Find Your Beach

With the work week coming to a close, my mind and body are shutting down. The only thing keeping me going is the anticipation of the weekend and some peace of mind. My beach. When the moment finally arrives, I glide out onto the water and a calm overcomes me. I am detached from the hustle and bustle of society, and enter a whole new web of life, where ospreys soar overhead, affixing their eyes on prizes far below. Great blue herons slowly stalk the shallows, and beavers work there way back and forth to their lodges in the fading light. Spawning carp violently break the calm of the surface, while red winged black birds atop cattails indicate spring. The calm placid surface of the water reflects the overcast sky, and my SUP yak runs through it. The smooth rhythm of a double haul soars over the water, and a decorated piece of foam lands with a plop. The bass emerges from his lair, and flushes down my fly in a whoosh. The crackling of gill plates indicate weight, and my fly rod strains to keep him out of the weeds. A freshly lipped bass is pulled overboard before being released back into the turbidity, and the web from whence it came.

Find your beach...

Skinny Water Golden Bones

Where I live, good carp water is hard to come by. I have spent days and hundreds of dollars in gas traveling and searching for new water found on google earth only to be left empty handed. Denied by private property or lack of fish, I was often left discouraged and in need of a freshwater bonefish. I decided to ask any fishermen if they knew of any good carp water. More often than not, they had something to say that usually consisted of them raising their wing spans in the air and giving the universal sign for big fish. A recent conversation with a new fishing partner yielded a secret spot and I couldn't wait to find some new water.

Arriving at my destination, a short walk revealed a vast causeway into a lake that was very shallow. Cloudless skies and a high sun perfectly illuminated the dark silhouettes of cruising carp. As I looked into the distance I could see the backs of several carp emerging out of the water and several eager ospreys overhead looking for an easy meal. Several times, they swooped down only to put the brakes on at the last minute. Many of the carp had deep gray scars along their backs from failed attempts at an easy meal. My brief walk also revealed a complete lack of larger fish. The biggest maybe approaching ten pounds. I guess the constant threat from above kept the population and size in check.

As I geared up for an assault, I was faced with the dilemma of sight fishing to carp in only a few inches of water that had zero visibility. Weighted flies were out of the question because the bottom consists of a very soft mud and a coating of green algae. I decided to go with unweighted patterns that allowed me a few precious seconds before they hit bottom. That meant, that I would have to place the fly on the carps nose at long range to get them to notice it. I started off with egg patterns before transitioning to san juan worms and later a damsel. All flies allowed soft presentations and slow sink rates. Once the fly was placed, I had to read the carp's body language to know whether or not the fly was taken.

After a brief learning curve, I was able to land several average carp from the flat. They were extremely aware of their surroundings and any vibration, errant cast, or fly alerted them to my presence in the skinny water. It was challenging but also extremely rewarding. Perfect practice for saltwater bones.

Releasing the Pressure

The best part about living in the Caribbean are visitors. We've had quite a few over the past two years. When someone comes down with fly fishing at the front of their minds, it is even better.

A friend who got in to fishing with the fly at about the same time I left home was included in our latest round of Spring Breakers.

As usual, the best laid plans are laid to waste. Tom said that he checked to make sure he packed his reel probably three times but never checked for his passport. This would explain why he arrived a full 24 hours later than expected. The first order of business was a few beers. The second order of business was to tie up some tarpon leaders.

As Tom tied to my instruction, I browsed the box of freshly-minted flies he brought along. He tied up some exquisite saltwater patterns for the trip which put my efforts at the vice to shame. I thought that if we failed to get any looks from fish it wouldn't be due to what we were throwing at them.

We walked to the local hole and spotted the fish milling about in the street light. A quick tutorial on how to present to laid-up tarpon, how to set the hook and how to fight the fish was given but I don't think he heard a word of it. He was looking at the slabs of chrome reflecting in the waves. We entered the water.

After 20 minutes of blown shots and casts, the adrenaline started to wear off and we both calmed down. This was his first time fly fishing in saltwater and there were a dozen or so 40lb fish within range.

We discussed the importance of choosing your best shot instead of flailing the surface in vain, which is something I can barely adhere to when I see a fish that I can reach. Within minutes, a daisy chain of fish moved back into the circle of light after being scared off from earlier presentations.

Tom placed the fly in the sweet spot, just out of the lead fish's field of view, and stripped it into the fish's path. Two agonizingly slow strips later and the fish ate. Tom set the fly into the its steel trap jaws.

Some choice words were let fly as the fish danced across the surface and moved out in to the darkness. Tom fought the fish like a seasoned veteran and I was touching the leader within 10 minutes.

Soon after that, I had her lipped. We posed for a few epic grip-and-grins before releasing her into the darkness.

Local spectators come to see us 'play with our food.'

Tom landed the first tarpon he'd ever hooked. Not many others can make that claim. Prior to every trip I've ever been on I have not been able to resist the thoughts of the possibility of having the most spectacular days of fishing imaginable. Cooperative, enthusiastic, huge fish. It is not until you actually wet a line that the thoughts you've been telling yourself are foolishly unrealistic run up against the reality that you won't catch a fish on your first cast or maybe even your hundredth cast. Fear starts to creep in that all of your hopes will be dashed and you'll go home without having felt even a pull. Getting the first fish out of the way is always a huge relief and it made each time we cast a fly for the next fews days completely pressure free.

Where It All Began

Stepping out of the truck there is a smell of yeast in the air and the loud grumbling of a mill. Cars zoom over a bridge nearby and the roar of high water bellows from the river down the bank. The dark green water is placid, murky, and covered in a thin layer of yeast. It is a small cesspool of runoff and wastewater that reflects abandoned railroad cars covered in graffiti. Pacing the perimeter, I am patiently looking for any sign of life while passerby's and workers on lunch break give me odd looks. After awhile, a gray cloud of silt and decayed matter ascends from the depths bubbling outward from the surface. Beneath the cloud lies a fish that calls this environment home, thriving in the hot summer temperatures and scraps from the mill. My rig lands with a slap on the water and my line jerks suddenly. Lifting the rod tip there is an explosion of  water as a surprised carp takes off towards structure, attempting to free himself from the piece of iron in his lip. The worker's heads turn and several poor out of the office to see the commotion. I ease the fish into some shale and pop the fly out of his grill. Lifting the slab of golden scales skyward, the workers approve and I rinse my hands off in the filth. I reel in my rod, and head back to the truck with flashbacks of my first carp reappearing in my mind. Several years ago now, I pay homage to its home. A little place we like to call the acid pond. It is where it all began.

The Plan: Part Three

The third time is the charm. At least that is what everyone says. For our third excursion and final installment in my devious plan to get my roommate addicted to fly fishing, I took him out back home in the Valley, for some wild brown trout fishing on my home water. I figured he had to experience something unique to counteract the stocked trout in Delaware by showing him what a real brown looks like. The weather was overcast and raining as we were in the middle of several storm systems rolling across the country dumping inches of rain. The water was high and slightly off color which gave us the perfect opportunity to catch some browns that were out of their hiding places to feed. 

Looking Prime.

Into His First.

It took us awhile to find some wild fish, but after two leftover stockers, Derek finally tied into his first wild brown. He was initially awestruck with how differently they fight compared to a stocked fish and his jaw dropped at seeing it up close. The fish was stunning and plump from feasting during the high flows. Her dark brown back slowly shifted to a golden underbelly supplemented with prominent red spots and blue halos. The visual feast ended with a perfectly red dotted adipose and prominent blue dot signaling that she never tasted anything but prime grade A insect life. Soon after releasing his first, he was into another nice fish for the stream. For the remaining rain soaked hours on that April afternoon an addiction slowly began to take root deep in his soul. 

Derek's First Wild Brown Trout.

Plump From High Water Feeding.

A Quality Second.

Derek Used The Caddis, I Settled on Slaying With A New Pattern.

Another Plumper.

Fishing Alone & Being Successful.

Caddis FTW.

Releasing Another.

Prettiest Fish of the Day.

Easy on the Strip Set Trout Slayer.

Check Out The Focus on That Face.

Mission Accomplished.

Hook, Line, & Sinker.

After a few successful trips on the water, Derek was hooked. Despite having explained how he could use any of my gear, he had something else in mind. A week later he came home holding something in his hand. In it was his very first fly rod. A handcrafted, beautiful, and entirely unique 904-3. It was then that I realized that I have a lot of friends that need to experience what I experience on a weekly basis. The sport needs new blood, especially from the younger generations and fly shops need all the help they can get to stay afloat. In the past year, the only three fly shops I have frequented in the general area have all shutdown, leaving me with no place to spend my money. So this year, take somebody fly fishing and introduce them to a world they never knew existed. At the least, they will enjoy the great outdoors and at the most, they will develop a hobby to enjoy for the rest of their lives.