out that the word “flitter” is a colloquial term used in the south of England that refers to a pancake.  In the south of the United States, it seems to refer to any flattened object. The spare tire, we discovered upon referring to the owner’s manual, was suspended below the trunk area on a winched up cable. I slid beneath the vehicle, lying flat on my back, and removed the plastic cover from the spare. Mike slowly wound the tire to the ground. After some heavy torsional force had been applied to the lug nuts, we jacked the car up and exchanged the tires. Mike departed to have a new tire installed on the rim of the spare, and I to my nearby home, for a shower and to raise a Kalik to the redfish I missed and the memories of all those past fish that hadn’t gotten away.

Birdland

A remote creek off the GPS grid in the Woodbury WMA

The two track dirt roads were hardly 44th street in Manhattan. Tall grasses grew three feet high between them, now smoothly flowing beneath the vehicle’s bellypan as we drove. Their movement produced a pleasant swishing sound, like running your hand across a soft bristled brush. We made our way towards a remote creek deep in the swampland wilderness that is the Woodbury WMA, or wildlife management area. We soon neared our destination, a journey of some ten miles off the pavement of Highway 378. Once tire met earth, it seemed we had been magically transported to some uninhabited region of the African wilds. I half expected to see a lion resting beneath a tree, or the head of a giraffe emerge from the tree tops. To my surprise, we saw no wildlife at all during our ingress to the swamps, but it was early yet.

Reaching the terminus of the trip, Mike stopped the vehicle. Attached was a small trailer, upon which rested his small two man plastic boat and its electric motor. We saw the opening in the woods ahead where the creek lay. Between us lay a large muddy hole, maybe 8 feet across and 3 feet deep. Mike disembarked the vehicle, and warily made his way towards the creek, always alert to the many snakes that call the swamp home. It was crystal clear that we would be unable to back the trailer, either with the vehicle or by hand, across the mud filled chasm separating us from the water. Mike sought an alternate path, but all was blocked by downed trees. We considered simply carrying the boat by hand to the creek, but Mike had another option. We remounted the car, and wound our way via a circuitous route over sandhills and more two track roads to a launch point further down the same creek. Here there were no obstructions to the water, only a steep creek bank, perhaps eight feet in height. Mike managed to back the trailer into position, and I dropped the boat into the water without difficulty, my eyes spending more time scouring the ground around the put-in than looking at the boat, always mindful of the venomous slithering creatures which abound in such areas.  The cottonmouth is indigenous here and extremely territorial. It will pursue any interlopers with gusto and is equipped with deadly venom and a needle sharp delivery system to ensure that intruders  immediately withdraw from its turf. No problem here. I am more than ready to surrender any and all territory to this brute.

Fortunately, we had no such encounters, and quickly were underway. We sailed to starboard initially. The scenery before our eyes was surreal, like a movie set. This area apparently was original growth. No loggers’ saw had ever touched the bark of a tree here. Massive cypress trees and, to my amazement, huge live oak trees lined the banks of the smallish creek. The water was turbid, but flowing at a moderate pace. Mike informed me that even here, the ocean’s influence was felt. This water was tide affected, despite being many miles from the sea, and lying deep within a primordial swampland. As if to verify this explanation, a mullet jumped ahead of the boat, leaping three feet into the air, landing broadside in the creek, the sound of its impact breaking the silence of these deep woods. We heard no other sounds, save an occasional airliner headed to the Jetport in Myrtle Beach. This would soon change, however.

Up the Creek Without a GPS!

Movement in the branches of a tree ahead of the boat caught my eye. We silently made our way beneath the tree, to be greeted by the sight of a large bird. I had hoped to see a hawk, but instead, a yellow crowned night heron rested on a limb above us. After allowing us a brief inspection, he lifted off seeking a spot with more privacy.

The huge trees lining the banks of the creek, as well as those which had succumbed to disease, lightning, or old age and fallen across the creek, made fly casting difficult. Undaunted, we picked up our small spin rods and began casting amongst the wood in the creek, and beside the stumps and trees along the bank. Mike was fishing selectively for large bass. He threw a big white spinner bait. Early on, he had a savage strike from a medium sized bowfin. He brought the fish boatside, where we got a brief glimpse before it spit the hook and disappeared into the murky water. That was just as well. The aluminum bat Mike used to sedate these fish for release could now remain neatly in its storage spot. I was in a sporting mood, and was using an untried, homemade plug for bass. I had taken a cork from a bottle of Concha Y Toro red wine and crafted a plug from it.

There is just something about taking an seemingly worthless object and creating something useful from it that intrigues me. This is especially true if that object is one that would otherwise simply be discarded. This, like so much in our adult lives, may have its roots in childhood. I am from a family of, shall we say, modest means. We scrounged for many of the things we needed. I learned to substitute things I could scavenge for the things I saw in the Sears catalogue, or that my friends had. This, I think, helped develop a certain ability to improvise and find alternate solutions to all manner of problems I have encountered later in life, a valuable lesson, despite my not recognizing it at the time.

As I prepared to throw away a small collection of wine corks accumulated in a vessel in the kitchen, I recalled an article I had seen about making bass lures in Field & Stream magazine. Soon, I was out in my shop, band saw whirring. I carefully cut the cork at a 45 degree angle and brought it inside to my fly tying desk. Here I added a coat of Clear Cure Goo and waited overnight. Next, I drilled a small hole fore and aft, and ran a length of fishing wire through it. A Haywire twist upfront to act as a hookeye, a Chartreuse skirt over a medium treble hook to the rear secured by a second Haywire, and I was almost done. I next added a pair of large red eyes, and the plug was complete.

Mike remarked that it was the strangest looking plug he ever seen. I could not disagree. It seemed to sit well in the water and acted like a combination of a slider and a popper, depending on how it was worked. I had applied a coat of green Sally Hanson nail polish to give it some resemblance to a frog, however slight. I was determined to catch something on it. I thought maybe at least one of those ugly, but aggressive bowfins might attack it. After actually having several bites from unknown species, I was finally rewarded by a small bass slamming the lure right by the boat. It was a proud moment as I felt a certain amount of satisfaction and redemption. My homemade plug, no matter how homely, had worked.

One Man's Trash Can Be the Same Man's Treasure!

Mike meanwhile remained true to his goal of catching a large bass on a spinnerbait, but had no luck. The little fish that had eaten my wine plug was our sole catch that day. The sun by now was dropping below the tree tops, so we made our way back towards the put-in. As we motored back, we were careful to remain as quiet as possible, speaking in whispers and keeping movement to a minimum. Soon we heard the hooting of an owl, then an answer from across the creek. I looked ahead, and between the trees, I saw a large barred owl swoop low across the water, its wingtips, gently caressing the surface, quickly disappearing into the woods. It would have made a spectacular photograph, but neither my point and shoot, nor my questionable photographic skills, were up to the task.

Mike next noted something falling into the water from an overhanging cypress limb. As we approached the tree, a flock of about 5 wild turkeys bolted from where they were roosting for the night. The loud flapping sound was startling, reminding me of the time my father in law nearly fell from his deer stand when turkeys left their roosting place above him. I was amazed to learn from Mike that turkeys have the ability to sleep standing straight up in a tree. It seems that their leg muscles can rigidly clamp their feet around a limb, enabling them to rest in an upright posture, high in a tree where they are protected from predators. Nature never ceases to create a new sense of wonder in me.

Upon reaching the take-out spot, we carefully disembarked and loaded the boat, after clearing the immediate area for reptiles. We secured the boat and reversed course, setting sail for Highway 378 and points east. There was a bit of light remaining, but even so, I could never have found my way out of there. I was not certain even if a GPS might work, so remote was our location. Fortunately, Mike was at the helm, so navigational capability was never in doubt.

As we approached the pavement, Mother Nature had two remaining surprises for us to enjoy. The first was a nice sized doe that bounded across the road in front of us. She faded quickly into the darkening forest, and just then, a large barred owl, my second sighting of the day of this magnificent bird, swung low across the road into our headlights and continued into the piney woods to our right. That was a real treat for a raptor lover like me. If only I had been able to get a photograph!

On Manhattan’s 44th Street, not far from Times Square, sits Birdland. It is a cozy jazz club named for its founder and most famous performer, Charlie Parker.  Parker, known to his friends as “Yardbird’, of more commonly just “Bird”, was a master of the alto sax and a legend among jazz affectianatos. I was privileged to enjoy an evening at a stage side table there once, though “Bird” has long been gone. Great jazz lives on at Birdland, a boon for music lovers everwhere.

Woodbury, I suppose, can be thought of as a birdland as well, although of an entirely different type. Enjoying both enrichens my life immeasurably.

River Redux

The Lovely Little Pee Dee River

“Play it again, Sam” were the words reverberating around my cranium as Mike and I once more backed his tiny two man boat into the clear waters of the Little Pee Dee River. The LPD, as I have come to call it, has reawakened my interest in fly fishing for bass and panfish. Truth be told, my entire interest in freshwater application of the fly has been rekindled by recent adventures on the clear, slow moving waters of this picturesque river. The paucity of rain of late has led to historic lows in the river water levels, at once concentrating the fish among the many cypress knees and stumps, as well as dropping the water to levels that permit only the shallowest drafting of boats any hope of navigating its slow moving and very lightly tannin stained waters. Highways, cars,other fishermen, boats, and in fact all evidence of contemporary life were left in our tiny wake as we activated the time machine that is the Little Pee Dee River.  Another novel effect of the molasses like current rate was soon to be observed as well.

 A mere two months ago, I stood astride the bow of a saltwater flats skiff  in search of tarpon dreams. Casting a small purple bunny strip fly to fish weighing greater than a hundred pounds was a heart stopping thrill, second only to actually hooking up with one and entering the fly fishing gladiator’s ring. Finally bringing to hand such a beast, at the time, seemed the penultimate achievement of my fly fishing career. It appeared greater even than hooking, fighting and landing, with my close friend Mike Barnett, twenty two Pacific sailfish of not inconsiderable size, all on fly, and all in a single, glorious day off the Guatemalan coast. Greater even than a day spent in a tributary of the Rio Negro in northwest Brazil  known as the Jufari, when we together caught a validated two hundred and twenty peacock bass, every last one on the fly rod. Like Alexander the Great, there seemed no more worlds to conquer. Everything from here on out could only be a disappointment. My tarpon victory, so long cherished and so hard sought, seemed but bittersweet. How would I cope with lesser forms of the sport, like trout or bass fishing? I strongly considered abandoning fly fishing altogether in favor of some alternative – stamp collecting anyone??

 Perspective in all things in life is key to fulfillment, or maybe even maintenance of one’s sanity. This valuable life lesson was reinforced to me a few days ago on the LPD. Shortly after departing the social activity occurring at the ramp area, we left behind all vestiges of modern life and once more entered the Mesozoic Era, no traces of the conspicuously overpowered wooden strip boats indigenous to this area, noses pointed skyward  in a space shuttle like attitude, 50 HP Yammies and the often alcohol soaked operator at the other end. Not even the ubiquitous metal jon boats which populate these waters could have even a remote chance to follow our lead over the sandy bottomed skinny river here.

Not long after we were out of sight of the ramp, I happened to spy the cylindrical, torpedo like shapes of fish which had compacted themselves into smallish groups. I assumed these to be the bodies of somewhat emaciated bass. It did seem strange that they travelled upstream in pods of four to as many as perhaps a dozen fish. I queried Mike, my reliable oracle of all things natural about these fish. “Mullet” was his immediate and matter of fact response. For me, it seemed a miracle of sorts- a saltwater species some 40 miles upstream of even brackish waters. Mike educated me that mullet often travel great distances up into fresh water, a revelation to me. After some discussion with another friend who is an outdoorsman of considerable repute, it seems that in conditions of draught and decreased water flow from rivers dependent on upstream rainfall, the tidal influence, as well as salinity change, might extend to shocking distances upstream. He reported a friend living on the nearby Black River, roughly 20 miles distant from the ocean, to have pods of feeding dolphin at his dock. All this was a news to me, despite having been born and raised in the genteel Lowcountry around Charleston.

 After encountering what I heretofore had considered strictly marine creatures, we gently motored further downstream in search of bass and bream. As we neared a large grass patch, an ominous figure rose to the surface and cruised in our general direction, its massive tail slowly arcing across the surface. No, it was not a shark,but rather a large gator. To my eye, it measured  some seven or eight feet. Mike, however, an infinitely more experienced outdoorsman, and, more importantly, one not given to hyperbole, estimated perhaps twelve feet. This gave me pause, as our boat was a mere ten feet. We fervently hoped the large reptile would be put off by the commotion of the motor, and ,indeed, as we approached, it sank out of sight in this deeper part of the river. We made our way past that spot, nervously eyeing the water for a re-emergent reptile, but saw nothing. We resumed casting our flies among the wood in the river after achieving what we felt was adequate separation from the beast.

River Art

 Mike connected with a decent bass using his spin rod and a buzz bait. I was enthralled by his uncanny accuracy with the spinning gear. I repeatedly observed him direct the lure through the maze of limbs, branches, and bushes into seemingly inaccessible spots at the bases of stumps, trees, and cypress knees where he knew the bass were lurking. I made two attempts, one making a fair imitation of Mike’s casts, the other abruptly terminating in a bush. Mike patiently stood up in the unsteady craft and plucked my lure from among the leaves and small branches. “Good thing there was not a black wasp nest in this bush”, he commented, reminding me of yet another danger waiting in this wilderness to ensnare the unwary angler. My mind immediately went to my close encounter of the serpentine kind on our last outing. “No snakes, either, ” I thought, much to my relief. I concentrated my remaining efforts at using the fly rod, much less likely to become tangled in the vegetation in whose midst we were forced to cast. I managed to catch most of the subspecies of bream, including bluegill, redbreast, hardhead, and pumpkinseed. We enjoyed a pleasant afternoon on the water, frequently halting our casting to admire the handiwork of the Great Artist. We reflected on the shapes and colors of the trees, the refraction of the ever lowering sun on the water’s surface, and the miracle of the area’s rich diversity of fauna. Mike later emailed a favorite quote from the historian Dr. Will Durant, among the keenest observers of the human spirit.

“Art appeals to the soul through the senses rather than the intellect; its beauty fades when diluted into ideas or words.  The universe of thought is only one of many worlds; each sense has its own; each art has therefore its characteristic medium, which cannot be translated into speech.  Even an artist writes about art in vain….  A man may, if he cares enough, gradually surround himself with objects whose zealously finished form gives to those who live with them the subtle and quiet happiness of beautiful thing.”

                    Will Durant, The Story of Civilization, Vol.III, pp.338, 342

 In our minds, this observation applies even more to the art created by God, and on display in His natural world.

Sculpture courtesy of The Great Artist

 

 

Lost in the awe of our surroundings, we made our final casts for the day, catching a number of fish, on both flies and lures.  The sun finally gave up its ghost and darkness gradually threw its cloak over the river. We were in a braid of the river, separated from its main channel by obstructing trees, stumps, and thick water grasses. By now, navigating visually was essentially impossible, despite the full moon that was on magnificent display,albeit low in the early evening sky. Reluctantly resorting  to modern technology, Mike flicked on his handheld GPS device. Instantly, our position was illuminated in grey scale pixels. Using this modern iteration of the ancient astrolabe, we worked the boat over the grass bed which lay between us and the open water of the river. I silently hoped no reptilian residents lay in silent repose beneath it. We made an uneventful re-entry to the river. I was, for one, was grateful that we were spared having to endure a night on they water, and had managed to avoid conflict with  any unfriendly creatures.

 We motored back upriver towards the landing, Mike was now guiding the boat on instruments, unable to see past my wide body, which occupied the front seat. I swung a headlamp to and fro, searching the now dark water for obstructions such as stumps or floating logs. Mike displayed a remarkable degree of trust in my sixty year old eyes during the return journey. Soon, with Mike counting down the distances from his GPS, we were able to make out the feeble image of the ramp area. We pulled up, bow resting on concrete. Mike grabbed the keys and made his way to his vehicle in the darkness .

 The ramp we had used , though well known, is isolated, located far down an unpopulated unpaved road.  He quickly started the car, and adroitly backed it into position to receive the boat. Just then, we saw the form of a pickup truck emerge from the darkness of the dirt road, moving at a deliberately slow pace towards us. We continued the loading process, now growing a bit uneasy at the prospect of our vulnerable position. The truck was occupied by two males, who stared intently at us as we frantically stowed our rods and fastened the boat to its small trailer.  The truck continued its course, to our shared relief, but soon came about and headed back towards us. I recalled Mike’s story about an incident he experienced last season, at a ramp similar to this, when thugs broke out his vehicles windows and vandalized it as he was out on the water. Feeling defenseless, we hoped the truck would make its way on back down the road, but the occupants once more gave us a close visual inspection as it passed by.

 Indeed, it did head away from the ramp, but we remained on alert after this second pass. It was as though the men in the pickup were sizing us up, weighing whether or not we might be easy prey, like a wolf surveying a herd of sheep, looking for any weaknesses. We climbed into the car and hurriedly left the ramp. The suspicious truck lay dead ahead of us, so we dropped back a safe distance. We hoped there would be no confrontation, as the driver of the truck could easily block our path on this single lane road. Soon, the pickup pulled to the right side of the road, headlights ablaze. We agreed that under no circumstances would we stop.

 We sped up slightly, passing by the truck without incident. Had I a beer, I would have cracked it open at that point.

 It had indeed been an interesting and memorable adventure. We were privileged to observe a number of God’s creations that afternoon and evening, including a few that presented potential threats. Yet, we had survived it all, even our encounter with that most dangerous of all living things, man.

Jeti Master

Redfish Area 51- I could tell you.....

My good friend, former partner, and nouveau fly fisherman Ross Taylor quite thoughtfully invited me on a late afternoon fly fishing trip into the Area 51 of redfishing recently. He has obtained top secret clearance to fish there by turning a previous fly fishing wilderness into a classified center for redfish research and development. No one knows about it yet, its existence shielded from not only long rodders, but the bobber and bait crowd as well. It is a study in contrasts, as it is hidden in plain sight, not unlike the fact that Area 51 lies nearby the outlandish flamboyance of Las Vegas. I must admit that I myself am somewhat surprised that I had heretofore not noted it in the daily satellite pass photographs I utilize in an unendng search for untapped redfish flats, each carefully scrutinized for tell-tail signs such as copper reflections from redfish tails exposed to the summer sun, or the black targets painted on the after sections. These are designed as stealth eyes to allow the fish to feint right, but instead roll left.  The fish appear to have gone about their piscine business here, undetected and unmolested for some time now at this hidden yet accessible spot. They remain, at least to this point, happy fish, a pure delight to the fisherman, particularly those choosing to throw feathers and tinsel at these marvellous creatures.

 We made out initial approach to the Red Zone, dropping anchor in a tide safe spot perhaps 25 yards from the beach. Like invading Marines, we jumped overboard, our weapons and gear held high overhead as we waded to the beach. Fortunately for us, we were met with no resistance from our foes and established an uncontested beachhead. What followed was a march of some quarter mile to the combat zone. We walked along a barrier separating open water from the constricted and tidal backwaters that make up the secret redfish area 51. As we marched, we did a little reconnaissance of the area and noted redfish fins, backs, and a few tails protruding above the clear water. They lay just beyond our weapon’s range, particularly since they were positioned upwind of our position. We made the tactical decision to delay deploying our weapons until we saw the blacks of their “eyes”.

 A bit more walking brought us to the point of descending into the field of battle. At first, we remained together, four eyes being superior to two for spotting these coppery creatures. And spot them we did. Although the numbers were not spectacular, the individual fish were. These were all large fish, appearing to be 24 inches and up. They were happily feeding and seemed oblivious to our presence. It is always thrilling to see these fish , their reddish bodies exposed to air as they seek sustenance off the benthos. I wonder occasionally if they ever get sunburned. Perhaps the Creator endowed them with natural built-in sunblock.  It is an almost surreal sight.

 We readied our offerings, mine a Frankenstien like cross between a crab imitation and that of a shrimp, admixed into a totally unnatural combination of  rug yarn, gold mylar strips, and rubber bands. I soon learned that the redfish apparently found it unnatural, as well as unappealing. Each cast was met by an immediate refusal. Eventually, I realized that, despite the fact that I have enjoyed considerable success using this particular fly on redfish elsewhere, that THIS was Redfish Area 51.  These reds were all about stealth, and not easily fooled. I switched flies and attached a stealthy shrimp imitation. This fly was quite lifelike, and has a proven track record in the marshes of Louisiana, where the almost grotesquely large redfish are all over it, like rolling a wine bottle into a jail cell.

Well, these highly trained reds obviously had engaged their detection devices. Fighter pilots have available on their instrument panels a device known as an IFF- Identification Friend or Foe to determine if aircraft beyond visual range are friendly or enemies. I am beginning to think that some ichthyologist discovered this system originally in redfish and adapted for use in fighter planes. They remained totally nonplussed by my presentations the entire afternoon.

Ross and I by now split up to cover more ground and, in theory, to find more fish. We were met with disappointment, as no more fish were to be seen. Ross thinks they settled into the deeper channels in search of cooler water and more baitfish. Personally, I think they simply switched on their cloaking devices.

 After standing around for another hour and a half, making practice casts intermittently to pretend I was seeing fish, I glanced down the flat to see Ross doing the same. The time had come for surrender. I turned toward my friend and slowly made my way to his position. Once there, I inquired about  his experience. Sadly, his mirrored mine. We had fought the good fight, but had been defeated by superior technology.  We made the return trip to the boat.

 As we walked, we saw a few folks occupying the barrier, casting repeatedly into the open area. I saw no hookups. Peering into the darker waters there, I saw no fish. This was very low tech fishing, casting cut bait into the dark waters and waiting. I admired the fishermen’s tenacity, but wondered if they realized that 180 degrees to their position were tailing redfish of considerable size. Neither Ross nor I made mention of this fact to them.

 Instead, we trundled on to the boat, but this time attacking in reverse as we again carried our ger high, remounted the boat, and set sail for homeport.

Mesozoic Park

Bowfin Fossil from the Mesozoic Era, the Age of Dinosaurs

The Heddon torpedo lure made a single slurp after it plopped to the surface of the clear water in the small creek. A liquid explosion interrupted the silence of this wilderness and a flash of fish danced wildly across the surface towards our small electric powered boat. I was astounded by the power of this creature. Small though it was, it packed the punch of a much larger fish. The monofilament linking angler to fish stretched tight as I overwhelmed this animal’s strength and forced it to the boat. Once sufficiently calm for inspection, it appeared prehistoric. Rows of sharp teeth and an eel-like tail reminded me of a certain fish I encountered fishing the remote areas of Brazil while pursuing the famous peacock bass. That exotic species is known as the traira, similarly structured as this fish. The specimen now on the end of my line is widely distributed in South Carolina, where it is known as the bowfin, or less elegantly, the mudfish. The world record bowfin was captured in South Carolina in 1980, weighing in at some 21 pounds. Mike, my longtime fishing companion and close friend, has on previous trips, brought to hand specimens in the 12 to 14 pound range. I simply cannot imagine the ferocity of a 20 pounder. These creatures are fearsomely aggressive and require the induction of anesthesia in the form of a short bat or boat paddle, to calm them sufficiently for hook removal and release. Despite blows that would leave me comatose, these fish swim briskly back to their lairs once the lure is disgorged. The species is ancient, having been contemporaries of the dinosaurs. Fossil evidence places them on earth during the Mesozoic period, an epoch which encompasses the Jurassic era. They appear to have changed little over the past 200 million years, making them, like alligators, a success story for evolution. After all, why change a design that works?

The Bowfin, also known less attractively, as the mudfish

The Brazillian Traira, a South American version of the Bowfin

We launched from a small ramp off a busy highway, a spot best described as nondescript. A local family was enjoying a Sunday afternoon picnicking and frolicking in the clear water. A young puppy played with a stick nearby, rolling to and fro in the sand, much to the delight of its family. 

 Our small battery operated vessel propelled us down the river and back in time as we worked the banks with tiny poppers on fly rods. Well placed casts close to the innumerable cypress stumps were frequently rewarded by strikes from the palm sized bream that are abundant in these waters. It was great fun on fly rods. The draught like conditions of recent months had dropped water levels dramatically, making an extreme low draft boat mandatory. Our craft was ideal for this, and we traversed water measuring 5 inches with ease, this despite my 275 pounds located in the bow.  The white sandy bottom allowed us the opportunity to sometimes watch the fish attack our flies, often having several attempting to shove competitors aside in their rush to get the fly.

The shores  were lined by ancient cypress trees, complemented by the fascinating shapes of cypress “knees” and stumps. Mike remarked that they looked like they were the handiwork of an extremely talented artist. I agreed that they were, having been fashioned by the greatest of all artists, God Himself. The trees wore long grey beards of Spanish moss, like unshaven soldiers standing at attention along the riverbanks, guarding the myriad creatures that inhabit the deep swamplands behind them. Occasionally, we were treated to the sight of huge white egrets wading the shallow water, or majestically soaring along the treeline. In areas featuring deeper cuts and faster current, we found the highly sought after redbreast, a type of bream revered for its fiestiness.

After a bit of downstream travel. Mike made a hard turn to starboard into a tiny stream that carried current into the heart of the forest. I was flabbergasted to see a stream which, for all the world, was like a mountain trout stream, running hard and clear. Instead of rocks and boulders, downed trees and limbs lined the bottom of this magical creek. In an area of flat topography, I was amazed by the rapidity of the flow. But for the temperature, it would make a superlative home for rainbow and brown trout. The lowering sun cast dappled shafts of amber light which were filtered through the heavy vegetation. Unusually large dragonflies flitted about over the water, searching for their evening meals.

“Mike, I think we are not in a boat, but rather a time machine!” I commented as I tried to take it all in. ” It looks like we are in Jurassic Park or something!” Just then, the current pushed the boat into a streamside bush, forcing my head into its outermost leaves. Mike urgently attempted speech, but stuttered and stumbled instead, completely unable to articulate a coherent sound, much less a sentence. As I pushed us away from the thicket , Mike’s speech returned. He excitedly explained his sudden loss of the power of speech. “There was a 3 foot long snake lying on a branch, its head not more than 8 inches from your head!” Of course, I had never seen it, the sole reason my heart was now continuing to beat. “It fell off into the water beside the boat and hauled butt out of here.” We both considered the possibility of it having been a cottonmouth, well known for its disagreeable temperament and venom laden fangs. ” I read somewhere that they do not climb up into trees, ” I said in an effort to control my fear response. The scenario of one of us being envenomated deep in these primeval woods drained the color from my face. There was no way for assistance to reach us in a reasonable period of time. I paid extra close attention to the trees and creekbanks after that. ” Imagine a lawyer at a loss for words!” was Mike’s comment.

A brown water snake sunning on a tree limb

We pushed onward until we found a widened area of the creek. Mike stopped the boat and rigged a spinning rod for my use. Overhanging limbs and the proximity of streamside vegetation now made casting a fly totally impractical. We shared use of the rod and hooked 3 or 4 bass, losing them all prior to boating them. We were quite content as it allowed us additional casts. Like tarpon, the take and initial jumps are the best part anyway. As we progressed, presenting the lure ahead of the boat, I was contemplating the remoteness of the area and the remarkable quietness. Suddenly, we heard the loud beat of wings, looking up to see a large barred owl swoop from a tree near the boat, hooting as it flew deeper into the woods. My wife, I knew, would burn with jealousy when I told of encountering a large owl in the wild. It seems she has become a birdwatcher of sorts, particularly enamoured with raptors. We both would regret the fact that I experienced technical issues with the point and shoot camera I had stuck in my pocket to record this adventure. “I will be forced to try to create images with my words to put they reader in the scenes” I said to her that evening. Let us hope that turns out to be the case.

A barred owl in flight. These are impressively large birds.

Upon reaching a less confined space, I again broke out the fly rod. As I let slip the first cast, one of those prehistoric dragonflies snatched the fly in mid-air. It flew about the creek, attached to the fly. Mike and I cackled in delight as we watched this unusual occurrence. Occasionally, it would alight upon the water, resting, I suppose. I wondered if a bass might rise and take fly and fly, so to speak. After a couple of minutes, the insect managed to free itself and actually landed on Mike’s leg, where it rested , catching its breath. It was quite spectacular, and soon gathered its strength, departing for an easier meal elsewhere.

Soon, the creek emptied into a small lake. We watched a few water turkeys flap across the lake and disappear into the mighty cypress trees.  Next we were treated to the sight of a yellow crowned night heron winging low across the water. The temptation was strong to fish the lake, but the hour grew late, and we faced a portage a short distance away.  The portage down a second non navigable, but fast flowing clearwater creek allowed us a much shorter exit back to main river, slashing an hour off our return trip. Recalling our serpentine encounter a bit earlier, we were acutely aware of the possibility of its cousins lurking in or near our path. Mike went ahead, the small boat in tow. I brought up the rear, armed with a short paddle to alert any unfriendlies to my presence. I repeatedly slapped the waters surface as I carefully placed each step of my flip flop shod feet. The water remained remarkably clear, but the creek’s bottom was again littered with sticks and branches. ” As long as none of them start moving, I’ll be fine” I reassured myself. Slowly, step by step, I covered the 300 or so yards to the deeper water where Mike waited with the boat. I climbed back on board and took inventory. I seemed to be puncture free and Mike activated the motor. Soon, we were back in the main flow of the river. 30 minutes later, we stood at the put-in spot.

Perhaps the reader might be curious about the location of this remarkable adventure. One might surmise that prolonged, arduous travel was necessary to see such marvels of nature, but one would be mistaken. This incredible piece of creation lies within my home county of Horry, in northeastern South Carolina. The river we fished is the Little Pee Dee, hard by the Highway 378 bridge, some twenty five miles from the glitz of Myrtle Beach. It is amazing that such pristine remoteness exists within a 30 minute drive of the high rises, malls, nightclubs, and tourist attractions that draw some 13 million visitors a year to Myrtle Beach.

 My friend Mike is a serious travelling fisherman. His passport features stamps from nearly 40 countries. He has fished many of the world’s greatest rivers in Alaska, Chile, Brazil, New Zealand, and many others too numerous to list. His observation is that the Little Pee Dee is the most beautiful of any he has seen anywhere in his travels. That speaks volumes about this precious resource we have available right here at home. It is clear that there is an urgent need for preservation of our wild untouched resources, both for us and our progeny. Like Dorothy said, “There’s no place like home!”

Cardiac Tarponade

"My" tarpon imitating a Trident missle

 My very close friend Jay Preslar and I journeyed to northwest Florida about two weeks ago on a quest. It was all about tarpon. For me, the goal was a photo of your truly actually touching a tarpon, to add to my fly fishing scrapbook and to fill a void on my fishing photo wall, in my fly tying room (otherwise known as the laundry room). Despite having had numerous close encounters of the tarpon type, such a photo remained elusive. This trip was to be the charm.

For Jay, it was to be his first appearance in the court of the Silver King. He sported an impressive resume with trout, bonefish, and other sought after gamefish, all taken on the fly, but tarpon were new and mysterious to him, a wonder of which he had only read and heard tall tales about. Although I was quite anxious to fulfill my mission, I remained fascinated by the prospect of observing Jay locked in a full metal jacket battle with the prehistoric tarpon, a fish well known to give no quarter when engaged in conflict with an angler, a kind of Mortal Combat Fishing.

We had engaged the services of guide Greg Dini, with whom I had chased the unusually large and prolific redfish which inhabit the marshes south of Greg’s home in New Orleans. It was he who had opened my eyes to the tarpon possibilities in the northwestern portions of Florida, where he guides in late spring and summer. Jay and I set forth from home  in my Tahoe and drove to Greg’s condo in Florida one Friday, arriving around 6PM after an unhurried, stress free drive. It was so refreshing to leave behind the hassles of commercial flying - no lines, no baggage fees, no TSA agents palpating your “junk”, and no interminable waits at airports for the next flight. After many years of flying,I finally have determined that airline travel actually consists of a series of prolonged periods sitting in grey plastic airport chairs, interrupted by short periods in an airplane seat. A pleasant day of intellectually stimulating conversation with Jay while driving down I-95 proved a much preferable alternative.

The following morning, we connected Greg’s gleaming East Cape Canoes Venture to his pickup and headed to the ramp. We then motored the short distance to our spot. We were clearly far from the madding crowds of the Keys or Boca Grande Pass here. Yet, the scenery was eerily reminiscent of the Keys. We anchored in water clear and clean, its white sand bottom alternating with dark green grass beds. The water depth was a mere three to four feet. You can bet that such spots would be fought over by Keys guides. Here we waited in near isolation for the appearance of the King. “Thank ya, thank ya very much”, I murmured to myself silently, unable to add the snarl that other King was known so well for.

The first day and a half proved slow. We saw a few large tarpon, migrating east to west beneath our keel, but very few. We had only a couple of legitimate shots, and, alas, no hookups. I feared that we were once more victims of the “You should have been here yesterday” syndrome.  It turned out that we were actually between migratory pods, as the next afternoon, it was ON!!!! On like Donkey Kong, as the young people say ( or maybe said - I am likely behind the times). Throngs of the giant fish slid past and under us for the remaining day and a half of our trip. It became quite easy to ascertain that we weren’t in the Keys, not so much by the numbers of fish we encountered, but by their willingness to inhale our flies. A well presented fly was frequently, though not always, rewarded by an enthusiastic take by these tarpon. Breathtaking is the most appropriate adjective I can conjure as I consider the take of these magnificent fish. As I stood at the ready in the custom elevated casting cage on the bow of Greg’s boat, I mentally rehearsed my response to a bite. “Make a slow, measured strip strike. Don’t do a giant tip lift a la Jimmy Houston or Roland Martin. Once he turns, then make a couple quick jabs to bury the hook in the fish’s stony jaw, etc”, I silently told myself. When the strike came, however, it was like a flash from a Fourth of July firecracker- instantaneous, exciting, nearly blindingly fast. My tarpon ate, leapt into the azure Florida sky, and unwound my entire fly line and a hundred yards of backing before my next heartbeat. Suddenly, we had made the jump to lightspeed, the great fish heading for the open sea.

Greg quickly detached the anchor buoy, fired up the Yamaha, and followed in pursuit.  “Wind! Wind! Wind!” Greg urgently commanded. (Parenthetically, isn’t it interesting how fishing language is usually spoked in triplets?) Anyway, I wound as furiously as an angler accustomed to winding the reel with his dominant right hand could turn the handle of a left hand retrieve reel. “This isn’t going to be too bad”, I smugly, and incorrectly, surmised as Greg stopped the boat directly over the fish. Out of the water came the tarpon, expending energy, and delighting me, both in being able to see such an acrobatic display of power, and in the knowledge that such antics wear the fish down and shorten the fight.  Greg estimated the tarpon at 80 to 90 pounds. It made a blistering run, taking back all the line I had just recovered and more. I tightened down the drag on the large arbor Hatch reel, and put all 275 pounds of my not inconsiderable body mass into the 12 weight House of Hardy rod, bending it into absurd curves likely not envisioned by its designers.

 I struggled mightily to bring the fish boatside for a photo op and a release, to be followed by a Kalik beer. Each time I brought her near, she responded by flicking that massive tail and pushing away from the skiff. By now, the fight had become intensely physical. Sweat exuded from every pore of my body as I strained to bring her to hand. She fought back valiantly, and it seemed that she had grown to maybe 150 pounds by now, so hard was she to move. Nausea crept over me as the hot Florida sun beat down on us. We were nearly an hour into the struggle. I then utilized the down and dirty technique popularized by tarpon legend Stu Apte as I desperately wanted to end this battle quickly. My pulse soared and it felt as though my heart might explode if I could not rest. Greg suggested that Jay relieve me for a few minutes, a suggestion I immediately refused. “Either I land this fish, or I die trying” was my response. I was completely serious. He brought me a bottle of cold water and I soldiered on. Fortunately for me, the tarpon wearied just slightly faster than I did, and after an additional 15 minutes, I finally had my prize by the boat.

She was massive. Greg estimated her length at 6 feet, though, truth be told, she was closer to five, maybe five and a half. New state laws prevented me from hoisting her aboard for a photo, so I contented myself by kneeling at the gunwale before the Silver Queen as Jay snapped a few pictures from his perch on  the poling platform. After Greg released her to continue her journey, I collapsed in the seat, too tired and nauseous for even a celebratory Kalik. To the victor goes the spoils, even though in my case, it was merely a photograph. I turned to Jay and said “Hey man, its your turn - for the rest of the trip!”

TARPONIFICATION IS COMPLETE!!

Watching Jay tangle with one of these beasts was my secondary goal for the trip, and I eagerly anticipated seeing him sweat , just as I had done. I remained in the seat, rehydrating with more ice water and, yes, a Kalik, my favorite beer. The tarpon continued their parade by the boat, and Jay was able to make a number of excellent casts and presentations to them as they swam past. Greg provided detailed instructions about how to work the fly before the fish. “STRRRRIP, STRRRRIP!” he would command. Then, as the fish showed interest and neared the fly, it was “TICK! TICK! TICK!”, meaning that Jay should make small repetitive 2 inch long movements of the fly. This typically entices the tarpon to take, whether by curiosity or aggravation, I do not know.

Jay had about 5 eats from the tarpon, and a couple of hookups. The fish that took his fly were much larger than the one I had wrestled to the boat. His were all in the 130-140 pound range. They made impressive initial jumps as they took the bunny strip flies, then headed, like a jet fighter, out of the area. Separate, extend, and fight another day was their strategy, just like that of outgunned fighter pilots. These massive fish very rapidly unspooled Jay’s reel. Several times we were just about to see the metal of the spool’s face when finally we got close enough to gain line.

I vividly recall Jay’s initial experience with bonefish. Prior to that, he had been all about trout. Being a scientist and keen observer of nature, he relished the intellectual aspect of identifying the particular bug the trout were taking on a day at the stream. All that tweed jacket and pipe smoking stuff fit him well. When finally I convinced him to try bonefish, I placed him at the bow the first morning. He immediately hooked up with an average size bone and in typical fashion, the fish sped off the flat like a Bonneville racing machine. Jay was cackling with laughter and I asked him what he thought about bonefishing. He turned to me with a big wide grin and said “ Screw the trout!”, or something similar.

His reaction was not dissimilar when first he felt the power and speed of a giant tarpon. He was instantly in love once more. “Let’s go ahead and book for next year!” he said, all the while turning the reel handle as quickly as he could.

Unfortunately for Jay, the larger tarpon tend not to jump, save the initial leap when striking and realizing that something is amiss. All that energy, combined with deeply swallowed flies, makes landing them quite difficult, particularly for novice tarpon fishermen. Spit hooks and abraded tippets left him emptyhanded, but certainly not emptyhearted. He was all grins despite not actually landing a tarpon. I was more disappointed than he, as I was denied the opportunity to see him do the tarpon tango, a truly manly dance, if ever there was one.

 Like him, I am ready to sign up for another shot next season. I suppose that landing a large tarpon on a fly rod may be a little like giving birth. It is an intensely painful experience, but one which produces a remarkable result. Like multiparous mothers, I know I will suppress the unpleasant memories, and be back to do it all over again one day.

My Etta James moment ("At Last"!)

Redemption!! Oh, What a Feeling!!

Unlucky, but Lucky

Flats Fishing Carolina Style!

The reader may quite reasonable inquire as to how one might be both fortunate and unfortunate simultaneously. I came to understand this phenomenon myself just a couple of afternoons ago. My very good friend , Mike, and I had planned a trip to the nearest reliable redfish haven to take advantage of the predicted 6.4 tide for late Sunday afternoon. Expectations ran high the day drew near.

It is remarkable how much is often involved in preparing for a simple fishing trip to an inshore destination. In my younger days, I ofttimes would simply attach the trailer to my vehicle, quickly gather tackle and perhaps a bottle of water, and I was off. These days, I tend to spend an entire day or even more assembling and checking prior to a trip to the water. Such was the case this past week, when I began preparations in earnest on Thursday. As my eighteen foot Hewes skiff had not touched saltwater this season, a more thorough than usual inspection was in order. I began at the stern, checking the hitch, the winch, and the wiring harness. I examined next the anchor and its line. Next came the all important steering, having suffered failure in that department in two distinct manners in the past - a wheel frozen in place by corrosion and to be discovered only after being in the water at the ramp. In order to prevent such occurrences, relatively common with mechanical steering setups, I selected hydraulic steering on this boat. Unfortunately, I later discovered that these systems, like all things manmade, are subject to failure. I vividly recall driving about in circles once when the hydraulics leaked. It was quite disconcerting.

Satisfied that I would be able to pilot the vessel without difficulty, I then turned my attention to the engine. Now the fine folks at Yamaha do fabricate a fine motor, but it had been sitting, uncranked, in my driveway for some 6 months. Through the miracle of electronics, the battery had been maintained at its optimal state. I mainly feared for some unseen blockage in the fuel or oil systems, like a plaque on the wall of a carotid artery, silently waiting to wreak serious havoc. In an unusual display of common sense, I decided to seek counsel from that oracle of all knowledge, the Internet, before I actually turned the ignition key. It was a trivial matter to locate the operators manual online, as mine has long since disappeared in the massive pile of clutter I call my workshop. To my chagrin, I noted that I had been using an inappropriate technique for the initial engine start of each day. I had taken the advise on the correct starting procedure from some ner’ do well at a ramp somewhere soon after I acquired the boat. I always wondered why the first crank of the day was so unpredictable and often resulted in failure. After consulting the book, an admittedly unmanly act, I found that I had been flooding the engine for all this time. With some sense of relief, I returned to the boat, boarded, and followed the procedure as best as I could. Amazingly enough, the engine sprang to life instantly! This after a full six months of inactivity. Maybe that is why they provide a book of instructions with the boat.

I completed the pre-float inspection of boat, motor, and trailer, leaving the water hose attached to the motor to facilitate further testing of the engine. Dutifully, I daily climbed onboard after opening the water flow to the motor, and repeated the steps I had finally learned for starting the motor. Each time, it responded perfectly. Feeling somewhat smug, I next assembled my fly tackle, including my homebuilt wooden fly rod ( much more about that later), as well as a cooler, water, fruit juices, sunglasses, sunscreen, wading boots, and all the minutia that seems unimportant until you are actually standing on a flat, ready to fish.

I felt quite confident in my preparations and when Sunday afternoon arrived, I loaded all my equipment and supplies into the boat and awaited my fishing partner to arrive. just then it hit me that I had failed to acquire a current permit for the ramp where I typically launch my craft. In a small panic, I called Mike and was informed that the hitch on his vehicle would be satisfactory for my trailer, so another calamity was averted. He pulled in, we connected trailer and car, and headed south.

Upon arrival at the ramp, I beamed with confidence as I boarded the Hewes. Mike skillfully backed the boat into the already high water. I carefully worked through each step of the starting procedure, and was rewarded by the roar of my 130 HP engine. I disconnected from the trailer, and gently slid into the creek. After parking the car, Mike joined me on the boat, and we turned the pointy end towards the flats where we had so many times seen and caught our favorite local quarry, the redfish, or spottail drum as many prefer to call them. The day was a bit windy, but it was welcome relief from the oppressive heat of that mid-June day. We reached our destination in a short time, the Yamaha never skipping a beat. On the contrary, it ran like the proverbial top, pushing the Skiff to speed near fifty miles an hour. Quite exhilarating actually.

Mike dropped me off at my favorite spot and took the boat on to his. We were fortunate enough to have a set of small radios, able to slip into a shirt sleeve, with which to communicate. The tide had pushed up early, an unexpected event, given the wind direction. Nonetheless, it was now fishable. I actually had come armed with two rods, one my trusty 9 weight , the other a homemade wooden dowel rod. My primary goal was to bring to hand a redfish using my redneck wonder-rod, but I was stymied by a total lack of fish. I slowly meandered about the flat, eyes in search mode, but there was no joy in Mudville that day. The only animated objects which met my gaze were three other fishermen. I was somewhat astonished by the sight of these interlopers on what I brazenly considered “My” flat! How dare they? Then I realized that I was on public property, and had no more right to be there than they. It was then that I wistfully considered the option of petitioning the State for the fishing concession for that small island. Why, I could charge a fee, designed to be large enough to discourage all but the most well heeled and insistent sportsmen from setting either wading boot or boat keel on this usually quite productive slab of mud and spartina grass. Like having a date with Jennifer Anniston, this idea was nice, but utterly unrealistic.

Some hour and forty five minutes later, the small radio in my breast pocket crackled to life. Mike informed me that he had scoured the length of the island with no targets sighted. His next words stunned me - ”Exactly how do I start this engine?” I was totally taken aback by the revelation of engine difficulties. After all, the motor had responded instantly to the start command at the ramp, as well as each of the past three days. I carefully went through the new, book recommended procedure with Mike. A few minutes later, he called to inform me that he planned to manually propel the boat back to my location with the pole, lest the battery become exhausted. Fortunately for him ( and me as well), the 12 to 14 MPH wind was at his back. As I stood there in the mud and water, I now scanned for signs of an approaching Mike, as well as fish. Standing still invited some small form of marine life to attack my bare legs. I have never been certain if these creatures are some form of baitfish, or perhaps tiny crabs. Whatever they may be, they take delight in nipping at the flesh of the submerged portions of my lower extremities, rather like underwater mosquitos. Lesson learned – I will make it a point to wear long pants on future excursions to these flats.

After a while, perhaps 30 minutes, I began to discern the form of a man on a poling platform expending much effort to move his boat in my direction. I attempted to go towards him, but the soft thick mud thwarted my efforts. Like a pursuing linebacker, I took a cut-off angle and soon intercepted Mike and the boat. We were both elated to see each other, but wary about the engine issue. I laboriously pulled my 275 pounds over the gunwale and sat before the console. I then carefully used my newly gained knowledge in a final effort to coax the engine back to life. I failed. Though it turned over, no ignition occurred. I carry a can of starting ether on my boat for emergency use, so retrieved it from the storage are inside the console. I removed the engine cowl and sprayed a liberal amount into the air intakes. Once more, I tried the key. Once more, the engine turned over, but failed to ignite. I wondered if my cell phone might be able to lock onto a signal for a call for assistance. My mind raced as I considered using my Spot messenger device to summon assistance, and thought about being stranded for a number of hours out here with dark now approaching. I uttered a silent prayer of thanks that our daughters, who had considered joining us on this trip, were prevented from doing so by unforeseen circumstances.

Puzzled by the lack of response to the ether, something I had never seen, I pondered the situation. It seemed that if a direct injection of the highly volatile ether failed to create a response, either the ignition source was faulty, ie plugs fouled, etc, or there was no available oxygen to allow combustion to occur. I had no way to check the plugs, so I looked over the intakes. VIOLA! The connecting rod that joins the two carburetor butterfly valves had somehow jammed with the butterflies closed. Thus, no air could reach the combustion chambers. After a little jiggling, the rod was freed up. I turned to Mike and asked him to give it another try. The engine immediately came to life, purring like the proverbial cat.

Mike seemed quite impressed by my display of mechanical ability. I assured him that often, it really is better to be lucky than good.  We turned the bow homeward, and ran to the ramp, the engine operating with the precision of a Swiss watch.

 

Rescue and Release

Sunset in Sandy Point

Charles Cotton , contributor to Izaak Walton’s classic treatise, “The Compleat Angler”, advised sportsmen to “fish fine and far off”.  Sandy Point, on the southern shores of Abaco Island, may not necessarily qualify as an exotic destination, but for a southern boy of very humble beginnings, it is close enough. Over the years, I have come to appreciate that the actual fishing at such distant places may not, in and of itself, constitute the “fine” part of the experience recommended by Mr. Cotton. Broadening one’s horizons by experiencing firsthand the lives and cultures of other peoples is, for me, an essential part of travel fishing. Some observers feel that Americans remain, despite the mind boggling advances in recent years of communication and transportation, far too provincial in their thinking and outlook.  Well, I am an American, and some people say that I am ugly, so perhaps this observation does hold true in my own case. My recent trip to the Bahamas serves to illustrate the importance of the social aspect of travelling, fly rod in hand, to some foreign country.

 Saturday evening, our group of bonefishing diehards had returned from the flats, washed the salt from our gear and ourselves, and settled at the dinner table. A wonderful, but curious meal had been prepared by the lovely ladies in Stanley’s employ, consisting of a combination of local fresh caught lobster and plain old diner style meat loaf. The usual combination of “mildly” exaggerated fishing stories from the day and not to be taken seriously ribbing about poor fishing skills filled the air along with the aromas of shellfish, hot sauce, and Kaliks. A general atmosphere of lighthearted revelry settled over us as we enjoyed just doing what we all love so dearly.

The mood was suddenly interrupted when  Stanley limped into the room on his impossibly bowed legs and announced that there was a medical emergency at the small clinic in town and that our assistance was urgently required. I was surprised to learn that Sandy Point has its very own physician, though she is shared with both Crossing Rock and the island community of Moore’s Island. One doctor for some two thousand persons, available 24/7 to handle any and all medical issues, emergent or chronic. She is a native Bahamaian ,who after medical school, chose to settle in this remote village to serve her people, rather to seek riches in a large city. She is yet another in a long list of unsung heroes around the world. We frequently hear about movie stars and athletes, but rarely do stories of real heroes, such as this physican, make the papers or tv news shows. A sad statement about our values and priorities. 

Three among us were physicians and we immediately arose from our repast and headed out the door while Stanley explained the situation. It seem that one of the village’s older inhabitants was in distress. She faced the triple threat of being diabetic, living alone, and having early Alzheimer’s disease. On this particular afternoon, she had taken her insulin injection as normal, but mistakenly thought she had already taken her meal. Unfortunately, she had not. Her blood sugar plummeted predictably, rendering her semi- comatose and combative. The local doctor was struggling to raise the patient’s blood sugar by injecting a concentrated form of glucose into her veins. What should have been a simple problem became life threatening when no veins for establishing an IV line could be found, a common problem for diabetics. Her dangerously low blood sugar combined with her combativeness and inability to cooperate spelled disaster.

We piled out of Stanley’s pickup and hurried into the clinic. The physician was struggling to help her patient, but had little in the way of medical equipment. The doctor hit upon the idea of inserting a plastic tube through the patient’s nose and into her stomach, whereupon the glucose could be delivered without IV access. She had no NG tube ( nasogatric tube, a commonly used device taken for granted in American hospitals), so she cleverly cut off a piece of oxygen tubing and attempted to use it instead. Unfortunately, a combination of thrashing about by the patient and the stiffness and size of the oxygen tube made this effort unfruitful.

By now, the patient’s glucometer blood sugar reading was 20, dangerous indeed. The three of us searched frantically for a vein. Two of us are highly experienced surgeons but despite our expertise, no suitable vein could be found. We contemplated inserting an IV line into the jugular vein, but we had neither the equipment nor a cooperative patient. The situation was becoming desperate and I asked that the helicopter be called in to transport the patient to Nassau, a mere ninety miles away. I was informed by the doctor’s assistant that unless the patient or her family could come up with thousand of dollars to pay for it, the helo would not come.  That is the stark reality of life in many places. No money, no treatment.

Ultimately, we came up with the idea of just bypassing the need for intravenous access by injecting the glucose under the skin into the fatty layer. Despite a lack of veins, this patient had no shortage of subcutaneous fat, so we injected a couple of vials of concentrated glucose into the fat in the abdominal area. We maintained her airway and prevented her from injuring herself by flailing about on the  table and falling to the concrete floor of the exam room.

Though not as rapid in its onset of action, this route of administration offered us our best hope. Indeed, within a few minutes, we witnessed that almost miraculous recovery diabetics experience when their blood sugar is restored to normal levels. Suddenly, the patient ceased struggling, sat up and asked what had happened. She was able to drink a small cup of orange juice and seemed no worse for the wear and back to her normal state of health.

I was immensely grateful for her recovery, as I had feared for her life initially. After it had become apparent that she had made a complete recovery, I could not help but make the fishing analogy of the modern practice of catch and release. Just as the many bonefish we caught had been released unharmed after a ferocious struggle, to continue their lives on the nearby flats, this lady was returned home to live out her life in the idyllic village of Sandy Point. Our hope is that increased vigilence on the part of her neighbors and family might prevent simlar episodes in the future.

The intense frustration I had experienced earlier that day after being unable to entice a large permit into taking my fly was now replaced with the very deep satisfaction of helping save a life. Although people in other countries may have a differing culture than our own, every person is precious, and are no different from ourselves. These kinds of events help bring that truth more sharply into focus and help me ensure that my priorities are in order.