The Luckiest Cast

After the events soon to be described had transpired, our captain Arturo told us a story of one of his long-term clients from the states.  This man had fished with Arturo once a year for the past 7 years.  In that time, he landed exactly one single solitary roosterfish.  Judging by the day we had, he was either an absurd outlier, beset by unspeakable bad luck or just an awful fisherman.  Arturo told us of this poor guy to put into perspective the feat our dad pulled off earlier that day.

By this point in the morning, my father had landed a rooster using live bait, and Mark and I both landed roosters on the fly, as well as Mark's dorado on fly.  It was our father's turn at the transom and he opted to try the fly rod instead of the live bait.

Now, our dad fishes with us when we're all around, but doesn't get out enough to have developed really strong or accurate casting.  When he has the time, he chooses the fairways instead of the freestones.  Mark and I were both thinking that his chances weren't too good because of the amount of line that must be kept airborne while false casting, and the accuracy needed to complete a proper bait and switch.  We also both knew that he always seems to surprise us with some strangely cooperative fish.

When I hooked the last fish, it was noted that there were others in the vicinity.  Hoping they were still around, our dad wasted no time as he stood with rod in hand as I released mine.  He made one lazy forward roll cast to prep for his first back cast.  As the line and fly lay in the water not 10ft off the outboards, Mark and I were giving him some last-second advice on the double-haul, strip setting and the angle of rod, as if it would make a difference at this point.  Then, the unexpected happened.

While Mark was in the midst of an abbreviated dissertation on the finer points of line management immediately preceding a strip set, a rooster's comb slashed through the surface and grabbed the fly that was listlessly drifting besides the boat.

Our dad understandably lifted the rod as if a brookie had sipped an Adams.  I grabbed the rod at the first ferrule and pulled it back down into line with the fish as Mark pretty much strip set for him from the slack line at his feet.  Then, a momentary hint of tension and the line went slack, but either the same fish didn't taste the steel or another one came up in its wake, because it was there and Mark and I, as well as Arturo, were shouting out excited commands that probably just jumbled into garbled madness.

It was a comedy of errors as three sets of hands when to work untangling deck knots, angling a rod, shouting advice and pointing at a striped fish that was not going to be denied.  The line came tight and this time I didn't let him lift the rod.  He strip set into the fish and the hook buried deep in its lip.

We were all laughing and slapping each other on the back as Arturo proclaimed our dad the luckiest man alive.  He landed the fish and we posed for a few pictures to record another unforgettable fish.  It was not the largest fish of the trip, but definitely the sweetest.

Good Morning

Morning of day four by myself on the island and I am beginning to feel the affects of the week. A diet of nuts, cookies, pop tarts, and cans of chef boyardee are beginning to take their toll, my feet are rubbed raw from my flats boots, and fishing has been for the most part: slow.

The last two days I have on the island are punctuated by extremely low tides in the beginning of the day that make my favorite places to fish almost un-fishable. I decide to do some wading off the beaches. At the lowest of tides, previously in-accessible areas are now able to be waded. I immediately find some unsuspecting fish.

A pack of four bonefish are spotted coming from a mottled bottom over a patch of sand. They are easily spotted before their colors adjust to the new surroundings. The first cast of the morning produces an average (for here) bonefish. He behaves slightly different than most of the bones I catch, in that he doesn't do the standard two runs. He stays in close, going in and out making circles around me, before going on a short backing run. I bring him in for the land and get some Go Pro stills. What is interesting about these Go Pro stills is that they produce the reverse effect of your typical fly fishing shot. Rather than making a fish look large by extending your reach, the fish appear smaller because your arms are the closest thing to the camera. The fish appears small when it is actually close to six pounds.

After releasing the fish, I spot another bonefish on the same sandy bottom. I make the cast and find myself fighting the mirror image of the previous fish in terms of size and attitude. After I release the second fish, I spot a large barracuda in the vicinity. Is that why they weren't taking off? Either way, I was lucky to not have lost the two bones.

That morning, I made two casts at bonefish and landed both of them. For the next six hours, I don't recall seeing another fish. A band of heavy clouds rolled in, occasionally dropping some rain. They appeared to only come over the small island. To the north and south of the island, there was nothing but clear skies. Overhead, a long line of clouds put a damper on my fishing. For the afternoon session, I had some close quarters combat with some nice bonefish under the heavy cloud cover. With visibility already low from wading in knee to waist deep water, the cloud cover really limits your chances. Often, you'll see your adversary at the last second, sometimes only twenty feet away. By that time, he sees you too, and you can't get a cast off.

Parched and looking for a meal, I spent an hour gathering driftwood along the shore to make a fire. Surprisingly, the wood was bone dry, despite all the rain the past two days. That should give you an idea of how hot it is here.

I made my fire on the beach that night, under the stars and what could be seen of the milky way. I carved a stick with my Gerber survival knife, cracked open a can of Spam, and stuck it on the stick. I gave it a slow roast over the fire. When the outside is extra crispy, you can eat the top layer of the brick and it tastes good. After that first layer, its spam from the can again, and you have to roast it some more. I ate a whole can, lost a few years off my life in the process, but it sure beat chef boyardee.

Supper

Morning on the very tip of the Baja Peninsula, otherwise known as Cabo San Lucas, and we are taking a taxi to the marina for our second ever guided trip. I have been itching the entire time to go fishing and this was going to be my one shot. My family convinced me to put down the rod and they also squashed any notion of mine of traveling to go fishing. Where did I want to go? Four hours north is the East Cape, the roosterfish capital of the world and the one of the only places you can get them with a fly rod from the beach. After seeing the surf on the coast of the Sea of Cortez and the Pacific, it made a lot of sense. The water drops to depths of ten or more feet right off the beach, producing massive waves that literally crush people. I quickly realized that even if I wanted to go fishing by myself, it would be pretty difficult with the waves. The guided trip and a boat was the only way to go.

We booked a trip with Baja Anglers, run by Grant and Gisel Hartman and everything went smoothly. We left the marina around 6:45, bought our bait from local fishermen, and were booking it up into the Sea of Cortez to fish off the beaches (not the East Cape).

It is pretty awesome to be motoring across the ocean as the sun is rising on the horizon. The sea is as calm as it will be all day and there is nothing but anticipation in the air. I had a few loose ends to tie up, mainly taking a coastal express sinking fly line off my reel and putting on an intermediate line.

The first mate went to work attaching our bait to spin rods to lure predators from the depths and tease them close enough to the boat for a fly rod.

We didn't really know what to expect with the trip, so when the Captain suddenly stopped the boat along a rock face and they tossed some bait in the water, all three of us kind of just sat around and watched. In a matter of ten seconds a Dorado slashed across the surface after the bait. The guide yelled, "fly rod, fly rod, fly rod," while Matt and I just looked at eachother. I took the initiative, grabbed the rod, made a twenty foot cast and missed a slashing Dorado. I re-casted and set the hook on my first inshore fish.

Out of all the fish I have caught on fly, Dorado jump the most. They aren't as ferocious as tarpon but they are probably more acrobatic. This guy (average for here) jumped over six times.

It being a family vacation and all, I promised everyone back at the hotel that I would bring home a mahi mahi, if I caught one. The last time I killed a fish, I was ten years old fishing with a spinning rod on opening day of trout season. I only caught one fish all day and I made my dad keep it. We didn't have a stringer, so the trout went into a plastic bag where it slowly suffocated to death. It writhing and flopping around didn't sit well with me so I tried to put it back in the water. Unknowledgeable at the time, I thought I was letting it go to live on. That was the last time I ever kept a fish.

So we kept the Mahi Mahi and into the cooler it went. Strangely, I didn't feel too guilty about it. We had it cleaned and my sister cooked it later that night. The fish fed my entire one side of the family, all 17 of us and it was delicious. 

They Called It: Scooby Doo Rock

I Will Name Thee: Sorting Hat Rock

The Window to the Pacific

The Arch

Land's End, Last Rock on the Baja Peninsula

The Pacific Ocean, Not Very Peaceful

Goodnight Mexico

Bait and Switch

A Roosterfish Closing in For the Kill. 

In mid-July, we headed to Cabo San Lucas, Mexico for a family reunion.  Upon hearing that, only one thing popped into the minds of my brother and I, and that one thing has a huge and unique dorsal fin and has been dubbed "the Elizabeth Hurley of game fish."

If we didn't want to be anti-social, we had maybe a single day to devote to catching a roosterfish on the fly.  After consulting with Grant Hartman at Baja Anglers, (who comes highly recommended by Jeff Currier), we decided to do something that we at TRIW try to stay away from.  We hired a guide.

Roosters from the beach would have to wait.  We didn't want to waste a day in hopes of flailing 10wts at shadows.  We went with the surest thing due to our limited time.  It turned out to be an incredible day.

Every few years, we bite the bullet and spend some cash on something awesome.  Three years ago it was great seats to a UFC event in Philly.  This time, it was a guided trip in the Sea of Cortez, targeting anything and everything with the fly rod.  My brother, father and myself would have 8hrs to put our skills to use with the guides expertise.  It doubled as a Father's Day gift for our old man.

Having absolutely zero experience with inshore fishing, we put all of our trust in the guides.  They used a technique called Bait and Switch to entice fish near enough for us to cast at with the fly rods.  If the guide and angler choreographed it just right, it was incredibly effective.

They tied mullet and small jacks up to 14" in length to 60lb mono line and let them free swim behind the boat under a very slow forward tack.  The fish were kept near the surface, and keen eyes could detect predators that they raised.  When combs slashed the water, the guides began to reel the mullet in, teasing the roosters nearer the boat as the angler began to false cast.  The guide would yank the bait clear of the water immediately before your fly landed in its place.  If the switch was perfect, you'd get a hit almost every time.  If the fly appeared in the water aside the bait, it would confuse the roosters and put them down.

Throughout the 8hr day, we landed 4 roosters and 1 dorado on the fly using the bait and switch method.  Two roosters came on live bait sent behind the boat with a circle hook.  We missed a grande rooster because it took the teaser before the guide could reel it in, and snapped the 60lb mono.  That would have been an insane fight on a 10wt.

It was an unforgettable day.  We all caught roosters on the fly and laughed our assess off at a few things that happened along the way.  Our next few posts will show all in detail.

A Game of Bones

The Beginning of a Palm Tree

After my night from hell and a few precious hours of sleep, I awoke for another day in paradise. I unrigged the hammock and hopped back into the car to head to the dock. At the rallying point, I used the bathroom, brushed my teeth, changed into my gear, and spotted a nice bonefish on a micro flat as I exited an outhouse. Excited, I hunched down to hide my silhouette and made my way to the trunk to get the rod. I used the car to hide myself and awaited the bonefish's arrival. I've had several chances in years past on this small flat beside the dock but the fish are really spooky so I took extra caution. My unweighted fly landed with a whimper and after one small pop, the bonefish was on it. He was really big and I soon realized that I was doomed. The micro flat has an edge to it with a drop off into deeper water. The edge, a hundred yards aways, is lined with a hard bottom and turtle grass and he was heading right for it. To prevent a break off, I was standing on some rocks by the dock, about to jump onto the hood of the car to get my rod up higher. However, bonefish don't really care for expensive reels and great drag systems. The initial run can't really be stopped no matter how much pressure you put on them. Once he made it over the edge he rubbed off, leaving me to reel in my backing and fly line as some ferry travelers asked me a hundred questions. 

Looking East on the Top Half of Beach #3

I headed to an upper beach to spot some tailing fish on a morning low tide. My intention was to just fish this beach and then head west to walk a much larger area, so I only brought one water bottle that was half full. Looking out onto the beach and seeing nothing, I decided to mix up my strategy. Rather than walk the shoreline, I waded into about thigh deep water to walk down. By doing this, I could still see the skinny water bones along the beach but I could also have chances at fish coming into the shoreline. The first hundred yards I walked, I came away with six chances at bonefish, an incredible amount here for an angler on foot. I struck out on all six. 

By this time, my fly box was looking pretty weak. I still had some nice flies, but I was missing ones that were properly weighted for this type of water. I was either too heavy or too light. When I switched it up with a fly that had the right weight, I learned that the bones did not like colors that were lighter or darker than the bottom. In short, I had to run the chances of spooking the fish with a heavier pattern or not getting a proper presentation with a lighter one. It was frustrating.

Looking West on the Bottom Half of Beach #3

Halfway down the first beach and after changing my fly for the fourth time, I spotted a pair of bones in close to shore. In the high winds, I didn't get the presentation I wanted but it didn't matter. My fly landed right on top of them (which can be a good thing). With their competitive nature for food, the second bonefish took it before it hit the bottom. He was a pretty decent fish.

At this point in time, I was having a great day with a lot of chances. I had to keep going down the coast. With half a water bottle, I made it all the way back to the vicinity of the dock. Using google maps, that is a three mile hike (without taking into account, the curvature of the beaches). There are three sections of beach each about a mile in length. In 90+ degree heat, with raw feet, and half a bottle of water, I was pretty dumb. Only thing was, I had to hike all the way back. 

The bonefish kept me going. I couldn't believe the amount of chances I was getting but even more unbelievable was my batting percentage. I was getting schooled. With the high winds, there was a nice chop on the surface of the water that was disturbing sand and mud on the flat making visibility difficult, but I had a cloudless sky and the sun overhead. Often, I could see the bonefish but by the time I got into position for a cast, I couldn't see them anymore. Taking your eye off a fish for a split second or even blinking resulted in missed opportunities. I left a lot of big bonefish on the table.

On the way back, on beach number two, I spotted a tall and round fish working its way down the coast.  The presentation was directly into the wind. The big bone meandered over to my fly and plucked it off the bottom. With a large sandy flat, I had no worries of him breaking me off. He ran, ran, and ran some more before I brought him in. It was the heaviest fish of the trip.

Tall, Round, and Mean.

After releasing this guy, I continued my journey back to the car. On this sandy flat, there are a lot of baby sharks that often are easily confused with bonefish, especially the lemon sharks. Walking into the wind and chop, I spotted what I thought was a nice bone. It ended up being a lemon shark. I watched him swimming away from me and to my right, when something scared him causing him to dart off the flat. The shark was easily three feet long and something spooked him? That something was a gigantic bonefish. He was swimming the same path I was walking about forty feet away when he turned and heading to my left. I made the shot directly into the wind and put my fly 10 ft. in front of his projected path. As he got closer, I popped the fly and he was on it. Heading directly toward me, I crouched so low, my pack, and chest were in the water. He kept following so I stopped the fly. Nothing. I popped it again. He followed. I stopped it again. Nothing. I popped that fly all the way into my leader and still he was there, a foot behind it. By the time I was stripping tippet, the bonefish finally turned. He was at the end of my rod tip and didn't spook like most bonefish do when they see you. He simply turned and meandered away without a care in the world. He was definitely just messing around with me. He knew this game, and he knew that the fly at the end of my line was not something he should be eating.

After that encounter, I power walked the last beach and drove directly to the nearest bar to get some cold drinks. I was exhausted from the day long pursuit of bones on foot. I caught two big fish, several hours apart, with nothing in between but adrenaline rushes, blown chances, and a whole lot of walking.

Good times.