Action

This past month I've landed almost 10 bonefish. If you're keeping score at home, thats 9 more than I'd landed in ALL OF THE ENTIRETY OF LAST YEAR. Through endless, sun-scorched hours of trial and error on the flats, discussions with more experienced fly fishermen, tons of research, boxes of experimental flies, encouragement from Mark and Adam and an understanding girlfriend, the hope of landing a bone was kept alive. Finally, knock on wood, the fish are cooperating.

Driving home from a kayak excursion last weekend, I noticed a flock of pelicans bombarding the sea a few meters from a sandy shoreline. Sandy shore + bait = bonefish. I turned off and broke out the 8wt permanently kept in the back of the truck.

In a few minutes, I was in knee deep water thick with bait. I saw my first bone in a moment, and then noticed a big boy cruising away from me, between my position and the shore. I bombed a cast beyond him and popped the fly through the water column. I smiled as he turned 270 degrees to attack my offering, and I was into my backing before I knew it.

I beached him and only then realized it was my personal best bonefish. I grabbed a self-portrait with the setting sun over my shoulder and my Movember 'stache capping it off. The fish was not very long, but it was a real hog. No doubt growing thick on the easy pickings of bewildered baitfish.

Movember Bonefish

I called my fishing buddy Zach, the other Science teacher at the school we both work at, and inadvertently rubbed in the fact that I have been hauling them in lately. Realizing he has yet to land a bonefish, I solemnly swore to put him on some fish before I hooked another one...

Out of State Angler.

Take Me Home Country Roads.

Born and raised in eastern Pennsylvania, I grew up in one of the best states in America to fly fish for trout. Wild trout. I honed my skills a few hundred yards down the street from my house on a small freestone stream that harbored a sparse population of wild brown trout. Each spring, the small browns, were hounded by stocked fish and fishermen who kept their limits all season long. It was a miracle I was able to catch them throughout much of my teenage years. Heading to college, I chose the University of Delaware. Lost in the decision process was my desire to fly fish. Instead, athletics and an education were my top priorities at the time period. If I hopped in a DeLorean, I would probably choose guide school and a life of fly fishing over a life spent bound to a job and the man. Graduating college, I took my one and only job offer, and happily am now a Delawarean. I went from a state known for wild trout to a state that has zero wild trout streams. 

Leaf Clutter.

My Escape.

Add Cataracts to Stockpedia. 

When I am tied down in Delaware, I will routinely hit one of the only streams in the state of Delaware that is stocked: White Clay Creek. Even then, I tend to travel an extra ten minutes across the PA line to fish the upper reaches of the creek in Pennsylvania. My local waters now only hold stocked trout as opposed to the stream born fish that intoxicated my mind during my early days. They only satiate a small portion of my appetite for fly fishing. As a result, I am now a traveling out of state angler. A weekend warrior, traveling back home to PA, in search of the wildness of my youth. 

A Freshly Stocked Fall Bow.

The Distinctive Stocking Color.

Chubawamba. 

A Nemo Bow.

Veiled Green Caddis.

An Appetizer. 

Storm Damage

This hurricane season has been an active one. Hurricane Earl, a category IV storm, blasted past within 15 miles of our shores, scouring a few of the smaller islands in it's path. Taking shelter from the 90mph winds (15 miles from the eye and our winds were only in the cat. 1 level), we hunkered down at a friend's house with cases of water and beer, having ourselves a short-lived hurricane party.

We returned to our apartment to find the sea had made it to our front porch, but thankfully no further. Our apartment and belongings were safe. Some other people were not so fortunate. Dozens of boats were wrecked in the storm and millions of dollars of damage were done do docks, roads, marinas and buildings.

Earl struck two days into the new school year. After setting up our classrooms and having students for two days, we had to pack everything back up, wrap it in plastic and batten the hatches incase of water damage. Earl was good for two days off of school.

As the weeks went by, we dodged bullet after bullet as other storms whizzed by to the north or south of us. A few unnamed tropical depressions did their worst and caused some of the most destructive flooding here since records have been kept.

Then, in 36 hours we received more than 22 inches of rain. School was canceled for a few days due to that one, as well. In the midst of it, my girlfriend and I were suffering through Dengue Fever. Good timing.

When you couple absolutely no enforcement of environmental regulations with any amount of precipitation, not to mention the rains we've been having lately, stuff like this happens:

Anyone who wants to can build a house ANYWHERE they want. And if there isn't a road taking you to your plot of land, cut one through the forest, forget about engineering adequate drainage or setting up silt fences, and sit back as the slightest rain leeches tons and tons of mud into the ocean, smothering the reefs around this island.

I have only been here for roughly 16 months, but in that short amount of time I have witnessed a large-scale decline in the health of the reefs surrounding this island. Makes you wonder about how amazing this place probably was even 10 or 20 years ago.

The Tragedy of the Commons is playing itself out on a million stages throughout this world, our front yard is only one of them.

Last Chance.

Over a few beers late one night, my brother and I hatched a plan to hit up a local flat early the next morning. The goal was to catch a bonefish and exact revenge on the hundred or so fish that wanted nothing to do with every pattern I had, the last and only other time, I fished there. It would be my last chance to fish a flat for a bonefish on our annual summer sojourn. 

The next morning, I awoke in a pool of my own sweat with a fresh round of mosquito bites, I realized that I had slept through our alarm. Our early morning plan was looking more like a mid-afternoon siesta. It didn't really matter. We had been operating on island time for two weeks, being late was part of the game. We loaded up the SUV with a kayak, checked that she was held down nice and tight and hit the road. Our destination was only ten miles away, yet it would take us forty five minutes to get there. Parking, we unloaded the kayak, geared up, and hit the ocean for a forty five minute paddle across deep seas. 

Getting on the Flat.

About to Go For a Swim.

Beaching the kayaks on the only strip of sand in the immediate vicinity, my brother and I waded across a deeper channel to get up onto the large flat. My brother headed left, and I went right, splitting the flat in half. No more than ten minutes after I took my first step, I spotted a pod of slow moving bones about fifty deep. Their grayish backs unmistakable against the bed of sea grass. I stripped off the necessary amount of line, took two false casts and shot the rest of my line out and into the middle of the pack. One strip was all it took to ignite the competitive spirit amongst the bones and soon I was latched on to a decent fish. The street gang followed the hooked bonefish around before realizing something was wrong and bolting off the flat. This left my fish with one decent run before gently being cradled for a victory shot.

Loggerhead.

Spotted Eagle Ray.

Brown Booby.

My Last Bone of the Trip.

Size 8 Kwabbit For the Win.

Thanks.

The hook and landing of the first bone of the day, spooked that days group of bonefish. After the first hour, there were sporadic sightings of single and paired bones across the flat, none of them interested in our flies. I turned my attention to permit. On ten separate occasions, I spotted tail around the edge of the flat along the     coral. On half of those occasions, I was able to get a cast off. Each and every time the perms spooked and blasted off the flat. Permit are so smart, fast, and powerful. They are awe inspiring. Even though I was able to catch my first one, I was still trembling at the knees. The sight of their tail breaking the surface of the water and shaking side to side, is an image you will never forget. It will haunt you in your dreams at night, beckoning you in for another go around. Just thinking about it, makes me want to book a flight and settle the score. 

Class is in Session.

I Want To Go Back.

NOW.

Bonus Fish.

Day two and rain is in the forecast. We are two very happy campers and expect big things on this particular day on the water. However, with our high expectations we set ourselves up for an inevitable let down. The skies were overcast, the air was chilly, and rain came down. The steelhead for some reason, shut it down. Most likely due to a shift in water temperature that they must not have liked. Throughout the day, covering a ton of water, we witnessed three landed steelhead for a hundred or so anglers. Not very good odds, especially when most of the day was spent swinging flies through great looking water. Adam managed one tug to satiate his addiction and landed a very pretty brown trout while I settled for a six inch creek chub (good times). The rest of the day was spent probing, hiking, swinging, and wading. Adam with a malfunctioning pair of Orvis waders and myself with a slow leaking neoprene booty that left my left leg soaked and frozen much of the day. This post consists mostly of bonus fish from the previous day and random catches and sights from the weekend. 

First Cast, First Light Coho.

My, What Big Teeth You Have.

Intermittent Brown Trout.

Knubs.

It is approaching the time of year when the river starts to exude a wonderfully pleasant odor. That of rotting salmon. Sea gulls, ospreys, the occasional eagle, raccoons, and maggots all feast on the rotting corpses in the stream bed and along the banks. Large dead salmon often get caught up on logs and boulders in the river some of which approach thirty even forty pounds. Others are left on the banks from previous high water periods where they go through several stages of decay. Stages that remind me of a scene from Young Frankenstein where Marty Feldman assumes the position of "presently dead," and breaks into song once discovered. Anyway, the salmon are extremely beneficial to the river ecosystem and also to the fly angler. Aquatic insects will feast on the decomposing carcasses and steelhead and brown trout will begin keying in on these insects allowing one to diversify their arsenal on the river. 

Not Presently Dead, But Probably A Few Days Dead.

A Maggot Feast.

All That is Left is Skin, & Dispersing Maggots. 

Small Browns That Will Grow Up To Become Quite Large.

We spent much of our slow day of fishing swinging flies, slowly getting into a zone, and hoping that a fish would be willing to grab. I tried everything I had in my box. Egg sucking leaches, woolly buggers, tube flies, intruders, and some stinger missiles. I tried all sorts of colors as well, black, olive, brown, purple, red, blue, and chartreuse and then mixed and matched them to no avail. It just wasn't my day. Sometimes, especially on this river, you often latch onto something other than a fish. Mono-filament litters the landscape and is an unfortunate problem associated with fishing. It does not decay and with so many lines entering the water on a daily basis, your are bound to get caught on, trip on, catch, and lose your own line on someone else's lost fishing line. The day before, Adam and I were nymphing a deep run and we each caught someone else's rig. Judging by the size of the split shot and the large hook wrapped with estaz, this person lost more than one rig and we both caught them. The rig was a little excessive. 

Swing, Swing, Swing.

Practicing on a Beautiful Stretch.

More Bonus Fish.

Someone Else's Rig.

A Sparse Chartreuse and Purple Tube Fly Intruder.

Some Previously Caught Steel.

Small Male.

Release.

Adam's brown essentially saved our day. His persistence paid off after he spent some extended time on an outlet of a nice stretch. I, long before, had given up and was searching another piece of water when I heard the hoot and holler of Adam. Netting his fish in the fast flowing water, we brought the brown to some slack water along the bank, where the tube fly was removed from her lower jaw and the fish was released. On slow days, it pays to have patience and the resolve to offer a variety of presentations. Varying the speed of the swing and maintaining constant contact with the fly paid off for Adam. Not everyday is produces steelhead, but fortunately the browns are there as well. 

The Grab.

The Satisfaction.

The Shot.

The Release.