Day of Days.

The dogs and I were awoken by a phone call at 5 am and I instantly knew that I had overslept my alarm. I didn't have to look at who was calling me either but I answered anyway. I was tired and groggy from a brief nap while Adam was wide awake from a sleepless night at the vice engineering the outings new mouse trap. He was already at the canal. I got out of bed, put my contacts into crusty red eyes, grabbed my gear, and made the half hour trip in twenty minutes. Arriving, Adam had decided not to wait for me so I grabbed everything and booked it out and into the fray.

Engaged.

The Old Escape Between The Legs...

Oh...Fudge.

The Creature From the Black Lagoon.

Never Give Up.

Turning the corner, Adam was in full hunting mode. He was even sporting hunting camo. I said hello and made a cheap joke about my whereabouts but he didn't respond. Like Kobe Bryant ignoring Chris Rock on the sidelines of the NBA Finals, Adam was not about to be distracted from the task at hand. The pinnacle of carping. The elusive golden bones of the canal. We didn't speak or pay any attention to each other for the first hour. We happened to stumble upon active carp in the wee hours of the morning and there were plenty of opportunities for the both of us. The first words uttered were a profound, loud, and proud "YEA BABY," as a massive boil erupted on the glassy surface of the placid dark water. I had hooked into a nice slab of gold amidst all the debris, glare, and poison ivy.

First Canal Slab.

Broken Favorite Rod <>

Tail.

All Focus.

The Scene: Fog, Glare, & Rods Bent to the Cork.

Death Rolls.

Boils Get the Heart Pounding.

After awhile, I realized that this was my opportunity to land my first canal carp. I had thwarted all the fish's maneuvers and was now faced with the difficult task of landing a carp in deep water with no place for a safe beaching. It took several attempts before I finally orchestrated an attempt that I felt comfortable enough to put my rod down. As I did this, the carp had a second wind and bolted between my legs. I simultaneously grabbed my rod and lifted my legs over the screeching leader and fly line before my seven pound test broke under all the stress. The line was saved but in all the calamity my favorite fly rod took one last bow before snapping clean in half. I simply looked up at it before grabbing my leader and refocusing on the task at hand. I wasn't about to let a broken rod ruin my first canal carp. I landed the brute which was about an average fish for the canal but still a very large slab.

They Go One Way, You Go the Other.

Emerging.

Hauling.

A Big Scoop.

Golden Ghosts.

As I went back to the truck to re-arm, it was Adam's turn to get back to work. The minor respite re-energized his tired mind and before long, he too echoed his signature, "THERE HE IS," as a monstrosity blitzed across the canal. Adam deftly eased in the golden ghost with his five weight and 4x tippet before cradling her in the water for the two of us to admire. A little while later we both missed several more fish. It was truly a day of days to be out on the canal. It was an early morning on a holiday weekend. It was overcast and drizzly. The carp were a little off guard creating several chances that otherwise would never happen.

Carp Face.

The Best Part: Watching Them Disappear.

Weaponry.

A Whole Lot of Green.

Admiring the Bend.

Guests.

He is Excited. She is Shocked.

Yea Baby.

Gold.

The Day of Days.

The third carp of the day was also the largest. I switched out rods with the only other one I had with me. The good ole switch rod. I hooked the next one after carefully stalking several mud plumes mere feet offshore. I waited several minutes before the carp ascended in the water column enough for me to finally see her. I had to carefully time the ascension and wait for the bubbles to stop before placing my cast. The fly had to be in the water and descending as the carp emerged out of the mud cloud. She did and my unweighted damsel parachuted two feet in front of her face. She meandered over changing her course only a few degrees before sucking in the mouse trap. The water erupted and my heart began pounding. Sight fishing is the best. Sight fishing for fish measured in pounds rather than inches is even better.

The Green Team.

I walked into the classroom and took my place with the other students along the back wall. We all looked rather nervous as a wiry middle aged man began calling out our names and assigning us to our desks. Naturally, since my last name begins with an E, I was among the first quarter of students chosen. I took my seat, unpacked my school supplies and glanced upward at an image that caught my eye. It was a colored drawing of two large brown trout under a small log jam actively feeding on all three stages of a mayflies existence. A smirk came upon my face. My eighth grade algebra teacher was a fly fisherman. How awesome.

Score One For the Green Team.

Representing.

Green vs. Gold.

Hasta La Vista.

Looking back on that school year, some 10 years ago, I can't help but think how much I didn't know about the sport. I began fly fishing only two years prior and the seeds of addiction had only just begun to sow deep into my soul. On the other hand, Adam had already started bringing his fly tying material to school. I think, our teacher knew that I wasn't all that serious about the sport yet. Not on his level. He knew I fly fished and was rather amused with my curiosities. I was rather amused with his teaching style. He loved throwing erasers at students or powdering them with the excess chalk. I particularly enjoyed the stories from a bygone era of his youth complete with stringers of trout. Another memory is when he brought out an old paddle from his closet that was once used for disciplinary measures. But my favorite part of class was always gazing up at that image of the brown trout. They were perfect.

Bent.

Golden Scoop.

Score Two For the Green Team.

Carpin.

Finger Release.

In middle school our class was split into teams. Ours was aptly named. We both ended up on the Green Team. It had an all star cast of teachers each with their own personalities that gelled into quite the team. That year we attended the Renaissance Fair, performed local stream cleanups, and went on a canoe trip. The Green Team's image is forever emblazoned on our team shirt that both of us still have. Front and center is a fish, resembling a walleye. It is a favorite shirt that begs to be worn on fishing trips. When Adam came by for another day of carping, he was representing the green team. I had no choice but to dig the shirt out of a bag of dirty clothes in the back of the truck and team up with him. On this day, it was the Green Team vs. the Gold Team.

Long Distance Hook Up.

Probing in the Weeds.

Nipples Deep.

Buried Carp.

5x.

The Tide Turns.

He Emerges.

Deep Water Landing.

Super Pumped.

Propulsion.

Carnies.

Descending upon our favorite carping locale, we couldn't help but notice all the cars parked on the streets. Then we noticed the temporary chain linked fence cutting off over half the lake and even going out into the water. Enclosed within the fence were trailers with their glittering signs flashing all sorts of amenities. Funnel cakes, hot wings, ribs, popcorn, caricatures, live music, t-shirts, and everything in between. A festival was taking place in the park and from the looks of it was about to get started. We hopped out of the car and peered out into the lake for the first time wondering how our already skittish carp were reacting to all the hustle and bustle surrounding the lake. We saw a few cruising carp before having to sidestep several golf carts driven by festival organizers and security. This was followed by several conversion vans. This was going to be an interesting day of carping.

We geared up and headed to where the carp were. They had congregated on the only side of the lake that wasn't blocked off from the fence and didn't have any festival related activities along the bank. This happened to be the only spot that we could fish. Needless to say we were both escaping the carnival like atmosphere and the crowds. However, this concentration of fish had its downside. The water was very low and gin clear from the spring creek feeding the lake and the carp were scared out of their minds. They spooked upon seeing flies that they normally would devour. This made the fishing somewhat difficult.

Soon the festival got started and we were stalking golden ghosts on the flats to the tune of several types of music. Depending on where we were lakeside we could listen to r&b, polka, country, and rock. All performed live at the various pavilions. Occasionally the organizers would set off firecracker, a loud one, probably a m80 causing every single carp in the lake to spook simultaneously sending water flying and mud clouds rising. Then something worse descended upon predator and prey: paddle boats. They took off from the opposite side of the lake and soon families were churning up the water and the bottom all throughout the lake. This made the already difficult carping even more interesting. We had music, firecrackers, company, and carp. It was indeed a festival.

Cruisers.

Tanners.

Damsel Scores.

Dragging Her In.

He is Pleased.

The Carp Face.

Gold.

Weaponry & Fuel.

Breaking The Surface.

Desperation Hurl.

The Scoop.

Check Out The Split Tail.

Each Part Works Separately.

Nymphs of All Sizes.

Seeing Eye to Eye.

Release.

More Cruisers.

Taking In The Festivities.

Obstacles and Carp Blocks.

Getting It Done.

Bull Dog.

Admire The Shine.

Burp.

Powering Away.

Skimming.

Picked Up Some Weeds.

Drawing Attention.

Little Kids Got Scared of the Water.

Grip & Grin.

Pound for Pound.

The kayak has opened new saltwater doors for me. No longer confined to land, I can slip through inches of water to sneak into prime casting positions to hit up mangroves, structure and cover, all of the places toothy critters lurk.

Not that I have done any of that yet. I just got the thing.

What I have done, though, is spend a good deal of time chasing birds around our front yard. I can drag the ‘yak across the street, hop in and pursue marauding brown pelicans, roseate terns and black-headed gulls as they pick off the wounded and frightened fry that blue runners, false albacore and mackerel have frightened to within inches of the surface. If I can get close enough without splashing or knocking things against the hull of the boat, I might even get an actual cast or two into the swirling maelstrom before the neon yellow hull puts the fish down and they sprint off to greener pastures.

I can tell that I'll soon have the shoulders and back of a greek god, as well. The fish are quick, and it is all I can do to head them off at a full speed paddle. When they go down, they pop up a few hundred yards away, and you're off again.

Fish breaking the surface, or ‘beating’ as it is called here, are easily seen from my vantage point. The trick is figuring out which way they are heading and paddling like mad to cut them off. If there are just too many birds in the air, particularly the pelicans and roseate terns which are listed endangered species, I wouldn’t dare cast into the furious mess of wings, beaks, fins and teeth and instead I paddle around the edges, dragging a fly behind the ‘yak, hoping for a pull.

I have not succeeded in casting and hooking up yet, but it is only a matter of time and how confident I am that I won’t snag an endangered bird. I have, however, done quite well while trolling.

Mackerel are willing, as long as the fly is far enough away from the frightening color of the kayak. Last week, though, I had a take from something that clearly wasn’t a mackerel. It pulled like nothing I have ever hooked before.

Once a tarpon settles down, you’re in for a bulldog battle. I can liken it to a tug of war.

Once a bonefish is hooked, it lasers for the horizon. Once your drag sinks it’s hooks in, the fish knows it is defeated and more or less gives up.

Blue Runners offer a see-saw battle of gaining line and then giving it back up. They also pull like a bulldog.

Everything else either shows itself with some acrobatics or you’re sight fishing to it and know your quarry ahead of time.

This fish immediately pulled very hard, then bolted directly towards the boat. I frantically reeled slack line for about 20 seconds, thinking that I had been bitten off, when I felt the fish again.

This life on the end of the line, which bent the 10wt dangerously to the cork, literally vibrated with adrenaline. If I didn't stupidly delete the video, you would have been able to see the rod tip vibrating as the fish approached the boat.

It wouldn’t give an inch. Steering the fish with the rod only made it more pissed off. I was forced to let the fish swim circles around the kayak. If I tried to steer it, it would only pull harder. It was so quick that at the slightest pressure from my end, the fish would increase its pressure in the opposite direction and put a seriously dangerous bend in the rod. It is easy to see that this species deserves the reputation as the destroyer of the most fly rods.

When I finally brought the tank in close enough to see it, I realized it was a false albacore. Pound for pound the hardest fighting fish I have ever hooked.

Out of breath from chasing the birds.

I had recently attached the GoPro to the end of a broomstick in the hopes of getting some interesting underwater footage while kayaking. This was the first fish I’ve hooked while having that ability. Needless to say, I was more focused on not breaking my brother’s 10wt than getting some good shots.

It was also one of the prettiest fish I've ever held. The patterns on it's back are reminiscent of a brook trout, only they are not colored to match a dark stream bottom. However, everything this fish represents could not be more removed from the lazy, small stream mentality of a soft-bodied, gently-sipping, resting-in-the-eddy brook trout. To say the fish's body was solid muscle would be an understatement. The thing was made of pure energy, a tightly-wound piano wire, and as I held it for a few moments I could feel how this creature makes its living. Constantly searching, franticly rushing, desperately never stopping.