Lead by Strangers. 8/9/2019

I fished the beach yesterday for the first time in over a week. It is typically gin clear this time of year in current conditions. The chalky swirl I witnessed was too much for my soul to bare. I thought for sure I would have at least another month of good sight fishing before seasonal winds pick up, and my son is introduced to the world.

I found myself in conversation with another fly angler while fishing the beach earlier this summer. He told me about catching tarpon on fly from the sand, how he lives for it. Big pods of swirling red sardines, ferocious poons, feet from the sand. This intrigued me. I always thought of tarpon from the beach as more of a fluke. Typically, once the surf churns up on a daily basis I no longer haunt the beaches. Blind casting has never peaked my interest much, but migratory tarpon wreaking havoc on bait pods near the ocean’s surface does.

I take the same rout as usual to my preferred stretch of coastline. At this point during the journey I am usually peering out the top of my windshield trying to get a glimpse of winds and cloud cover. This trip is different. Its 5:30am on a Friday. Most of town is still asleep, especially the tourists. I am ashamed to say I haven't been up this early in a while. Work has been slow and living has been easy this summer.

Here I am at a picture perfect beach. The only truck in the parking lot. The only person for miles. I study the water in a new but familiar way. Reading the surface, with no option to look below as I have grown accustomed to.

As sun breaches horizon, it doesn't take long to note bait pods peppering the coast. For a brief while the pelicans and I share interests. A few modest strikes here and there, but no tarpon. I came here craving just enough evidence for a new addiction to take hold. Another chunk of the year I can obsess over. Light barges underneath my hat brim. Eyes scour the ocean surface. Darting from one slight moderation of contrast to another. Then, a flash of silver- and another. Out too far.

I watch for over an hour only as they wish to show themselves, without boredom. Some roll cordially, others feed violently. Gentle swirls and flips of bait juxtapose the violence surely taking place beneath the picturesque surface. I witness the drama unfold between fish, fry and bird. The feeding becomes more frequent, but they are still out of reach. I start to ponder different tides and conditions, and when I should return. The earliest signs of giving up.

I study the untouchable dinosaurs as they frame a red cloud of bait with thrashing and holes in the water. Even my most violent double haul proves fruitless against the expanse of the Atlantic. I long to be on a suitable skiff 50 yards from my current position. Thoughts of warm coffee in the truck and the whine of a weed-eater mark the final stages of giving up, tourists come back to life. I pry my eyes from the water.

I will be back.

Fucking Fishing. 5/2/2020

I flip through the short rolodex of friends and acquaintances interested in fly fishing, as I do most weekends. This time I am lucky enough to find someone both willing and available. my college outdoors mentor, in many regards. He is almost emotionless, pleased by nothing, and not much for conversation. I cringe at the judgment of my “not Chris Morejon” designed skiff with every hull slap. (The new 50 tohatsu hauls ass though, there is no denying that). I don't mind brushing off these feelings, It has been a while since I have fished the lagoon. I am thankful to have a warm body on the skiff who can cast and pole.

70 degrees at sunrise. Winds are gentle and expected to pick up this afternoon. The sky is impossibly blue and makes you forget there are even such things as clouds. The sun beams so strongly it’s as if no cloud can touch it. I make the long run without a hitch, only a few close calls with the lumbering gray locals. The water is clear and low. Really low. The passing grass and protruding crab traps can make anyone's asshole pucker. Whizzing by at 28mph, attempting to shake my undying faith in the tunnel hull.

We pole into a familiar spot that is almost unrecognizable in the low water. Flats once submerged and obscured are now unveiled and exposed. Shorelines once poled are untouchable, even with the skiff’s respectably shallow draft. Big seatrout hide in plain sight in any nook or cranny deeper than a foot. Camouflaged in stillness, until pushing a ghostly wake, always a little too soon or distant for proper presentation.

Young redfish don't seem to mind the skinny water, but they grow leery of flies and leader. We frequently lead fish by more than 6ft, Bouncing an innocent crustacean perfectly into their path. To no avail.

Shorelines with proximity to deeper flats seem to be key, leading to more shots and bigger fish. My stoic partner stuck a pup mid-morning, prompting the switching of skiff ends. My fly is natural colored, matted and rusty. I am sure it will work but it doesn't feel right - Dragging the skiff 80 miles, running it another 10, poling it another 1 or 3 or 4, Just to present an old ratty has-been. The first two redfish confirm my suspicions. I can no longer resist the spankin’ new chartreuse and tan tied up the night before. A staunch deviation from the fabled black and purple.

A few shots later a middle slot redfish eats it. Engulfs it, more accurately. After fighting with fish and deeply embedded fly on the deck its clear he will not make it. I have not been keeping any redfish from mosquito lagoon or the Indian river lately, but blood red pinholes on the bright white deck convince me otherwise today, this one goes to the table.

We blow a few more shots, some are blamed on fish, others on sapiens. On the run back to haunts closer to the ramp, we glide through school after school of mullet. Bait like I have never before seen in the lagoon. We decide to pole an exposed sandbar near the nourishing waters.

We pole the 2ft doldrums. Yellow bottom bottom and whispers of sea grass. It seems hopeless. We carry on about the best value tarpon rods, and make excuses for why one would never have the reason to cast out all of their flyline at once. I am lulled into mediocrity by morning beers and a uniform bottom- Until the first two gator trout emit a suspended plume of sand and sound into the depths. Ears perk up. Where there is one there are many. We are exposed on the flat’s edge and the wind has picked up considerably. The weather man said 10mph out of the east, we both agreed it to be a “very strong” 10mph. I did manage to get the streamer in front of a couple big trout meandering from pothole to pothole. One even turned on it, I strip-set at the sight of flashing jowls in fumbling excitement, but never felt anything taught.

We finish the day with a few more shots at redfish closer to the crowded boat ramp, then a pit stop on the drive home for well-earned tacos. All is well after fish are caught. While rinsing the skiff I notice a missing bearing (and his buddy) at the hub. Surely laying somewhere on the long shoulder of I95. The skiff and trailer now sport a Jackson Polluck inspired grease painting. Horrid sounds of colliding metal fill the neighborhood as I ease her back into the garage. Thank God I made it home. Glad it happened now so I can fix them before big summer plans.

Life is good, As is tomorrow’s dinner.

Gobblapocalypse. 3/14/2020

Haustellate mouthparts pierce creamy white thighs as I relieve anxiousness in the dark. The time changed last weekend. I got here way too early, leaving me plenty of time to anticipate the ensuing hunt. Last weekend there were at least four gobblers in this cypress head. I called two of them within range but they vanished silently. My thermacell hisses an orange glow. I sit quietly with slate, diaphragm, and firearm laid out neatly in the grass. My brim is low, gloves are on, mask is up and hood is tight. I Motionlessly repel mosquitoes with all I have. Darkness gives way to silver light. Fog forms in the field I have front row seats to, dew materializes on foliage.

A gobble or two fires off from the cypress head. Not as many this week, and certainly less enthusiastic. A few minutes before fly down, I figure I will give a few light clucks, to let them know where I am. The slate is my confidence call. I have only recently taught myself the ways of the diaphragm. I bring striker to stone and exude a noise that sounds more like a question than a call. Panic sets in as I realize the exposed slate was not spared by the newly formed dew. I wipe it free of beaded moisture, searching for my lost piece of scotch-brite. I rub my striker on shirt sleeves. In desperation, I attempt to dry the slate on the busy thermacell. Nothing works.

The birds have flown down and are gobbling purely out of obligation. I am set up right in their kitchen- Or, maybe just outside their kitchen window. They start to trail off, mating calls become dispersed and distant. I forgo the moist slate and resort to the newly learned diaphragm. I am certain, that in turkey speak, my calling sounds like a deaf turkey at a funeral. I don't think I am saying anything inappropriate, but I felt my volume was misjudged. I convince myself to wait a while, calling periodically before chasing them.

After an hour or so, fidgets and self doubt can no longer be subdued. I stow everything in my vest and rise slowly, my head is stationary as pupils bounce wildly across the landscape. I am less than three careful steps to my west when black figures materialize from behind parthenium. I look through magnified glass at two strutters. About 120 yards. They haven't made a peep since 15 minutes after fly down.

I nuzzle back into my tree row and open the case to the diaphragm call once again. The call shuffles around in saliva as I think back to all of my practice in the truck. I focus and try and make the call match realism in both sound and volume. It actually sounds pretty good to me, but no answer. I scan the direction of the bird through my binos until it is time to call again, still nothing. I continue to scan and doubt my turkey hunting prowess, until I see a flame-red ballsack bobbing toward me. Casually stopping every so often to feed and lackadaisically half strut. I slide binos down and ready my gun, shouldered with barrel on boot toe.

He continues this pattern into 80 yards, to 60, to 40. He starts to graze a little more than strut as he feeds his way into the tree row, putting him well within range but completely out of view. I nervously shift weight and ass cheeks to ready myself for him to breach the right side. Minutes of labored breathing go by. He gently feeds back into view, out of the tree row but back to the left hand side, at 20 yards. He is oblivious to my presence- But weary. No more strutting.

Every time he drops his head to feed, I slowly and deliberately readjust my weight and shotgun like a stick-bug in the wind. 15 yards now. His feeding becomes less frequent. He starts to “fake feed” like a deer. He Scans, picks a few morsels, then snatches his head up to catch any predatory movement.

His instincts are correct. I can hear him pecking gravel and bugs, I hear alien toes baring his weight over dry grass. I raise my barrel, and draw a bead on his phantom head at 12 yards. He raises up to check for predators one last time.

The Brother's Gobb. 3/22/2020

I have my younger brother’s company on the dark walk that proceeds the long drive. I hunt alone most of the time. Our work schedules are vastly different, leaving only a few sporadic mornings to get into turkey woods. Seven seasons ago, I called in his first ever bird, along with my third. We watched the quarter mile long display of bravado from our modest hut of twigs and palmetto, hearts pounding and eyes wide. The two companions took their sweet time, showing off feather and color to the lone hen decoy. My brother dropped the boss at 15 yards and I promptly took out his deceitful crony. After dust and feathers settled the annual addiction took hold of me for good.

Here we sit, once again sharing a thermacell and a little misery. I have a few more beards on the wall, but my brother has not killed a bird since. I haven't been to this patch of ground since deer season, and I’m not sure where they are roosting, but I know where they should be. I am over-excited to have company this weekend, but mostly to spend some rare time in the woods with my brother. As the horizon’s glow intensifies mosquitoes dissipate. I check my watch anxiously and wait for the relief of the first gobble.

It finally comes, a little further away than anticipated. I call from the edge our sun-drenched meadow, as bees zip through sun rays and across bloom-rich air, epitomizing spring. But no more gobbles. We commence the protocol of creep, call, creep, until my binoculars are scanning the spongy green floodplain they flew down into. Nothing- we haven't heard anything for close to an hour.

We cross the floodplain cautiously, uneasy and exposed. I can tell my brother thinks the hunt is over. I forgo the calling in order to expedite the creeping. An old mowed road separates oak hammock from citrus, where I suspect they were roosted. Each few steps are punctuated with binoculars in all directions. I glimpse a black lump further down the road, we both dive into shoulder brush before I can be sure its a turkey.

I call a few times with slate, then with diaphragm. Nothing. Doubt creeps into both of our heads as the minutes pass. Eyes long to see a hot white head bobbing down the road, pausing only to display impossibly colored black feathers. I creep out of the brush, inch by inch, until I can see down the road, there is still a turkey there, but I can’t look long enough to determine the sex. I settle back in behind my brother, scuff up the slate and place the diaphragm on my tongue. The two calls yelp Simultaneously. A newfound trick I decided to save for just such an occasion.

All at once we both know the sex of the bird as a gobble races down the road and dissipates into oaks. My binoculars pop up like a nervous periscope behind my brother, until I can see the white head, reality mirroring minds eye.

“Do you see him?” I squeak.

With a nod of confirmation I settle in to enjoy the show. He walks in confidently from 120 yards, stopping every 10 steps for the obligatory half strut. He limps into 60 yards, then stops at 50 yards. He has a swath of flesh and feathers dangling from his breast, dragging the ground. Somethings not right. He either expected to have seen a few hens by now, or he busted us. Despite the sun in his eyes and a hairy backdrop. He peels off deliberately.

“Shoot him.” I whisper from my brothers shoulder like a small red devil.

My brother read my mind as well as the bird’s, he raises the barrel and rolls him at 55 yards. A rather risky distance, we both rush in to secure the bird.

We indulge in the cocktail of adrenaline, disbelief and admiration. Telling each other the story back as if the other wasn't there. Upon further investigation we find that he has a baseball-sized hole of exposed tissue on his breast, surely from fighting. The meat resembles tree bark, scabby and olive drab. The flesh and feathers still drag the ground that once covered the battle wound. Maybe he saw us, or maybe this old warrior just new when something wasn't right.

Luckily the majority of the meat was salvageable. My brother and I filled the long drive home with giddy recollections and anecdotes. I'm proud of myself for calling a stubborn bird in, and for not giving up too early. I'm proud of my brother for falling right back into the woods after a hiatus, making a damn good shot and quick work of converting animal into meat. I bask in a high that feels exactly the same as if I would have killed a bird.

Redfish Blues. 2/22/2020

This is the weekend. My first weekend-long fishing trip since the birth of my boy. The boat has a new battery. Eyes nor mind can stop perusing satellite images of endless keys and cuts comprising the nature coast.

Unfortunately, time and age erodes all but just a few pillars of people. After sifting through family, friends and career only a few nuggets of personal freedom remain. For some folks those nuggets are gold, for some they are old iron. For me- these nuggets are most precious mettle.

Two days before departure my buddy backed out due to family health issues. I cannot blame him, I suppose. But devastation comes all the same. Before sobering up, I seriously consider going it alone. A full weekend across the state, poling and fishing my skiff alone. It just wouldn't be the same.

It used to be easier to find people to fish with. We all had multiple hobbies and ample free time. Now its like pulling teeth, although my two dentist acquaintances have not seen a skiff in years. We used to fight over who got a spot on the boat, the week before a big trip was once a time of giddy texting and fly tying. More recently, the week prior seems like a prayer that responsibilities don’t rear ugly heads like lice in a playground.

I don't think the laments will ever understand how these trips feed a soul- just like I don't understand golf. I suppose most look down upon leaving your wife and baby to go fish for a weekend. The more tied down I become the more I long for exploration. When these rare opportunities arise, wind and work are hard-pressed to stifle enthusiasm.

The wife and baby went out of town, as planned. I spent the first part of the weekend drinking and smoking pain away- another hobby that is slips away with time. For the best. I stumble into the last morning of hunting season late. I bump two deer on the walk in, exacerbating temporary depression. My head reminds me of age at the end of each moment with steady throbbing.

Sunday we cobble together enough time for a somber trip to mosquito lagoon. An occasion I am typically thrilled about, Now seems like the shadow of a weekend that could have been. A good day on the Lagoon will leave me insisting the nature coast would have been even better, A bad day on the Lagoon is a bad day all the same.

Clear skies and cool temperatures aid in fighting negative thoughts. Gin clear water and struggling sea grass have fish spooky, but movement free to be spectated by watchful eyes. We find some intermittent singles, Lethargic and weary from the crisp clean water. My buddy manages to stick one from a meandering school, Roaming doldrums aimlessly. Depression melts away, my head clears like February water.

Nothing can be done now but soak it all in. Fresh mangroves shroud weathered and dead main beams of ancestors. Silence is only broken by distant waves and the thrash of a redfish. Light dances across hard bottom into an endless masterpiece. The brilliant blue sky blinds.

There will be more trips. And much to look forward to. The sooner the better.

Sportsmen's Dilemma. 4/19/2019

Maybe I wont need my thermacell this morning- never mind, I do. Last time I was here I never heard a gobble, even with hens crawling all over. Its windy today, one of the last cold fronts of the season will push through this afternoon. And I have to work. Drive. I am lucky to hunt this little block, politeness and good manners won over the old curmudgeon. I waited until a few minutes after sunrise to start calling. After a while hope starts to fade. Until my ears instinctively perk up, only to be unsure of what I heard. A few moments later there is no doubt. A gobble. Mosquitoes seem to vanish. My mind jumps back and forth between excitement and uncertainty.

Hes coming in.

Is he further away now?

Maybe he is facing the other direction.

Uncertainty gradually dissipates until two gobblers are hammering just outside the barbed wire property line, still out of view. My heart pounds in my throat. My eyes dance along cedars frantically looking for movement just as they evolved for. I remember to calm myself and prop the gun barrel on my boot toe in anticipation. I know they will come in.

A horny blue-white head slips under barbed wire and through cedars. Then another. Here they come. I gently ease off the safety. The stock already shouldered, steadied by the support of this half dead navel tree. Another red head slips under the fence, then another. Another. Another. Fowl body language and moods change as the flock starts feeding, hard. Uncertainty creeps back in, inversely proportional to gobbling and strutting. The curmudgeon did mention that his son in law wanted to put a feeder out here...

God dammit.

I know I could probably pick one of the gobblers off at about 45 yards with a good rest. But those shots always seem to go bad. And its illegal. It doesn't feel right. The carpet of bobbing heads get their fill of cracked corn and sweep back towards the property line. They slip back through the cedars, one by one.

I barter with myself, If I can call the boss back in I will take him. Not a peep. I rise from my fruit wood recliner and scan surroundings. Morning light now illuminates the three black legs. Perfect angles separate them from natural surroundings. Another few steps and the bass pro shops logo comes into view. Sitting across from a sad burlap hideout, tattered in the wind.

God dammit.

I convince myself that I did the right thing as trudge through sand back to the truck, to begin my 9 hour work day on the road. My self made creed: Mammals are for meat and birds are for fun. Gobblers under feeders are not fun. My mind goes to certain friends and acquaintances who will tell me I should have shot them both. But I stand on my laurels. I want them strutting, spitting, and at 10 yards.

And that's ok.

Solo Mission. 11/25/2019

An unexpected Monday off of work. A high temperature of 70 with a gentle breeze of five knots. Friends and family are busy today, but taking the boat out can not be avoided- comrades or not. Since having my two month old son I have scrounged together a few opportunities to run the boat, but have yet to go on a dedicated fishing trip. Today, I am free. The water is high, and a few recent cool snaps have helped the clarity. Solo trips are tough, I have yet to land a fish on fly from the platform alone.

I plan to fish the banker’s hours today. I pull up to the empty ramp around 9:30am, leisurely sipping coffee. The weather begs that I put the boat in a few ramps south of the area I intend to scour. Extending the run to about 10 miles each way. Even during the first wave of the annual snowbird migration, traffic on the water is light.

I lurch onto plane and gladly watch cobwebs and mummified mosquito carcasses blow from the gunnels. Crisp air stings bare feet. The skiff slicing through glass as it graces the contours of spoil islands. Damn it feels good.

The outboard hums through this same stretch I have fished since I could drive. Escaping the cul-de-sac bass ponds of my childhood. Long before I had a boat, I waded any portion I could get to by jeep or foot. Upon the acquisition of a poling skiff some years ago, extra elevation revealed that this portion of the treasure coast is not highly conducive to sight fishing. Although it can be done, redfish and sea grass have seemingly become harder to come by. Still, every so often a wandering mind pinches and pulls google earth, scanning the same home waters. In search of any clues or patterns. Usually a fish-less trip or two is enough to stifle local intrigue temporarily.

I arrive to the first spot, a known stretch where freshwater flows freely into brackish. After poling for a few minutes the fear seems to be reality. Sometimes the flat is full of new bait and life, this time full of red muck and blue beer cans. The second spot on my list is no more enticing.

I coerce the skiff back to life and charge full speed to the last spot on the list. A previous local outing revealed a glimmer of hope here- product of the aforementioned satellite image study. The water is gin clear, by Indian river standards. More like reposado tequila, good enough for me.

Carbon fiber pushes fiberglass slowly, with the entire mangrove laden pocket to myself I take time to evaluate every shadow and aberration. No influence from the wind. Perfect conditions for one to fumble with a fly rod, 40 feet of coiled up line, and an 18 foot push pole from atop a platform. Redfish in this area can be elusive, but it seems they often show little reservation to eating a well placed fly. I can only assume due to the lack of sea grass and truly organic crustaceans.

The first few redfish immediately prove my theory wrong. Sneaking by presentations like a Mercedes by panhandlers. I change from my favorite redfish pattern to a slightly heavier fly. Figuring the high water renders the fly unseen, fluttering overhead while fish scavenge the barrens for morsels. They aren't to fond of the extra plop. I hastily switch to a baitfish pattern. Each fly change is a frantic blur of feathers, pliers and balance.

To my surprise, I am seeing lots of fish. Also to my surprise, I now have the same fly I started with tied on. Redfish are using the high water to slink in and out of mangrove shoots, trout lay stoically camouflaged on the bottom. The occasional hidden snook darts from mangrove to oblivion. I coerce a few weary reds to follow the fly, but commitment eludes them. The trout and snook don't hang around to investigate.

My mind slips from the world and into this game I play for a few hours, without a single eat to show for it. I often hear people say that it is “not about catching fish,” or “its just about being out on the water.” I always thought that was a nice way to comfort one’s self after getting skunked. While I certainly appreciate the sentiment, I typically am not so easy on myself.

Having my first child has not changed me in any remarkable way, like I thought it would. But I think I have a new understanding of what people mean when they say this. I am honestly just happy to run the boat today. Getting shots at local fish in beautiful weather was an unexpected bonus. I drink in every moment of the prolonged idle speed zones once loathed.

Close Encounters. 12/06/2019

The last three trips out here, I have yet to lay eyes on a deer. All three morning hunts, the latest of which resulted in two downed hogs. partially for meat and partially to further gain good graces from the land owner. I am offered a spark of hope by the irrigation manager, who claims to have seen a buck after shutting off a pump one afternoon last week.

There are no trees on this property, other than citrus. Which are not well suited for a tree stand. Most folks who hunt citrus groves do so from a truck. As I did for many years. I plan to hunt the afternoon this time. I set up on the far end of the grove along the barbed wire border. I get there early to walk the fence line and examine each wallowed out crossing. Looking for the freshest and most used trail. There is a dozen or more down the hole stretch, coupling ranch and grove for game. Between the lack of rain and the over abundance of hogs it is hard make sense of anything. Too far for a rifle shot from end to end.

After overly excessive deliberation, I settle in on the grassy dike. I figure the most likely crossings are in range from my nest. The furthest crossing is quite a poke for anything less than a perfect shot. The closest, is a little close for comfort. About 20 yards in front of me. a definitive edge of pine and palmetto scrub runs right into the fence, continued by a raw dirt path, under the fence and across the dike. I nuzzle my left side to the over grown fence line. Slumped over a rifle wedged into my Brazilian pepper tree limb. To my right I can see clear down a tree row. Directly behind me, I have a view of the opposite border of the grove. Although I don't anticipate much traffic behind me.

Once my over-analyzing is done I can settle in and breathe in the scene. The rut is on the down trend. Its hot. Even as a native Floridian today does not scream deer hunting. I have never claimed to be a great deer hunter. I consider myself to still be learning. I find it hard to hunt deer in groves. There's not much to rub on, and an infinite amount of potential licking branch for scrapes. My past few seasons hunting has more or less come down to intercepting deer in parcels I have permission to hunt. Examine crossings, estimate the time of day they are around, and wait. At times it seems impossible that I will happen to be there when a deer passes through. And even less likely that it will be a buck.

90 minutes left of legal shooting light.

A handful of cows and a barred owl announce their presence. Beauty berry shadows grow, furthering my concealment. A loud shriek gives away the position of a large pack of hogs. trampling through the citrus. I try to keep my eyes looking down the dike, but its hard not to watch these morbidly unmajestic creatures. They eventually cross onto the ranch. I make note of the time, just in case the fear of no venison this year manifests into reality.

45 minutes left of legal shooting light.

I have a bad habit of living for the next trip, or the next shot. Even if I bump a deer, my mind will immediately start decoding changes, planning for the next endeavor. With the added fuel of knowing how close I came to success. Maybe this is a blessing, always having something to look forward to. Sometimes I feel it stifles me from living in the moment and giving everything I have to the day at hand. The only fear worse than having a deer blow and run off would be to unknowingly bump a deer. Learning nothing from an unknown mistake.

30 minutes left of legal shooting light.

Crunching saw palmettos rattle my cochlea and rip me from the redundant inner dialog about an amateur’s virtues of deer hunting. It’s close. It’s probably the hogs from earlier I remind myself. Trying to sooth my racing heart. With a still head I stare through the overgrown barbed wire, eyes darting from blowing spiderweb to wriggling grass seed, in search of any movement. Begging fate for it to be a buck. The setting sun breathes cool on my sweaty palms. After a few minutes, intensity subsides, and the palmetto crunching trails off.

10 minutes left of legal shooting light.

The shifting of weight from knee to hip to ankle becomes more frequent. Back muscles burn. Thoughts wander consistently to standing straight up and stretching arms behind my head. I force myself to sit for the last 10 minutes. As I always do. Hope is lost. The mosquitoes are not, Keenly aware of my knuckles and any other protruding skin.

In between wining of insects I detect a gentle sweeping of the broomsedge. I slowly turn my head until the white necks and snouts of two young bucks jump out at me. A tall six point is followed by a spike, about 35 yards away. Marching fearlessly through the ranch grass and toward the grove. Right at the fence line I sit. Right at me, more specifically.

My shaking hands manage to dial my scope down to 3x, and shoulder my limb propped rifle into shooting position. If he jumps the fence, I will be ready. I have no choice but to remain completely still. He reaches the fence with the spike in tow a few yards behind.

He stops and stares through my soul at eight yards. bobbing his head back and forth, with alternating feet. Man and beast’s eyes are wide with fear. He tilts back his modest rack to lift his nose. I know it’s over. A quick blow and both ungulates prance out 40 yards to watch me. An easy shot, if they weren't on the neighbor’s property. My heart rate returns to normal as I begin mentally cussing my choice of location.

But hey, there's always next time.

A Showing of Crevalle. 5/31/2019

The trite expression rings true: The weekend is here.

Summer time. Local surf is forecast to be one foot or below for the next week. Its Friday. I should be back east by 1:00 or so, to meet up with a buddy. We are planning the rendezvous at one of our local haunts just after low tide. I have a two hour drive from grove to beach. He beat me there by an hour. For 60 minutes my mind races and anxiousness bleeds into every thought. The inevitable task of changing into board shorts from jeans haunts me for the length of the drive. A text inquiring about the conditions, is met promptly with a caption-less picture of a small snook at the end of a line. Anxiousness increases.

I finally arrive, the dreaded wardrobe change takes all of 90 seconds. As always. We see some bait and a few small snook but the tide has dropped out too low. We reason that any sizable fish will be pushed out to the second bar, too far to sight fish. We hop back into our trucks and race south in search of a deeper trough. Once we reach the narrow strip of land that allows beach access to us lowly mainlanders, we snatch up rods and start down the white gravel of this magazine cover. Bobbing and weaving through sea oats we crest the dune to find an uncrowded beach with relatively calm, blue water. I can almost see them from here. The beginning of our trek is met with a few small snook, not willing to become fully involved with flies. Due, at least in part, to the amount of bait present.

As the tide floods back in, school after school is held hostage against the sand by large jacks. The action is so enthralling it takes a while to realize the snook have vacated. Bullied out by hyper-masculine crevalle. Flies are gobbled up in a powerful froth with no quarter. Stretching fly line, testing backing knots, and straitening leaders. God, I forgot how strong they are. Nine pounds of pissed off muscle with a 1/O in it’s face. Their giant Indo-Pacific brethren leave them little credit from the fly fishing community. Admittedly, they don't get enough from me either. I find it impossible to hide a smile as the full wells digs into my hip- even if I wanted to.

After a handful of extended fights, we were glad to spectate. Frantically interspersed with occasional sprints and back casts to try and stick one of the big ones. The Jurassic jacks. Every bit of 30 pounds. they ride waves, corralling bait against the shore using added momentum. The human eye cannot avoid the thick dark backs creating giant bald spots in bait schools. Unlike their proteges, they want nothing to do with the flies. No matter how much of a frenzy they are in, or how perfect the cast is. They circumnavigate a six foot proximity around the fly. I have been trying to lose fly line to one for four summers now.

A day with no snook to hand, but front row seats to rabid jetty tuna. Testing tackle and good clean fun. Sunday is the day. Light winds out of the west and flat surf are the forecast. One of our daily migrations toward south Florida is on the books.

Plan B. 11/23/2019

Every year as summer fades relentless thoughts wander to deer and big land. Driving for a living. Lusting after open pastures dissected by cypress heads and riddled with oak hammocks. I work on the road. My truck is my office. Working in citrus I have made acquaintance with a few weary growers that have graciously allowed me to hunt in their groves.

Each year I grow more interested in public land opportunities but have yet to fully commit. Working hard for deer becomes four hour round trips departing at 3:30am and navigating private land politics. Not quite as glamorous as navigating hairy public swamps.

This year I have gained occasional hunting access to a grove that sits between ranch land and a state park. Free reign of the place on weekends that the owner’s son is not home form college. That's fine with me. Deer seem to like groves. Lots of visibility and cover I suppose. My first thought is that there is nothing for them here, why wouldn't they spend all of their on the ranch or in the park?

So far I have made a handful of trips to other groves and a few half-ass attempts on public land. I have yet to squeeze the trigger on anything this season. New permission is exciting but leads to feeling lost. The first time I came here I hunted the early morning. Perched on a modest levy, I watched the sunrise illuminate the cloudy and unattainable pasture. A few hours of glassing and slinking around in cold rain resulted in a lack of faith that any mammals exist here. The second trip out here was more of the same. Shitty weather and a disbelief in ungulates altogether.

Today is another early morning hunt. The first day of doe weekend. In my mind, the greatest chance for venison. One of only a few days when deer of either sex can be killed with rifle. I watch the sunrise over a likely fence line. The weather is pleasant and rifle rounds echo as if talking to each other. I decide to stalk the perimeter of the grove once again. Systematically peering down each row. In hopes to catch deer seeking refuge from war-waging neighbors.

After scouring every row of every block, I set up to glass the ranch. Searching for any Intel or hope. To the south I watch two coyotes creep through fog and unamused heifers. I Slowly scan to the east, taking time to dismiss each cow as non-game. I glass up 12 black blobs gliding across the horizon. Too quick and smooth to be bovine. A dozen hogs are trotting north down a fence line. They reached the vertex of barbed wire and change course to due west. Towards me. I run the binoculars down the fence. It terminates at a swale leading into the grove 70 yards in front of me. Its 9:45am. I can’t resist. I slouch down and wedge my rifle into the crotch of the Brazilian pepper limb I carry. Take a deep breath and dial the scope back to 3x.

The swine make no effort to veer off course. I watch them dip into the swale that separates forbidden land from attainable. The first pig crosses, snout to the ground. A .270 Winchester meets her ear. The rest of the pack panics and balls up around her. I eject the shell and regain a sight line through the scope. As soon as its clear a round strikes a gray sow in the shoulder.

The third and final round in my clip enters the chamber and the safety is engaged. I walk briskly to a 150lb sow kicking her last kick in the tree row. With rifle shouldered I reach the game trail the hogs were following. The gray sow made it another 10 yards down the trail. I stare over her at the rest of the pack briefly through my glass eye. That's enough pork for now. I save the lonesome round and drag mammals into shade.

Another jaunt around the property to double check for a lost deer. Nothing. I make my way back the hogs with truck and tools. I find myself Triple checking to make sure no one is around before the inevitable struggle to heave gutless sows onto the tailgate. I Grab a few bags of ice and beers to fill various cavities and begin the two hour drive home.

Wild hog is Certainly not venison. They are not the most astute animals, and I don't enjoy the meat as much. Although certain preparations have their merit. Many declare large hogs inedible and Leave them for buzzards. Yet, I cannot shake the feeling of success.