DIY Everglades Fly Fishing

The starter shit the bed in the middle of our keys trip a month ago. Forcing us to chase poons armed with a wooden handle and a short piece of rope. I replaced the starter, and water pump, and have been talking real sweet to her in the weeks leading up to this trip. The plan is to push further into Florida bay than I have personally ever been before. I know that some people do it all the time, but that doesn’t quell the nervous excitement I get from no cell service, wild places, and (hopefully) unpressured fish.

The 20+ year old motor fires right up in a cloud of smoke and biting insects. She hums a perfect 4700rpm, slicing through stained glass for 13 miles to the first spot. My comrade fished here a few months ago, and did will. So I have deferred to his intel to start the trip. We pole the leeward side of the bank for a mile or so, as the sun gets higher, the wind picks up. We start to doubt. An hour with nothing but mullet and sharks, not the report from a few months ago. Everything is always changing here.

We run deeper still into Florida bay. More poling, more sharks, more mullet, and more wind.

The same story with the next few spots. The sun is forcing us to begin thinking of the long run home. We have only seen a couple redfish today. We pact to try one last spot closer to the ramp. Refusing to accept defeat. This is the last spot in the bay that either of us are familiar with.

The sun and water are low by the time we reach the final bank. We do manage to see a few wakes and tails, but our best efforts to pole and punch flies into the wind are not rewarded. We load up the boat and head for Mexican food, and to hatch plans for tomorrow.

Day 2

The last day of our quick trip, which means we have a four hour drive home after today’s fishing. Rather than go back to the same spots as yesterday, we decide to cover some new ground. Each spot is punctuated with disappointment, and mapping. We finally decide to change it up completely. We stow gear and prepare for the long run to the other side of Florida bay. Another spot neither of us have fished before.

When we arrive, hopes are low. The water is muddy and we can barley make out the grass a few inches under the surface. We only have a few more hours before we need to point the skiff back towards the ramp.

Within 10 minutes, my comrade feeds the first orange orb we spot glowing on top of the seagrass. Relief sets in. My turn on the bow. Its not long before we start switching off every two fish. Its one of those days that keeps you coming back. Fleeting and rare. Fish doing what they are supposed to be doing. The redfish were eating each and every well placed fly, and rejecting poor shots.

After we boat about a half dozen reds, the sharks come in. We work out a pretty good system. With 20lb class tippet, the angler strips in the fish as quickly as possible by hand, never letting the line clear to the reel. The guy on the platform watches for the tax man. If he shows up while the fish is being fought, he stomps on the deck and jabs with the push pole as needed, until the fish is landed and revived, never leaving the water. This system worked well for a while, but eventually one of the fish got sharked. At this point we decided to move to another spot further down the flat.

At the new spot my comrade was greeted with a small tarpon, and a decent snook. Both laying in separate sandy potholes. We found another redfish, and then the sharks found us. Our deadline for departure was approaching, so we decided to call it early before feeding any more sharks.

DIY Keys Bonefish

A wad of tee shirt is ripped from foggy eyes as a zombie hand fumbles for any snooze button on the bellowing smart device. I crack the trucks frigid atmosphere, the cab inhales humid dawn. The horizon begs to give way to orange. No-see-ums and the tiny kind of mosquitoes dive bomb barren ankles as the obligatory bug dance is displayed while teeth are brushed with a gallon jug and fishing shirts are fitted. We are both surprised to see only one other truck at the ramp.

We hit a few spots we deem as “close to the ramp.” our ultimate goal is to take this marred piece of fiberglass as far as she will take us into the back county, especially if predictions of low wind hold true. The tide is rising all morning. The first spot is too deep. Almost impossible to sight fish in the low morning light. Choice number two is more of the same. We drift off the second flat hunched over cached satellite images. With an abrupt decision, the skiff lurches to life in gin clear drink.

I am on the pole first, as is customary for the boat’s owner. Water this pure my skiff has never seen. We glide effortlessly, even with 15lbs of ice and 22 beers. Skates glide from wood to grass, invertebrates grovel in white sand. Bonnet head and lemon sharks patrol mangroves, tickling deeply ingrained senses. The serenity is intoxicating. Any second now, chaos shall be unleashed by rafts of bonefish or 20lb permit, I figure.

In truth our expectations were moderated between caffeine doses during the six hour drive South the night prior. Both of us have caught DIY bonefish before, but only abroad. We have no expectations that the bonefish will be as wonderfully dumb or aggressive as they are in the Caribbean islands we have visited.

My flat bottomed skiff really has no business crossing giant basins or fighting Atlantic currents. Perversely, this adds to the excitement of bringing a bonefish, or dare I say- Permit, to hand. My buddy may be wondering why he agreed to this trip after mile two in a steady chop. With only a 65 quart stool for comfort. We agree to be content with any size bonefish or permit. A proper mess of young tarpon would also be acceptable. A brand new area, no guides, and a hull shape better suited for aluminum than fiberglass. The odds are stacked against us.

I snap out of my tropic induced coma as a school of three bonefish intercept us on the mangrove line head on. We both do that “instinctive crouch” you do when you are already too close for a cast. My comrade manages to get a fly in front of the trio. The lead fish peels off and the second shows no interest. The third fish gives a halfhearted snap of the jowl. It is hard to tell if friend or foe missed the strike.

New flat and new guy on the bow. My favorite bonefish fly rolls between finger tips. The tropical fever strikes again. Everything is pristine, everything is full of life, everything is beautiful. Everything looks like a bonefish. Three fish come in and break the fever, just as before. The second fish inhales the sloppy plop of my crab fly before it was ever stripped. After successfully clearing line, I turn around to mirror excitement and a thumbs up.

Our first American bonefish.

The first of the big three on my skiff.

Somewhere in the tangle of walking trees and frothing red water. A lump forms in my throat. It was a jack, not a bonefish. Well, half of a jack.

The sun and moral dip low as we make the long run back to the motel/baitshop/marina. But first a stop for the obligatory fried sandwiches and mediocre musical guests. Friendly service and quick beers left the night easy, and the snapper was good.

Day 2:

We run to the last spits of land extending into the gulf and pole all day. Don’t see shit. We fish channel edges, grass flats, mangroves. Don’t see shit. We make a harrowing run for my meager skiff and pop out somewhere in the Atlantic. Poled a couple miles of beach. It sucked. Mapped out a spot nearer an inlet. Staked out. Got a little buzzed, Saw a tail and sobered up. Got a few short lived shots at bonefish in low light, maybe a permit too. Made the orange run home a little more peaceful, with hope for the last day.

Or maybe it was the beers.

Day 3:

Spirits are low. We know its over. Miracles have happened before, but the last morning usually sucks. We see a guide and his sport at the ramp. typically not my favorite sign, but after two days of empty ramps and conspiring how everyone knew something we didn't, it was oddly comforting.

He runs gulf side, as we do. (We left the ramp first which means he followed us). We try a flat surrounding a small helping of mangroves in the middle of a wide channel. More serine landscape, more sharks, no bones. We take yesterdays advice and run toward the Atlantic. After snagging an unmarked crab trap with the skeg, and a few choice words, we are poling once again. Thoughts of family obligations and chores are starting to creep in.

“If we left now I could get some extra stuff done … I would have less making up to do with the ol’ lady.”

I take the leeward line down an ocean side cut. I See wakes to the left and bolt across a small natural channel. My comrade on the bow is numb from hours of shark fins and mullet wakes. We pole into the glare silently. Out of nowhere, he crouches down like hidden dragon and flops out a gotcha after 1.5 false casts. The glare is blinding, all I can do is get low and pray. Somehow he comes tight, line leaps of the deck until the drag is screaming. He turns around to reveal a shit eating grin. Bonefish.

We get a few pictures and exchange high fives of relief. The trip is saved. One of the big three on my modest skiff. I feel content going home now, but I cant help but notice how fleeting the high is.

Guess I will have to get another fix soon.

The Keys Conclusion: Day 3. 6/7/2020

We launch the skiff from a little dirt mound off the shoulder of US1. She glides across emerald and turquoise stained glass sliced open by three blades and 50 horses. Winds are low, the sun is bright, hopes are high. We are on course to the ocean-side flat I have wanted to try the entire trip. The five or so miles of open Atlantic and high winds have made it impossible for my modest skiff the last two days. We split bridge pilings and are welcomed to the calm Atlantic expanse, showing no resemblance to the ocean of 48 hours prior.

We are the first boat to the flat. It’s more vast than anticipated. Lush sea grass mingles with sandy holes under a gin clear barrier. I hardy know where to start. I kill the motor and can’t wait to jump on the poling platform. My eyes already searching while my buddy mounts a rotomolded casting platform and strips out 11wt shooting head.

We debate and form theories about which direction to head and what the fish will be doing. It is not long before a powerful black back and an emotionless eye breach 20 yards off our starboard. We decide to find a sandy hole within the same vicinity and stake out. It is slightly too deep to pole effectively. We start getting shots at 20-30 minute intervals, the fish are swimming all from the same direction and into the tide, but at different trajectories and speeds. Some meander in and set us up for a perfect shot, others barrel towards the back of the skiff at bad angles.

The next fish comes in fast, straight at the back of the boat. It is clear that she is keen to us, as she gives the skiff a wide berth. I have called her location out regardless. We both figure the chance has passed as my buddy rolls out the obligatory black and purple offering. She shears off course by a few feet and bull rushes the fly, stopping a few inches shy of fluttering rabbit hide. Comrade and I instinctively get low as he ticks the fly in short pops. Water flows through fur and feather in a seductive dance. The fish follows the fly until the leader is in the first guide and peels away. Between shaky knees and gentle Atlantic rollers, we both can hardly stand.

As the tide drops our stake out loses depth, and fish become less frequent. Because we are only getting shots every 20-30 minutes, it takes a while to realize they are not swimming this shallow. We bump out further and deeper, desperate to stick a fish before the long drive home this afternoon and work tomorrow.

A few other skiffs come and go from the flat, along with more than a few jet propelled crotch rockets. We watch other skiffs to compare notes and methods to our own. The closest skiff, which is still more than a hundred yards away, and considerably deeper than us, is getting a lot of shots. Before long, we hear a faint “Woop” and we can see that they are on. We are both glad to see how the fighting etiquette is handled in person, and we take solace in the fact that tarpon eating a fly is not just reserved for TV shows, Instagram, and 60k dollar skiffs.

The other boat’s fish is making a B-line right for us, the guide is motoring to lessen the fight. We watch for a while as the stoked crew and resilient dinosaur get closer. we stare in awe at the amount of pressure the angler on the bow is putting on the fish. Through no fault of their own, the other skiff motors right through our line, we pull up anchor with no hard feelings. As they fight the fish, we idle out to even deeper than they where staked. Careful to keep a respectable distance from the carbon fiber place marker.

We are now in seven or more feet of water. Poling is next to impossible. We only have about an hour before we need to head to the ramp. We toss out the anchor and hope for the best, now I am on the bow. I have changed the toad from black and purple to chartreuse. No fish pass by, but 25 minutes do. Filled with jokes about sticking one in the final hour, and fighting them till dark.

“Got one coming from back here.” the seriousness of my comrade’s words slice through the otherwise jovial tone.

I lay out a good shot, but the tarpon is apparently appalled at my choice of fly. I receive the same reception from the next fish and promptly switch back to black and purple. A few more fish come through in the half hour. We are seeing a lot more than we have all day. I make some good shots and blow more than a few. We are both eyeing our watches as we push our wives collective deadline back further and further. The sun is getting lower and the glare increases.

“5 more minutes.” We pact.

At minute four the poon comes through and sees the boat before we can react. We decide to leave the rod and bucket to be stowed last. As we meekly ready the skiff for the final departure, Just as I hoist 65 quarters of slushy ice and empty beer cans-

“Here comes two.”

I lurch forward in my best effort to delicately set down the cooler and grab the rod, but as cooler hits liner the fish head for the Bahamas. Fuck. Everything else is ready to go. Only 11wt, stripping bucket, and anchor remain in use. My buddy stands on the poling platform watching, as I shimmy up the anchor, looking over my shoulder like a 7th grader on pornhub.

“Group of 3 coming right at the back of the boat.”

This time, I set the anchor down with a painstaking gentleness. I grab the rod and start false casting, I stare at the lead fish's shadow, in line with the stern. I lay fly line along side the skiff, in an effort to place the fly far enough so the fish wont see the boat, but not to line the fish.

To my horror, the fly catapults right on the lead fishes prehistoric nose. All three fish make a simultaneous and violent U-turn.

Neither of us say anything. I slide each guide into the rod tube with a painful clack. I blew it. My buddy knows I blew it. He knows he doesn't have to tell me. I should have left him on the bow. I find it hard to enjoy the beauty of blue bird skies and calm seas as we run through the perfect conditions we prayed for all weekend. back to the ramp. I have only my self to blame. I spent too much time pouring over google earth, rigging quick release anchors and greasing hubs. Not enough time casting the 11wt in the yard. I try to blame it on nerves, but no excuse will suffice. We did learn a lot, and we only had one good day of weather- But I blew the last shot.

The only thing I can offer my knotted stomach, as we sit in US1 traffic: We will be back.

The Keys: Day 2. 6/6/2020

Skiff and turbid waters meet rattling joints and pounding cartilage as we run into uncharted territory, tracing the edges of banks and cuts in an effort to avoid open water- until the last possible moment. Every mile or so, we come off plane and bob hopelessly in the open basin, to clear rouge sargassum from the prop. Tunnel hulls and floating vegetation do not get along. Before we can start fishing I am already enthralled with the backcounty. A place so vast, no amount of “google earth-ing” could have prepared me. The spot that is “just over there” on the smartphone, is eight miles through teeth of an angry basin. A place so wild even intermittent channel markers seem sacrilegious.

We decide to valiantly pole some banks known for tarpon, despite the windward orientation. The skiff barrels down the last possible channel from the leeward, no ocean rollers today, but sustained winds carry over miles of open water to terminate at the 15ft hull. We pole a bank with the wind, out of spite, where backcounty meets open gulf. It feels more like riding a longboard than poling a skiff. Hopeless.

The large bonefish spotted yesterday ease our minds into giving up on tarpon for the day. The wind is again blowing from the Atlantic, 18-20mph. We brave another turbid basin until we are leeward of an exposed bank. Miles of shallow turtle grass calms the relentless wind. Sun is high, illuminating grass and it’s grazers.

At home on the southern Indian river, if you find any turtle grass its a good day, and will often hold fish. In Florida bay, there is so much grass it becomes a desert. Plenty of rays and a few sharks. But no bonefish or promises after an hour of poling. We run deeper still into the back country, in search of diverse habitat.

We settle on a pair of islands jutting from a leeward bank, divided by a large channel and surrounded by more turtle grass. We pole to the island begging for shelter from the wind. Hoping to see a tail breach the surface or pronounced wakes of game fish.

Needle fish, lemon shark and barracuda peruse leisurely. Rotating between mangrove, grass and channel. Each juvenile shark offers a spike of hope preceding a letdown just as steep. As we near the natural channel’s edge, multiple wakes push onto the flat, right toward us. We immediately infer that they are not sharks or cudas. I am on the bow with trembling knees. Wakes form in the water and vanish just as quickly, with no clear direction or intention. School after school materialize from the channel’s depth and dissipate before casting range.

Finally a lone wake pushes towards the nose of the skiff, we assume they are bonefish for sure. Until I finally get a glimpse at one of the hollow fish-

Permit.

Each school is comprised of young permit, much more wily and unpredictable than I had imagined. Once I learn this, my knees grow unsteady and my casting gets more arrhythmic. We end up staking out. A couple hours go by, we each try our hand at plopping a fly down anywhere near school after school. Even a 12 foot lead results in blown out fish.

Eventually the frequency of the schools ceased, we have a few more spots in mind before the day’s end. The next flat yields nothing. On a whim, we run to a semi-protected bar that looks likely to hold back country tarpon. We gently pole in the direction of two large logs, suspended by water. Both of us strain eyes in disbelief, until one of the logs flicks a tail and advances a few feet. Holy shit. My buddy fires a good cast too late.

With new hope, we pole windy bars jutting into basins, but the sun is waning and glare is increasing. I would have rather caught fish today, but I am feeling ok on the long run home. We found a couple laid up poons and permit schools on our first trip to the back country. If the weatherman is right, we are going ocean side tomorrow. Winds less than eight mph they say, ill believe it when I see it.

The Keys: Day 1. 6/5/2020

To my surprise, friends, family and skiff made it to the middle keys without a hitch. From 60 feet up, bridge after bridge, my buddy and I comment that the 17mph sustained winds generated from open ocean “dont look too bad” for my 15 foot flat bottomed tunnel. We check into the room and promptly dunk the skiff. From sea level, we find the emerald surface to be more hostile than anticipated.

We viewed this afternoon as kind of a bonus round. We plan to fish the next three full days, any intel we can gather in the first afternoon’s waning hours of light may prune the learning curve for tomorrow. I have never fished the keys before, aside from wading a few flats to escape wedding-related activities. We bump a couple large bonefish poling flats near the ramp. Anticipations are high. The day ends anchored up bay side of a bridge near the ramp. The 11wt is at the ready, but we chiefly admire rollers reflecting the last minutes of golden light in the channel. Sipping beers and scheming for tomorrow, despite forecasts.

The weather the next morning was as expected. 18-20 mph winds from the Atlantic. Low and moody clouds with a hint of hopelessness. We had agreed the night before to seek shelter and look for poons bay side. But after we cross the second bridge and count the 4th skiff ocean side, plans are altered before we reach the ramp. We decide to try a premeditated ocean side flat despite Atlantic rollers and lack of sun. Anchored up wind of a sandy hole, it is clear that poling is not an option.

We hop from hole to hole to no avail, doubting our theories every half hour or so. I figure if we don’t at least try ocean side I will be wondering the remainder of today. Not being able to pole and search the flat feels sinful, staring into dreary water and sipping beer like heathens. There could be a string of fish 30 yards off the starboard and I would never be the wiser.

After wasting most of the morning we ran to a mangrove shoreline peppered with grass in Florida bay. Selected primarily for its leeward orientation so that we could gather thoughts. The sun is out now, My buddy on the bow had a few shots at small bonefish, but no takers. The skiff brushes mangrove saplings aside as we watch silver devils slither away. Our posture straightens. After being beaten down by the Atlantic for a few hours, we have seen our first game fish of the day and the sun is out. We high-tail it to the next flat and pole a few more with little to show for it.

I push into howling wind - the final spot of the day, dead low tide. An exposed flat forms the elbow in a channel. Low water and lush grass protect the hull from chop, but my comrade and I jut out from the deck like sails. A few minutes in, we are surrounded by stingrays, combing turtle grass for morsels while expelling silt from spiracles forming lingering trails, creating a network of chum lines for game fish. As we pole up to another ray I see a dark figure cross the sandy slick. My comrade starts to false cast as the figure turns silver and ravenous. Impossible to lead a fish changing directions like dice in a yahtzee cup. The fly plops down somewhere behind the ray and is immediately inhaled by an eight pound jack crevalle. A strip set leads to fly line ripping into the channel and a broken tippet.

I have never seen a jack feed off a ray before...

He did eat a crab fly...

Maybe I saw a little black on his fins…

We convince ourselves momentarily that it might have been a permit, knowing it is too good to be true. A few hundred yards later we witness the same phenomena, and conclude for certain that it was indeed a jack.

The sun is low, we pole the remainder of the flat investigating each ray. Figuring bones or permit might find the chum lines appealing as well. We bump a few bonefish before dark, existing only as wakes, completely invisible until too late.

The forecast is not good tomorrow. We arrive at the boat ramp defeated but with new hope:

The back country.

POON PREP. 5/28/2020

Close to a year ago, I brought my skiff to the nature coast and had my first taste of fly fishing for giant tarpon. No fish where landed or fed, but breath was stolen by 100+ pound scaly beasts sauntering through crystal clear water. I decided I was going to take my modest skiff the following spring to the middle keys for the fabled tarpon migration. despite weather or her seaworthiness.

As turkey season winds down, I learn the keys are closed to non- residents due to concerns about COVID-19. Before I could start to plan, Monroe county stated that the keys will remain closed “throughout may, and potentially longer given the state of the virus.” My last three fishing trips have been canceled, for one reason or another. An unprecedented global pandemic At the calyx of my most anticipated trip, seems right on cue. To add to personal insanity The beach has been unseasonably blown out for the past few weeks and no one on the treasure coast has seen the sun for the last four days.

One of my favorite (but busiest) fly fishing buddies happens to have a weekend off in early June. I eventually convince him of my gut feeling: They have to open the keys in June. beaches and restaurants are slowly reopening in our hometown a few hours north, How can a tourist based economy survive much longer with only locals?

Thankfully, Monroe county nor my buddy called my bluff. The keys are set to open Monday, June 1. Coronavirus made for a stressful couple months, but all systems are officially go. I immediately put an overpriced 11wt setup on the credit card and begin the usual prep-work.

I have grown to love the build up before a big trip. Lusty hopefulness is tempered with anxiety about weather forecasts and trailer bearings humming for hours on end. I have never had my skiff in the keys fishery before, by my own choice ultimately. Primarily due to tourists, and rumblings of flagrant jet skis and angry guides. A “big trip” for me typically means planning for long runs with no place to buy food or gas. getting as far away from parasailing and alcoholic slushies as possible. The keys are no secret, but the more research I do the more they cannot be avoided. The first journey to a new fishery is always a thrill unmatched. Running my skiff in a realm where 100+ pound dinosaurs slurp tiny flies in crystal clear waters has me manic.

This leads to anxiety and border-line psychotic prep-work. I have caught juvenile tarpon, but have only ever jumped one over 60 pounds. I have feeling I have no idea what I am in for. I want every possible advantage. I delve into fly tying. Multiple nights on end. Every trip, the same inner dialog:

What if you lose this fly? You need at least three.

What if they are only eating black and purple all weekend?

How the fuck am I going to lash a palolo worm to a 2/0??

I tend to put off all skiff maintenance until right before big trips. Maybe not the wisest method but I can never go more than a year with out a good trip, thus bearings and oil changes never go forgotten. in addition to fly tying I have added many other chores to the insanity. Finally Building a stripping bucket from the 12” pvc that has been laying in the woods for a year. Wash and wax the hull and deck. Replace spindles and hubs. Pre-rig leaders. Tie more flies. Research.

Dare I say I hope to have something to report next post. I am almost sure the baby will get sick, there will be a tornado, riots or volcanoes. At this point I will just be happy to get to go fishing