Wild.

The pull off is situated along a tight bend and my truck protrudes out just enough that I am worried about losing a side view mirror. I lock the doors and hesitantly step into the forest. I trudge through some overgrowth and out onto a trail of deep grass leftover from a water pipeline. After a few hundred yards I reach the private property line and step into a little slice of heaven.

Little Slice of Heaven.

On the Menu.

Size 12.

The approach is from downstream and I make my way to the far bank to lurk in the shadows. The long glide ahead is shallow and branches from a pine tree hover precariously above the water, inviting a stray cast from a short seven foot rod. With one forward cast, I spook three trout in the glide that otherwise would have remained invisible to my keen eye. The water is skinny and the trout wary. They have home field advantage and I am the big predator resembling Godzilla wrecking havoc in Tokyo. They see me from a mile away and yet I still play the game. I work my way to more productive water, where I have the advantage. Pocket water.

Despite my increased odds, I still maintain my distance. Arching a back cast between thorns and branches I carefully lay one out upstream into a fast shallow run. The dry dropper combo lands and is swiftly pulled downstream before immediately lurching back upstream. I gentle lift of the rod reveals six inches of brute force on the other end. A small wild brown that fights harder than any foot long stocker, ever. I bend over onto the mossy slate and carefully cradle a pure wild trout before sending him back into his four foot wide home.

As I make my way farther upstream, I carefully play my pieces just right. Small stream heaven isn't kind to mistakes, miscasts, or missteps. Every cast I make has to count and it must be pinpoint. Each small piece of water is broken down into feeding and holding lanes. Where will the largest trout be? Do I go for the tail out? The small rapid feeding the hole? The piece of slack water on the right? How about the small overhang along that small boulder up yonder? Guess right and you can tie into a surprisingly large fish for such small water. Guess wrong, and you tie into another glorious six inches while simultaneously scaring and putting down every other fish in the immediate vicinity.

I guess wrong on many occasions but I am not one to complain. Alone in the small glen, I am at peace with the environment and the amusement offered by mother nature. I enjoy the smell of wet foliage and the feel of soft moss on my knees. I love small streams. The challenging conditions and vibrant colors more than make up for the lack of any sizable trout and I have no one to bother me. As the last trout slides out of my grasp, he blends into the water and the stream bottom like a mirage. I hike out of the small glen and find the truck. The mirror is in one piece.

Sharks and Sea Turtles

Last weekend, we decided to fish an unexplored coastline on the other side of the island. We had to hike for about 10 minutes to reach the water from the road, but were rewarded with a perfect view of bright blue water, a turtle grass flat and almost zero wind.

We had been walking towards the flats, east along the beach for about a hundred yards when we spotted a large fin cruising down the shoreline towards us from about 30 yards away. It was a shark, a big one. I realized that I had an 8 inch Deceiver pattern tied onto 10 inches of wire and, acting on pure reflex, I waded into knee deep water as the shark slowly cruised directly towards me.

My first cast led the shark by 3 ft and was right on the money. She shied away and made an 180* turn. I waded ashore and jogged down the beach to get ahead of her. It was then that I got my first good look. She was about 6ft long, a Lemon Shark, cruising in a foot of water, with her dorsal and tail fins, as well as a good portion of her back, sticking out of the water. She was 10 ft from shore. Two attendant remoras were dutifully staying attached to her body as she moved through the shallows.

As I got ahead of her and waded in, I was able to look back West from the direction we had been walking, and spotted a small boat with three locals in it, motoring in our direction. They had obviously seen the shark.

I had one more good cast, keeping the fly right in the sharks face, waiting for it to chew on it, but she passed it over. The boat was approaching quickly and they were headed straight for the shark. One man was leaning over the bow with a length of rope looped over as a lasso. They intended to rope the shark's tail. Another man in the back of the boat readied a club. Sharks are used for lobster bait down here.

I was ashore with my two friends and we were hoping against hope that the shark spooked and got out of there before it was captured. We contemplated throwing some rocks or quickly wading towards it to scare it. When the boat got within 5ft of her exposed tail, the water erupted and she powered out of sight.

I thought about my actions and how I had reflexively cast to a huge fish without considering the consequences. First off, a 100lbs fish on 10wt would have taken me hours to reel in. The best I could have hoped to do would be to semi-beach the exhausted animal and cut the leader. Forget about safely reviving it. An all around bad choice.

As I stood and watched in horror as three locals attempted to rope and beat to death a perfect animal, I realized that fish like that, large breeders who represent the future of the fishery, should just be left alone. They're rare worldwide, and face a terrible future due to finning and long lining. Hooking and fighting one would have been irresponsible and dangerous. I count myself lucky to have even seen it.

I was relieved that I didn't witness it's death. Turtle season has just opened up here, so there is enough to be pissed off about. Thats right. Turtle Season. As of May 1st and until November, every local is allowed to kill one turtle of any species.

This Leatherback was found killed earlier this week. It crawled ashore, laid eggs, was killed by an ax or machete, and the eggs were dug up and taken. Presumably, someone killed the turtle and was then unable to move it because of how heavy it was.

Nightly, people patrol the beaches here with machetes, buckets and flashlights to kill turtles and harvest eggs to eat. Green, Hawksbill, Loggerhead and Leatherback Turtles are in these waters. One mile away in the US Virgin Islands, this act would be punishable by years in prison. Here, in the BVI, there is actually a season for harvesting endangered species.

Happier times. Tonight this Leatherback laid her eggs and made it back to the water. However, nests are not ID'ed and roped off, so they are unprotected from people with buckets or accidental exposure by people who just don't know they're laying their beach blanket on the nest of a sea turtle.

Back to fishing. We waded out onto the flats and spotted a pod of about a dozen small Caribbean Reef Sharks. They were circling a small sandy patch and we took up positions around the edges of the sandy zone.

Over the next hour, we had about 50 shots at the small sharks. You've got to lead them just right, and keep the fly right in their faces. Eventually, they'll chew on it. These small sharks can be landed in a few minutes. They are lively throughout, jumping and rolling and running into your backing, and are quickly revived and released.

This little guy liked the big Deceiver.

We hooked four and landed two. The fly of the day was a black and red woolly bugger on size 8.

The Jungle.

The morning rain came to an abrupt stop as I stepped out of the truck. The sun peered through the clouds providing springtime warmth that pierced through my cotton hoody urging me to take it off. I obliged and slowly rigged up before heading off into the jungle. Aptly named for its close quarters combat and molesting mosquitos. I had new plans to work farther upstream, an area almost untouchable. Thick brush lines the narrow, deep stream bed. Tall grass presents itself like a likely place to place your foot only to suddenly give way into a four foot deep undercut bank. Thick mattes of vegetation fill the deep off colored water making an ideal habitat for wild brown trout. I had high hopes as I worked for an opening, cringing every time my new waders came into contact with the thick thorns protecting the water. In several hundred yards I only found one reasonable access point. At the others I found myself crawling out of thigh deep mud Bear Grylls style. Once I settled in to a spot I could cast at, the wind came out of left field. Slow and steady at first before gaining momentum that later approaches fifty mph gusts. The window of presentation suddenly shrank into nothing as the wind plays games with my long leader and dry dropper rig. I missed two decent fish in the deep channels before making my way downstream.

The Jungle.

Snake Orgy.

A Possible Mother's Day Flower Vase.

Along the way, I was looking up trying not to wonder under an old tree or dead branch. Springtime leaves were being torn from their fresh buds and old branches were snapping off and falling into the water all around. I plowed on before reaching the confluence with a larger freestoner with nothing to show for my effort except some snakes having an orgy and a deer skull with a plant growing out of it. The jungle is beautiful but for some reason, does not support a healthy population of wild browns. Pollution perhaps. I make my way up the larger stream intent on working some water for the first time in ages.

I settle into a long stretch of water that I know holds some decent wild browns. The normally placid water is getting whipped by the wind but I flat out don't feel like changing my rig. I stubbornly wade up past my waist and work a deep stretch along the bank and a fallen tree. The seven foot rod struggles controlling the long cast in the wind. The butch caddis and UV flashback hares ear settle into a groove and work their way into the zone before the caddis dips hard. My first fish of the day is a doozy. I know immediately it is a large fish, possibly the hoss from a stocking day way upstream. It takes a four foot explosion out of the water right at me to change that opinion in an instant. It is a thick wild brown from my dreams. Large perfect fins, deep golden brown, large spots, and a hook jaw. He is gorgeous. My superfine strains as I work him into the shallows downstream. As I bend over to gently cradle my catch the barbless hook shakes free and he darts between my legs. I stop him in his tracks and admire the largest wild brown from my home waters. Ever. I reach for my camera to capture the moment and he shakes free and darts back to his lair. My heart sinks. I am left with a nice gash on the base of my thumb. A product of those lovely teeth wild browns have.

All I Have From An Encounter With a Large Wild Brown.

I Caught His Wife Though.

She Was Gorgeous.

& His Daughter.

I'll Be Back To Settle The Score.

Cesspool Tarpon

Exploring a coast line a few weeks back, I was rewarded with something ridiculously unexpected. We spied a small pool of sick brown water about 5 meters back from the rocky shore. Closer inspection yielded a view of a small ditch full of still water, meandering through a thicket flanked by tall grass, a rusted chain-link fence. and crumbling fill dumped there who knows how long ago. Think small stream through the middle of a construction site in the caribbean. 200 yards uphill from where we stood is an open-pit trash incinerator. Disgusting.

Yielding to the reflex of flipping a fly into any and all bodies of water, I lowered a brown clouser into the cloudy puddle at my feet. I have no idea why I even did it. It looked like nothing could live in this filth. I joked that I would have to re-tie my entire rig as this polluted water would dissolve my tippet before our eyes.

Within a second, a silver flash was visible in the murk and I set the hook, missing the fish. I dropped the fly right back in the same spot and in two more seconds had set the hook into a nice baby tarpon.

Unbelievable.

Surprise!

Perfect fish from imperfect water.

Baby bucket mouth.

Back into the filth from whence she came.

My friend flipped his fly into the same spot, into the middle of the 10ft diameter puddle, and on his first cast he hooked and landed a 10 inch tarpon.

Do they even get any smaller?

As we landed the fish, rainbow clouds bubbled and spread through the surface of the water-filled ditch. Oil.

Two small tarpon in two casts and just like that, it was over. No more fish were coaxed to strike. I think we caught them all and turned them off for the rest of the evening.

Two weeks later I went back. In the first puddle, no fish were summoned from the turbid sickness, a mixture of oil, runoff and tannins. Crawling and slithering along the crumbling concrete that made up one bank, sometimes grasping the rusty fence for balance, I penetrated farther into the thicket to a nice little pool about as big as a van. I had 20inches of leader beyond my rod tip, and I used it to swim a black clouser through the pool, back and forth, under the branches of trees and over the snags in the water. An invisible take, inches below the surface, pulled the leader and I set the hook on probably the same tarpon I had previously caught. I hauled her ashore as best I could, lipped her, and almost dropped the camera in the water as I went for a picture. She thrashed and I lost my grip on her, instead.

A heavily polluted strip of what looks like runoff from the nearby open-pit trash incinerator yielded three small tarpon. This is water that I would be surprised to find a carp living in. But instead, we find perfect specimens with dark, mercurial scales and long, healthy thread fins.

How the hell are you surviving in there?

Recent rains have swollen the water level of this ditch and connected it to the sea. I hope they made a break for it.

Seeing is Believing.

A few weeks ago, Adam and I were out carping on the weekend avoiding the bustling crowds of trout season. Needless to say, we still ran into other fishermen no matter where we went. This particular day was a little colder than usual and despite our early morning emergence, the wind was ripping. After a few fish came to hand, I wanted one more before heading back to Delaware and another work week. The carp was out far enough to escape the glare and was in shallow enough water to easily be seen with a watchful eye. He was cruising pretty fast. I jogged up the path and into position before laying out a descent cast ten feet in front of the advancing golden bone. He came within range of my descending damsel and I gave it one little twitch as he neared. As the damsel came to a rest on the muddy bottom, the carp came over and his lips slowly protruded downward sucking in the morsel. I promptly set the hook triggering chaos.

In the commotion, a wandering spin fishermen came over to inspect the fish doubling my rod in half. He asked me what I had, and I told him a carp. He asked, "Did you snag it?" To which I replied, "I don't think so." He scoffed at me and shook his head before heading down the path. As I brought the carp in, he came back over to see for himself, fully convinced that he was going to see a hook outside of the fish's mouth. He was disappointed and also shocked. This time he was shaking his head in amazement. "Carp on the fly rod huh? I would have had to see it to believe it." He then preceded to tell us about how he only fishes with a fly rod for King Salmon up on the Salmon River. We talked briefly about the fishery that is the Salmon River before going our separate ways. Two schools divided. Young and old. Fly and spin.

First Fish, Moments After Rigging Up.

Premature Release.

Skimming Under The Surface.

Peeling Off Line.

Death Rolls.

Puking.

No Escape.

The Scoop.

Admiration.

Carp Portrait.

Releasing Then Disappearing.

Bent.

Carp Addiction.

Discussing Carp on the Fly With Our Guest.

Self Release.

The Fish in the Middle.

Two Schools of Thought.

Heading Our Separate Ways.