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.

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.

A Game of Numbers. 6/20/2020

We continue down the beach, Cush now in the prime position the for the first shot. I have caught my first fish in a month, despite weekly efforts. I my nagging spirit finally leaves me free to enjoy the day. We reach a stretch of sand where the followed trough dumps into a shallow point, extending out from the beach. Given the direction the snook have been swimming, they should have to cross some skinny sand to get back out to a comfortable depth. Cush occupies the ideal spot at the mouth of the trough. I walk down a little ways and set up deeper, hoping for big female cruisers who may bypass the trough altogether.

When Cush and I fish the beach together, we rarely communicate verbally more the 10 feet away. So if one of hears a yip, the other knows it is something worthy. I hear the aforementioned yip after only scanning for a few minutes, before I can even look back at him, I see it. A migratory tarpon cruising the edge of the makeshift flat, the black torpedo is certainly out of comfort range, but doable.

I strip out more line and wade into the water like a soldier in the mikong delta. Meanwhile the tarpon meanders along his predictable edge. After a few unruly false casts, I manage to lay the fly line in front of her. Short strips flutter raccoon fibers inches from her prehistoric face. She never looked at the fly, and I felt strongly that she had seen my entire torso down to my ankles. The whole experience feels like a dream, a dream where you end up naked in front of the class. This is the first tarpon I have been able to give a good presentation to from the sand.

Before I can gather my thoughts and fouled fly, another yip. I rush back to my original post as quickly as abdomen-deep water will allow. Cush signals: “large fish,” And then: “rollers.” Signs that neither of us had spoken of before. A large string of 20-30 migratory tarpon, using the same bank as a guide, zigzag from shelf to sea. They flirt with the line between casting range, and untouchable.

I wade out even deeper, more nervous than the first time. I feel my backpack floating. The thought of my waterlogged DSLR tries to enter the back of my brain, but is blotted out by an unknown evolutionary adrenal response to large fish. I start to false cast, loop and fly smack chest high water behind me, sapping line speed. The string make the predicted angle towards the beach and slide onto the shelf. I lay the fly line out 6 feet in front of the lead fish. She pays no mind. Pruned fingers and nervous hands strip in the fly. I make the same presentation to the 6th or 7th fish as well as the 20th or 21st. The same response down the line. Likely due to my inadequate fly slapping the water as I flailed like a toddler seized by the armpits.

In time the tarpon sightings subside inversely with small schools of healthy male snook. Cush feeds a healthy specimen. We admire tenacity and attitude, and get a few photos before a healthy release. I have never been a big numbers guy, but I can’t seem to enjoy the day to the fullest until the first fish is caught. The pressure is off of both of us. We fill the walk with bullshit and a few more shots a feisty fish. We finish the walk with a beer back at the tailgate.

Black and Tan. 6/20/2020

The beach has been unseasonably blown out this spring, with exception of a few sporadic days. As someone who has tied too much of my identity to fly fishing for beach snook, The result is frustration with the universe. In my opinion, the beach is the best local sight fishing opportunity I have. The spawn just so happens to not require the use of a skiff and coincides with my seasonal work’s slow season. I view beach snook as my bread and butter. As I am able to fit in multiple sessions per week. Beach season pulls me through harvesting season when days are long and daylight is short.

I still check the surf for myself weekly, despite the forecast of revolving swells. rapping the coast like brushes in a car wash. I went twice last week, armed with my 9wt and little hope. It seemed like it was getting slightly better, as clear blue water fights off chalky opacity and rotting sargassum. I even saw a few fish, after staring longer than any reasonable angler would. Saturday's forecast looks favorable, so my buddy Cush and I plan to drive south to a stretch of sand near the St Lucie inlet. Praying that the barrier of the Bahamas will increase our chances.

I am giddy as we rig up in the parking lot. Winds are light and I can hear the Atlantic gently lapping against the coast. Surely a good sign, an hour north looked almost doable a few days ago, maybe we will have a chance.

Dreams are promptly squashed by the army core of engineers, or maybe population explosion, or maybe the sugar industry, or maybe God. We both stare at the insidious line in the ocean. Gooey discharge from the inlet rides the tide down the coast, pushing God’s blue water down the beach and away from the ant pile made in his image. Despite disappointed on lookers, we make our way down to the part of the beach yet to be infected. Visibility proves to be hopeless all the same, maybe from recent swells, or maybe from man’s tampering with natural order. I reason we should go back north, further away from the invasive waters of lake Okeechobee.

Although behind schedule, we break through the sea grapes to cleaner water kissing the coast and blue bird skies. I can’t even find it in myself to blame the endless beach goers, especially knowing the chaos that lurks to the south.

The tide is low and tourists are thick, we spread out and walk onto the modest sandbar to wait for cruisers. We give it a few minutes before deciding to make tracks, the snook will sometimes lay up in a slack tide. I study the beach to try and determine the most likely areas to find fish according to my ever-changing theories.

As we walk, the sandbar we once stood on gradually falls away from the beach, the waves dissipate and trickle over and the growing trough. I stare at two dark cylindrical shapes on the bottom. My brain tries to convince my arms that the shapes are not fish, as I begin to false cast. My favorite fly plops down in between the two shapes, bisecting Them by 2.5ft. Cush watches from sandy bleachers opposite my casting arm. The shape to the right springs to life in the form of a healthy snook and inhales the yellow eyed offering with a graceful swipe. I come tight, letting fly line out and dopamine in. I cant hold back the grin in the midst of validation. My brain switched from the universe is out to get me, to thankful I ever have the opportunity to pursue fish in this way, 30 minutes from my home.

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

Good Bight. 7/20/2019

My obsession with hunting and fishing is becoming harmful. An outing once per week is beginning to seem criminal.

In the recent year I have been the “captain” of these humble excursions more than ever. Bringing my modest skiff to water new to it as well as me. I have been the one doing the research and scouting. I am the one persuading the hen-kept to spend a day or weekend on the water. Bringing my own rig and learning new areas raises the sense of adventure. When you formulate a plan that comes together, the high seems a little sweeter. Just as the skunk is a little more sour. The fish are the driving force, they summon the adventure itself. If I was a golfer I may never find myself pushing a skiff around in a 30mph wind, in a smattering of keys somewhere in the gulf. If I was a golfer I may not know what a push pole is.

I am not as excited as I am when I run my own boat. But being on the bow of a comrade's Whipray with no duties other than poling and trying not to blow shots is a welcomed occasion.

The water is a little higher than the last time I was here. A perfect sheet of glass across the bay, reflecting the sun’s low light from behind the giant nimbus clouds to the east. As we pole through the untouched wilderness, I can hear ominous pounding surf due to the storm offshore. Juxtaposing our leeward bight. The tall clouds blot the sun for the first few hours, most days the boat would curse this. But today, the fish are skinny. I wouldn't say “crawlers,” but burgundy logs with dorsal fins. Finning occasionally, just enough to keep from rolling over.

Redfish breaching the surface unprovoked is always a welcomed sight. But this means presentation and tact are necessity. I was first to the bow, as is customary for whomever is not the skiff’s owner. My first handful of shots were relatively well placed, once my crustaceous concoction was denied a second or third time, we both figured it time for a change. To a fly of the same phylum and weight, only black and purple. The key that unlocks every jowl in the lagoon- So they say.

A few fish later and I feed one on a Hail Mary shot. Perhaps “They” are right. We soon assume the rhythmic dance of a good day. Switching platforms every fish or two, cracking beers and feeding fish like a well oiled machine. In mosquito lagoon fashion, they where still a little snooty.

It was a damn good day, and a long one at that. We left the house at 5:30am to be back by 10:00pm.

Today was the most fish I have ever caught in the lagoon, But I selfishly long for it to be completely from under my own guidance. Two years ago today would have been complete nirvana to me. I still would not trade today for the world. Yet, as I write this, I struggle to come up with content. No hiccups, mishaps-- storms or broken rods. Just shot after shot, eat after eat. I am going back next weekend, with my boat. And a few extra black and purple flies.

Opening Day. 3/7/2020

I drive in a little too far without headlights. I park the truck a little further out than needed. I got here a little earlier than necessary. Peace of mind comes with not being in a rush for once, I begin the meditation of a silent walk in among darkness. Headlamps are shunned and eyes adjust.

At the close of deer season, each year I am excited for spring turkey. The pressure of trying to get a deer for the freezer leaves me selfish and stingy with hunting opportunities and meat. Turkey hunting is refreshing when compared to silent and wary deer. A horny gobbler can become so brazen he is borderline intimidating. Spitting and staring. They know something is not right with this wad of camouflage, but after a few weary seconds, air sacs re-inflate and snoods drip upon masculine breast. They disregard fear to fight and fuck like adolescent men. Their spring bravado leads a hunter from thick cover and hairy swamps to lonely dirt roads and groomed meadows.

I have been comfortable in the dark silence for 20 minutes now, reclining under my valencia tree. I figure these turkeys to inhabit a cypress head that creates a seam along a wandering irrigation canal between grapefruit and orange. I have a fifty-fifty chance of guessing exact fly-down locations. The sun begins to scrub away the last cold morning of Florida spring. Orange light and three simultaneous gobbles race across crisp air, From the cypress head as predicted. Answered from behind me by a mouthy lone gobbler. The chorus and refrain continues for several minutes from perches, then furthered from a well mowed stage and a cypress back drop.

I talk with slate meekly. Before I know it two gobblers are screaming at me, from just behind a ditch with a 10ft girth and a 3ft berm. I shoulder my gun and try to imagine where red heads might crest over. After a few minutes the gobbler’s intensity slows to a stop as they wander off.

Over an hour has passed, avian dialog has seized. Internal dialog has been bargained with, suppressed, and bet against. I eventually decide to slowly stalk the direction they trailed off. With each passing tree row creeps in a slow rhythm. As I crest each row, I observe the length of it for signs of life. I make grand plans for the mile-long skirt around the outer canals, to head off the rafter. If I can get between them and the state land quietly, I might have a chance. I crest another end tree carefully, only to notice a mass of erect feathers, shimmering, variegated and taut.

I duck with my back to orange foliage like I am reloading in a fire fight. The silent strutter is 60 yards down the row. Pupils crest the outermost leaves of the tree and he becomes focused in view, the heating sun burns pinholes through his thick fan. A display of white veins and marabou shield his head. I hunch up against the end tree and frantically fumble for striker and slate. If I see him from here, he will be close. Dry wood scrapes rock gently for a modest yelp. I set my pen on the ground and grab my ready sword. I know he wont gobble. He is either coming in or not. I just have to be ready. I have know idea how much time passes, surely hours.

I eventually convince myself to move, under the condition that I first yelp again. For the distant chance of a shock gobble, or a new gobble. Nothing. In stealth, I tuck slate and striker away. Before I can stand up, I hear it-- Drumming. No noise is more synonymous with good things to come. A wild turkey’s drumming is fetishized by a small and dedicated fraternity.

I flick off the safety and eyes dart to every blue hole in the thick limb, searching for movement. Finally they lock on to a white head as it crests the edge of foliage and immediately fades to pink. Bravado gives way to nerves. An engorged head raises up with concern 12 yards away, in unison with a 12 gauge barrel. His snood loses flaccidity and I have more time than I envisioned. His neck goes limp before his first step in the opposite direction, thanks to a healthy does of number five lead. He drops rather motionlessly. I secure his head with my heel. The dinosaur commences obligated death rattles. Prehistoric talons unknowingly rip at rubber boots. Once subsided, spurs are secured and hoisted out.

A ritual of appreciation and admiring commences before memories and meat are claimed.

Two birds per season is not enough.