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.

Long Walks on the Beach. 6/2/2019

My buddy Cush and I fall back into the same summer Sunday pattern effortlessly. Rush home from the early Methodist service to throw packs, water and rods into the truck without so much as a word. The drive south is full of 76mph banter about the latest fly creation, or staring through the top of the windshield commenting on cloud cover. Knowing full well that our predictions are futile, We pull into the park and order up two season passes. In a flurry of monofilament and sunscreen I am out of the truck and ready to fish. But waiting on Cush to rig up, impatiently. Summer is finally here. Miles of beach, untouched by by man’s groveling hand. Free to wander for a full day. No obligations. No time to be home.

The only downside- clouds. We walk for a few miles, strategically interspersing ourselves among the few other fisherman. The sun peeks out to taunt us for moments at a time, as if her sole purpose was to illuminate passing snook. During one of the sun filled jaunts I hear a whistle from the north. I pry my eyes from now-translucent water. Cush is alternating between pointing at the water in front of me and bear-hugging the air. A secret code that means; “big fish are coming to you.” I peel off some more fly line and back up onto the dune. I can tell by Cush watching me intently that it must be big. Then I see them. Two black barn doors drift 25 yards off the beach with purpose. Tarpon. Although hopeless I glide further south and put my back into the double haul. Not the prettiest shot, but its right in front of them. Stripping the fly soon becomes an afterthought. They show no interest. Excitement gives way to awe. My subconscious takes over as I strip the fly like a zombie, right across the lead tarpon’s face. I slurp back drool and stare at giant mirrored scales capped a powerful black back. To date, this is the best shot I have had at migratory tarpon.

Our patience pays off, clouds and fisherman dissipate. About three miles in, we are treated to sandy bottom and snook shadows. School after school of males meander near gray dunes and coconut palms. Cush and I split up only to report back the same story. Perfect presentations are almost always followed, then turned up noses. It goes on like this for hours. No fly change or stripping cadence could muster the required aquatic aggression. I did manage to land a small male, and we each fed a few more that came unbuttoned. But the same sequence plays out over and over:

The cast unfurls at a 45° angle across the fish’s path, long before the lead fish arrives. Slow strips until (maybe) one peels away from the group, then refusal. Followed promptly by an uncontrollable urge to try again. A second cast at a passing school is a useless, but inescapable ritual. The Gods allow Cush to catch one as we make our four mile walk back to the truck, Surely as reward for our efforts today. We arrive home a few hours later, after a quick stop to fill bellies with rice, plantains, and modelo.

No boat to wash. Summer is here.

Bowen Bucks. 1/18/2020

I hunted this little block of citrus wood and sugar sand last weekend. It seems like deer are starting to rut in this part of Florida. On my walk in, a barley visible white rump pranced in front of me, stopping momentarily as I scrambled to get a better view from my scope. I could see the crease of the shoulder clearly but could not make out any horns, obscured by a gloomy skyline. I didn't shoot. It probably wasn’t legal shooting light. Maybe not even a legal buck.

To head him off, I scurried around a small cypress head full of Virginia creeper and decades of trash. Trying to prolong the encounter in an effort to gain more light. He never showed. The rest of the morning i sit. High hopes trailing off like a twilight buck. My heart jumps momentarily as cows saunter over useless barbed wire and through the grove. Sandhill cranes catch my eye, A body that resembles a gray deer and the mannerisms of a turkey cross-wire the predatory brain. I kick myself for being a law abiding citizen a few hours earlier. It was probably a buck. I saw his neck. I have seen very few does on camera.

I killed a nice buck out here last season. To show the grower my appreciation I gave him some venison. He asked to see a picture, of course I obliged. He is not much of a hunter, but apparently his son-in-law is. Now this 35 acre block is adorned with a network of trail cameras, a ladder stand, a feeder, a few mineral licks and some kind of scrape dripper machine. Not to mention some guy in a yellow shirt who keeps deleting my trail camera pictures.

I put in some time last season. Many hours driving and sitting. I killed that buck without any bass-pro attractants. Just time and luck. I took my camera down and wiped it clean of grubby fingers. Ah, the politics of private land hunting. Last year I learned the deer where almost completely nocturnal. A few cold snaps prompted them to start rutting, occasionally passing through the grove around first light late in the season. I think I will stick to my plan and let the deer drain his feeder every night. Judging by the tracks they don't seem to interested in it anyway.

So far this season i have a lot of windshield and scouting time into deer season. A few public land hunts and several grove hunts have resulted in no dead deer. Every season, I scramble to get any legal deer into the freezer. As beautiful and adrenaline inducing as they may be, I don't care about killing a giant buck too much. I am sure that the lust will grow with time, but right now I just need a legal buck that's made of venison.

I sit under this old navel tree just as I did last year, In protest of the stand and feeder on the other edge of the block. The world is blue in moonlight and the first sliver of sun. Thermacell mist gives a foggy picture of my scent trail.

Before I can settle in a buck breaches the cedars and steps into view. He stares at my profile through a dead citrus tree. I see horns, but we both need a better look. Rifle is steadied by calm breath and pepper tree limb. He hesitates, but takes another step to get a better look at this lump of camouflage.

A shot echoes down citrus rows and floods all corners of surrounding pasture. Behind the muzzle flash i see a quick kick and the buck run off. I hear a chord of barbwire, followed shortly by a snap of tree limbs and the rustle of dead leaves. I pray the latter was him crashing.

I mark the small helping of pink mashed potatoes with my rifle rest shoved into sand. I have been waiting for this all season, but there is no joy or celebration. Mind and body alternate between excitement and anxiousness, the inevitable inner dialog begins.

Don't get excited until you find him.

He’s dead you heard the crash.

What if blood dries up and you never find him?

You shot him at 40 yards he couldn't have gone far.

What if your scope was off?

Schizophrenia carries on for 45 minutes exactly. I follow the blood trail up to the fence- almost. I circumnavigate the trail camera security system and slip through loose barbed wire. After a few minutes of walking around like a shore bird I pick the trail back up. I lay my hat down to mark the few drops of blood. Hands on knees I systematically search every blade and leaf for red. conscious of every step as not to contaminate evidence. Given the choice I would have a deer drop in his tracks every time for obvious reasons. But God damn it, trailing blood is exhilarating. Stakes are high. A freezer of venison - or the worst feeling in the world. I am not finding a lot of blood, but each spec brings me closer. Schizophrenia continues.

What if it drys up?

At least know he was right here.

By each drop I lay my hat. Search for the next drop, and repeat. I find a bigger splotch of blood. Another, and another. Each smear brings me closer to a small stand of 12 oaks jutting from open pasture. I stare down at red goop about 15 yards from it. I remember the crunch of leaves and what I presumed to be his final crash. My eyes leave red to scan the modest hammock- there he is. My heart wells with relief and excitement, thwarted by urgency to get back across the fence.

A small six point with a large body. The entry wound is right about where I thought it would be. A damn tough buck. He ran about 65 yards after a double lung shot. Swathes peeled from his coat by the barbed wire. Antler in hand, I drag dead weight to where I can get the truck. On the walk back to the front gate I smile and notice the unruly cows have torn down the feeder.

For some reason I put enormous pressure on myself to scrounge up at least one deer for the freezer each season. Between public land pressure and private land politics it is never a sure thing. The long drive home is full of mixed emotions and Led Zeppelin I. Accomplishment. Relief. Excitement. Dazed and Confused. I am high. I killed a deer. I can finally get on with my life. Hell, maybe I'll even go to the next baby shower without bitching.

Well, maybe i look for one with bigger horns.

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.

Saint John's River Marsh 9/7/2019

I can’t convince any comrades to fish this weekend. Watching college sports takes priority for some. The Indian river and beach have recently brought on sight fishing depression. The ocean is as opaque as drywall. Remnants still from hurricane Dorian. The river resembles grenadine, ample freshwater spewing out of every gutter and spillway.

I decide going it alone is well suited for some exploratory bass fishing. I have dabbled in a few lakes here and there in the past. The freshwater flame reignited by a few related episodes of the Walkers Cay Chronicles and some new yellow foam popper heads. Not the prettiest flies in the world, but I tie up a few that eerily resemble Homer Simpson.

I decide to try the stick marsh for the first time. A 6,500 acre reservoir that lives up to its name making navigation treacherous at times. Along with a reputation for big bass. Trolling motors are not my favorite but they prove convenient for the lonely angler. mine doesn't get much use any more but it has been resurrected for such an occasion. I can never really tell what level the battery is charged to. I jiggle the alligator clips at my peril as the battery charger spits and hisses.

The 5 speed trolling motor has 3 speeds, give or take. “Turbo mode” can be achieved with the proper sequence of frantic reverse to forward motions of the throttle. Never the less- it gets the job done. I run the skiff carelessly and blindly parallel down a submerged dike, skimming over what I can only imagine was an old levy. Sabal Palms in all stages of life signify the old dike. Jutting out of the water like pungis.

Plane gives way to idle as I push my way into what I deem a suitable spot. The whole lake is sheet of glass, the skiff’s mellow wake absorbed into the cattails and guinea grass until still once again. Under the announcement of black belly whistlers, time loses its importance as I focus on picking apart this shoreline of palm pilings, cat tails and water lettuce. No nook or cranny goes unnoticed by my rude fly. After the ducks have moved through the lake is silent, only interrupted by the splash of a popper or the slurp of a blue gill.

After an hour or so with no bass, I decide to try a spot a few miles south. The perfectly straight levy has lulled me into a false sense of security. Although known to be treacherous, I assumed the perimeter of this perfectly square reservoir could be ran safely. Especially with a tunnel skiff.

Before arriving at the west boundary of the marsh, I realize that no set of gator eyes or turtle snout can go unnoticed. Chiefly because most of them are the stumps and limbs of past trees. Worn wooden nubs barely protruding from the glass- some not at all. I sat the skiff down and began to idle after realizing just how frequent and irregular they are. I lurch forward to catch myself as the skiff gently slides up and off of slick black submerged stump.

Not willing to risk damage to the boat, I opt to crack a beer for the 35 minute set back. Gently idling my way to another known channel. Chopping and sliding my way through a graveyard of gooey timber. I try a few more spots. A number of hours later I am back at the ramp. No eats apart from an early bluegill. An old-timer at the ramp tells me he caught two bass. He claims to fish here every day. Him and I comprise almost half of the people in the parking lot.

The following morning I find myself alone again at another section of the st johns. A thick and shallow little reservoir open to the public. Not known for large fish but aggressive juveniles in numbers. 15 minutes before Sunday’s first light and I am eighth in line. The bass boats in front of me waxing gel coats, eating moon pies and shit talking each other.

My foot leaves the tongue of the trailer as the skiff glides off lifelessly. A few too many cranks later and she begins to purr and scratch her chin on the grassy bank. Another gentleman at the ramp mentions that enough boats have gone by, and should have “blown it all out of there.” by “it” I assume he means water lettuce.

My hypothesis proves true as the humming four stroke winces and coughs slightly as we slide across a matted carpet of frothy vegetation. Just as the day before my yellow popper disturbs the glass. trudging through lily pads and hyrdilla.

after a few missed bass and a large brim I decide to clip off the weed guard. Relaxation sets in. I am now in somewhat of a rhythm from the day before. A fear of submerged stumps is replaced by a nagging curiosity to see how much floating fresh water vegetation I can run over until my warrantied motor gives up. Coots whine and moorhens cluck as the popper glugs through every nook and cranny. A moody green landscape accented by purple hyacinth flowers.

The relaxing nature of a glassy morning slips away. As the wind picks up, the trolling motor remains on turbo mode and the popper whizzes closer and closer to my ear. A few small bass and blue gill prove satisfactory. I tell myself I will leave in 20 minutes, so I decide to try one more spot. After a few minutes the cheap fiberglass bends for a nice size bluegill. Ink black fading to purple. Already 15 minutes late, a perfect end to the morning.

Gear is stowed and the skiff comes to life. The prop gracing shallow hydrilla once more. I race back to the ramp to please my wife and the lord.

Beach 5/22/2019

I stared into the chalky surf all last week. the waves were a moderate 1-2 foot, but strong east winds had the Atlantic churned and frothy. It was the same story yesterday. I prodded a few different spots with hope that a low tide would flatten out the break making for better visibility. But still, nothing of worth spotted.

As I head back east on State Road 60 I triple check the surf report and wind stations. I got off work a little early today. If I haul ass I can get to the sand and fish an hour or two of a slightly higher tide stage. If I haul ass I will most likely run into the same conditions I did yesterday. Against my better judgment I keep east toward the Atlantic. holding out hope that the fish where pushed out off of the second bar yesterday.

My newly single father is renting a sort of bungalow/garage apartment on the beach now. I have never fished there before, the private parking should save time and cut down on people. I whip into the gravel driveway. I rush inside to throw on my boardies and reassemble my latest warranty claim. My dad asks to come with me for five minutes. Of course I oblige.

“So you can’t eat them?”

He is picking my brain about surf fishing. The latest hobby that he has yet to start. We begin the tight walk down the winding trail through the sea grapes and over the dune.

“What else do you catch out here?”

He points out the last known location of the nomadic homeless camp. As we approach the surf, it is just as I feared. Hopeless. Too bad, I would have loved to show him a snook.

“So you Don’t cast at all until you see one?”

I never fail to feel slightly silly answering innocent questions from someone who doesn't fish much. I gave up trying to explain sight fishing for beach snook to the laments. A purely natural evolution of a fisherman not out solely for meat.

I want him to get a real hobby. To become obsessed and driven by something. His newly purchased kayaks will likely see little sunlight. Just like my wife’s paddle board. In my view, there needs to be a drive behind such tools. I am either blessed or cursed by such all-encompassing pursuits.

A few minutes later he leaves me to it. I walk south slowly. Evaluating the make up of the ever changing ocean floor. Already plotting the best future conditions for this new stretch of sand. I get the occasional window of clarity with visible bottom. The water is chaotic. Relentless waves and foam spill atop the swirling sand. Shrouding the ocean floor. Wind loud in my ears. Water pulses from ankle to thigh in no apparent pattern. Hopeless.

As with every disappointing trip to the beach, the reptilian part of my brain continues veering my eyes from wave to wave, searching for any aberration in the chaotic pattern. The mind slowly wanders.

Maybe I should jump in and cool off. At least that wouldn't make this a complete waste of time.

What time would I get home if I left now?

I wonder how the beers in my over-priced-abominable ice box are doing in the truck bed?

Finally hope was lost on the hopeful. Bits of sargassum and swirling sand has been playing tricks on my eyes for hours.

Suddenly it was all voided. What I saw stuck out like soar thumb. Swimming right at me. He is hungry. I started hauling and released just as the male snook came into range. Right on the button. Way too close on any day lacking a 15mph onshore wind. He keys in immediately. As I strip he trails the fly intently. I lose sight of him as he is consumed by foam. As I meagerly hoped, he uses the veil of oxygenated water to inhale the fly and I come tight. As I watch him thrash among waves and sargassum my heart rate returns. it sinks in. the first fish of the season. Fuck yes. I gently coerce him into an inch of water. The validation rushes over me. Glad I came today. I don't think I can bare another weekend of 2-4 foot surf without having caught one.

I watch him swim off like a proud mother in the preschool parking lot. Clouds roll in and the surf turns gray. I could care less. The first fish of the season has been to hand and swam off healthy. Pressure is lifted. Pressure invented and faced only by me. I stare into the black waves even though everything underlying is currently invisible. The kind of staring you do when you are preoccupied. Staring at nothing. Staring at the air in between you and something. When you are someplace else.

I stare a few minutes more and the sun reveals itself once again. Illuminating blue and green. The chaotic surf now seems peaceful. I blissfully scan for a while, content that I will see no more today. I got a lucky shot. A merciful blessing before surfs rise, damning me to another week of fantasizing.

I wander back toward the access. In my mind I am done fishing. But man nor God can resist staring into the surf with polarized glasses on. A shadow catches my eye. A glimpse of a slightly larger male, sauntering impossibly under the treacherous surface. I start my false casts as he fades out of existence. I drop the fly about 6 feet in front of his last known location. My eyes start searching for my fly as I blindly strip. Fur and tinsel are highlighted by a powerful black lateral line. The belly of my rod comes alive. Once inanimate, now at the mercy of a breeding age snook.

Weeks and miles on the beach validated. Two fish on the first catching day of summer. I commemorate the evening with a quick dip in the Atlantic. A long talk and a beer with my dad. I sip Busch lite with my marred thumb. At peace. For now.

Lagoon 5/18/2019

The morning is going smoothly. My coffee is done about the time my buddy Cush finishes loading his gear into the skiff. It will be nice to have a companion on the drive this week.

I strapped down the motor this time, to keep it from flopping around violently and avoiding the cringe that accompanies every pothole. I have no idea why it has taken me this many years to do this.

Upon the arrival to the ramp we initiate the tradition of loading remaining gear into the boat, unstrapping and installing plugs. All three legs of the fisherman's triad are looking good today. A rare sight. Slick calm, blue bird skies, and clear water.

We make the long run without a hitch. No wrong turns or misplaced gray locals. We arrive at the spot and begin poling. Fishing takes on a different form when it is slick calm. The intensity drops, gliding on top of the water in silence with minimal resistance. When it is your vessel winds add pressure to have alert control at all times. Especially with a tiller, even idling needs a constant hand. When the wind is absent you are free to move about the skiff, sip beer or take pictures. Both modes have there perks, but the rare relaxation of a windless day is always welcome.

We see the first redfish after poling about 100 yards, Cush makes a perfect cast and sticks him on the third strip. A healthy mid slot fish. He slides him into the cooler and we trade places with a gooey handshake.

Within 15 minutes we have had a few shots and i feed an average redfish. I quickly remove the fly and release him. In an act of valor, Cush insists that i stay on the bow.

We happen upon a school. wadded up and tailing unmolested. The copper mass is between us and another skiff. We reason that we are “slightly closer” than the other boat and push towards them.

My first cast blows them out a little but immediately feeds one on the outskirts. During the fight the school disperses and they push towards the gear fisherman, they stick one in short time. Everyone is happy- a silent truce is formed between the two petty forms of sight fishing.

We switch places again. Some how we have managed to claim the flat, as the other boats are pushing out to the running lane the reds keep trying to school up, we get shot after shot. Fish swimming in no recognizable pattern, looking for each other. They are pickier now, only a well placed shot and a convincing strip will seal the deal.

Bryan feeds one and again positions are switched. The action gradually slows to a stop. we spot a big black drum and I present the fly over and over until I am cane poling the fly into his face. He eats it. A big fucker but unenthusiastic. After a few minutes he just lets go of the fly, seemingly out of boredom.

On the run back we decide to try a new spot. Clear shallow water and wispy turtle grass. Trout are popping on the flat behind us. The calm has graduated to a gentle breeze. Also welcomed, it cools our backs as we drift. Poking the submerged earth only intermittently to keep our line. We see multiple large trout but the water was clear and skinny. And they are trout. I have still yet to catch a big sight fished lagoon gator trout. it haunts me playfully.

We make a run to a few familiar spots, punctuated with more shots but don't capitalize. We shoot the shit as we drift off the shoreline a while before the long run back to the ramp. Once everything is stowed i twist the throttle and the skiff comes back to life. I feel the earth grab the skeg momentarily before it breaks free. We get back to the ramp a little early for my usual liking. But I decide to embrace the relaxing nature of the day with some shrimp and grits on the meandering route home.

There is just something magical about pushing a skiff around in low wind and seeing fish. Its the greatest thing ever. What i dream of and long for multiple time daily while at work or wedding showers. The reason why i bought the skiff. It seems rarer now than ever.

I will still pole in a 20 mph crosswind if there are fish around. Windy days have an another appeal all there own.

My confidence is growing. Although i still love to catch fish, Being the captain is getting me more excited than ever to fish and to explore. Getting my boat to the spot adds another level of adventure. I’m getting some glass work done and a few more minor touches to the skiff this week. After that it will be exactly where i want it. For now.

The drive home does not stray from the relaxing pace the day has taken on. Cruise control set on 72, i pass a truck doing 68 in the left lane. The truck who ran up my ass pulls next to me as a merge back to the right. I oblige to his obvious gesture for me to make eye contact. I am not surprised to see his middle finger. It is met with a smile and his ford raptor speeds off. All is well when fish have been caught.

Beach 5/15/2019

I check all manner of human knowledge on my pocket sized human-knowledge-apparatus. It looks like beach season is officially here. The powers that be are calling for 1-2 foot surf all week. slightly cloudy but the Atlantic should be glass with this light west wind. Driving straight from work I pull into the park and can hardly wait to unlace my boots and initiate the frantic ritual I do as often as possible on week days during summer months. Although it takes 5 minutes tops, it seems like an eternity as I shimmy off my jeans in the drivers seat and lace up my boardies. I step out to assemble my 9 weight and feel a few rain drops on my back. Doubt creeps in. Afraid to look up and risk losing hope, I conclude the ritual by filling up my water bottle. In typical Florida fashion I feel the sun wash over my shoulders as I lock up my trusty steed.

I look up to the sky thankful to see what might be a decent day. I briskly walk down the trail and through the sea grapes. My heart warmed by the glassy blue-green water for the first time since last season. I reach the foot of the surf and look south, slightly disappointed by the by the smattering of condo dwellers uniformly dispersed down the beautiful shoreline. I don't like to fish near people, but I will certainly dodge a few yankees on inner tubes if there are fish around.

Before I can even get past the first couple walking towards me, a male snook shows up inches from the dry sand, swimming parallel to me. I act casual, as an out-of-towner walking with no fly rod. Unable to resist, I lay the fly in front of the fish, a little too close for comfort for the approaching couple. Half-expecting a comment or protest, it never comes. But the snook does come. Flashing his jowls on the second strip, I feel him momentarily before the line goes limp.

I move past the couple. Moments later another male appears as a tern sails over my head. the snook and I are both alerted by the bird’s shadow and trajectory. Fish and fowl both crash a single sardine in a foot of water. The tern arises with the bait fish as the snook swims back towards the break empty handed. I strategically place my fly on the other side of the break, where I anticipate the male to appear. As the foam clears my eyes pick out my fly, brushing the snooks back. He reacts by tying himself in knot and snapping at the intruder.

I figure the fish are feeding up shallow and mostly swimming north. I plan to stay high on the dune and cover ground. I get a few more shots but no feeds before I lose sun. I turn around to discover a large storm cell moving offshore between me and the parking lot. The squatters have all ran for cover and abandoned their rainbow colored shanties. I decide to wait it out. The cell is all but offshore already.

As I wait for the sun to re-emerge, I cant help but miss it. It flirts with the cloud cover, momentarily converting the Atlantic from grey to emerald. As the condos engorge with people, I have the beach to myself.

Surely God made the sun to illuminate big, broad shouldered predators, cruising in search of morsels in clean shallow water. And surely he made this handful of parks sprawling publicly along the Atlantic just for me.

God’s great sun came out again and I was met promptly by a cruising school of three males. They seemed to all see the fly at once. They fought each other until the victor had my fly in his jowls. I come tight, again momentarily. The snook headed for Cuba and my line went limp. Reminding me to keep fly line taught in the rolling surf.

My heart is pounding in my throat. I thought myself to be above getting riled up by small male snook, but he would have been the first of the season. I look down at my trembling knees slightly embarrassed. I have never given much thought to the phrase “the tug is the drug.” especially when adorned by bumper stickers or t shirts. But damn it, that's a true statement.

How else do you explain staring into the surf for hours, hoping to only glimpse a fish? Let alone feed one. Further still to land one. Just to let it go? All is right with the world after fish have been caught. Big or small. Although the euphoria is less fleeting if the fish are big.

The clouds are back. And I haven't seen a fish in a while. I keep scanning until the wind switches from the west to the north. Howling cold in my face and peeling foam from the cresting waves. Drifting across a landscape of white caps. As if to agree with my watch, that the fishing is done for today. As I find shelter back in the sea grapes, I am already giddy about tomorrow. Summer is here.

Lagoon, Mothers day 5/12/2019

The turbo impresses pretty onlookers from “Ron Jon’s” surf shop in the predawn as I make my way north on I-95 to meet my buddy at the ramp. I'm happy to have someone to fish with that also longs to be more than the causal weekend warrior. For some reason conversing over distant grand plans feeds my soul when contemplated with the like minded. My worst fear in life is to devolve into one of those “dads” who falsely assures himself, “maybe next weekend.” Meanwhile the skiff rots in the side yard and bucks prance around unseen.

I have been on a cold streak the last month or so. The beach is still a little blown out to sight fish. The last few turkey hunts have produced not even a gobble. Buddies and I had an awesome inaugural trip to the nature coast. We fished hard and started to learn the lay of the land, but with only one redfish fed to show for it.

Hopes are always high for me when the lagoon is on the agenda. A world renown redfishery, famously on the decline. I wish some of the guys up here would pole the treasure coast for a day. It makes the lagoon look like a dissected beehive full of redfish compared to the sad brown waters of the southern Indian River. Often boasting more Florida gar than gamefish.

As I graduate to the deserted Us1, the rising sun flickers through invasive foliage. The lifeless skiff straddles a gopher tortoise. I mumble a guilty prayer to catch fish. Pretending I don’t remember James 4:3.

“When you ask, you do not receive, because you ask with wrong motives, that you may spend what you get on your pleasures.”

I am Hoping catching fish counts as a necessity to my sanity rather than a pleasure. Dreading the skunk. The wife is upset. I will never understand how a marriage can be so great 6 out of 7 days a week. Working all day hours away from home results in nothing more than a kiss goodbye, but fishing a day of the weekend seems to be worse than infidelity.

I peer through the top of the windshield at the passing Sabal palms. Trying to analyze two legs of the sight fisherman's triad. Sun, wind, and water clarity. It looks do-able. A little breezy, but I am excited to have and enthused buddy on the bow. A south wind of 12-14mph is not ideal, especially for my flat bottomed girl to traverse the 3 miles of open water necessary to get to the spot.

The mood was light and we fished hard, Bringing four specimens to hand altogether. Spirits where high and beer was sipped. Afternoon thunderstorms where taunted. A fine day.

On the jagged run home a zephyr hills bottle whizzed by the gunnel. Without a second thought I eased the throttle and swung wide to complete the 180. Although the outboard had managed to avoid multiple rafts of gray beasts up until now, this straggler was not so lucky. I saw his mottled back just before the inevitable happened, all we could do was grit our teeth as the massive herbivore detonated five columns of water into the atmosphere before reaching the depths. I offered myself a consoling word, “there was no shortage of them today – he definitely lived.”

I cranked the motor back up and idled over to the piece of timeless trash. Wondering if the lagoon was any better for my skiff gracing it today. I prayed for fish, and I let them go.

Beach 5/4/2019

The love bugs are worse this year than any other in recent memory. The wiper fluid has been empty for a few thousand miles now. The rain brings some visual relief, as the wipers fight through the mangled thoraxes and wings. Relief interrupted by the dreadful thought that I wont be able to see anything at the beach.

I pull into the park. Plenty of spaces today. glancing up at the hopeless clouds I strap on my backpack and cobble together my 4 piece. The rational part of my brain begins to bicker with the part that drives me to fish and to be free. Hopeless, yet somehow still excited I walk north.

I make my way through the pastel shanty town of umbrellas and tents that the pasty families have erected. I see a man in the distance fighting something, hard. As I walk past he casually mentions that its “probably a tiger.”

We wish each other well as I press further north. I settle in on a modest point and stare into the gray water. Not much to see. A little further north I spot some turbidity in the water, multiple fish breaking the surface, feeding.

In a fever more common among gear anglers, I frantically rush over to lay out fly line in the middle of the chaos. The fever subsides rather quickly. Cured by a few acrobatic ladyfish and a chalky tippet. I clip off the manged section and re-tie. I glance over to check on the shark fishing man in the distance. He is wrestling with what indeed seems to be, a large tiger shark.

I resist the urge to throw once more into the frothing frenzy. My stoicness is rewarded in short time as my eyes start to make out thick green shoulders underlined by the iconic black lateral. My rusty instincts kick in as I fumble with excess line and begin double-hauling. All the while my eyes locked on her- gliding through this dimly lit aquarium. I clear all the line and land the leader knot right on her under slung face. Fuck. My heart regains rhythm and my breath deepens. I strip the fly in to check for fouling. In with it comes my ego. Creeping in. Embarrassed to be thinking of the hero shot that could have been. I quickly remind myself that it doesn't matter, its not about that. Just as I do on almost every other trip.

Especially the unsuccessful ones.

90 minutes go by with no confirmed sightings, thus no casts. My patience proves worthy as the high gray clouds slightly give way. The sun unknowingly displays hints of the Atlantic's emerald beauty. My eyes feel the relief as they can start to make out the ocean floor. Spirits start to rise.

Then I am yanked out of my weather-induced daydream by my electronic leash. Buzzing and moaning its awful tone mercilessly in my backpack, as it does so often. I remind myself that I would not be able to do this many days without the leash. I set the boss man’s mind at ease as I cup the microphone facing away from the surf.

As soon as my feet and soul re-enter the calendar like scene I see her. Almost as if a reward for tending to my professional duties. The rusty instincts are a little more fluid now. A good shot, but her reaction is lost in the breaking waves as she fades out of existence. A few more fish come and go. As I stare into exactly what I have been hoping for all winter, I turn away and head for the truck. To my obligations. As I often do. But its ok.

Beach season is here.