Tarpon – Jump 1

~ SamF ~ Leave a comment

The south end of the caye forms a big crescent. Here the water seems almost stagnant, tea-stained. We might call it frog water anywhere else. Stare long enough into the depths and the bottom appears to move. Move it does, as tight schools of tiny baitfish swim along giving the appearance of a solid bottom. It only then that the full implications of this place come clear: either bait are here to spawn on the big columns of algae that tower upwards along the margins, or they have been herded in here at first light by schools of tarpon. It doesn’t take long before the tarpon come back up to gulp air, before slowly returning down deep. Wounded bait float in the water column. In late afternoon, the tarpon are rolling everywhere; in the middle deeps, along the edges and on the flats that surround the hole. In the morning the bait fish skitter along the surface, sounding like waves of rain. Look under the boat and tarpon might be seen slowly cruising through the masses, scattering them in every direction. Everything seems slow here. Maybe it’s the heat.

Come here at first light and see pelicans and other birds raining out of the sky. Tarpon slash across the flats in a surface frenzy that might last five minutes before things settle into a slow, day-long pace.

Cast to where a pod of 70 pound fish has just surfaced, a slow strip, maybe two… or maybe it happens on the sink. The grab is hard, the first jump chaotic and loud. If the hook holds through the first jump, then there’s a good chance of bringing one boatside. If not, there’s the rush of four to five feet of fish airborne and heading for Cuba before it all goes quiet and slow again.

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Permit – Part 1

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“Mon! You’re F-U-C-K-I-N-G falling apart!” yells Julian across the wind whipped flats. “What the fuck is happening to you!?”

Yesterday I was getting high praise for hitting my targets. Many casts were deliciously downwind and spot on to several fish that either wouldn’t eat, spooked or just do what permit do and move on. Now I’m wondering why in the hell I traveled all this way to get yelled at.

The tails glisten briefly in the sunlight before disappearing farther down the flat. We walk swiftly in pursuit. These damned fish just won’t sit tight to give me a chance to get in a favorable position for a more downwind cast. The tide is running out and the sun is setting. The door is closing. My casts continually fold into the stiff northeast breeze, falling well short of a small school of permit. I trudge forth, thigh deep trying to give myself enough time to breathe and set up before the school moves on again, 80-foot casts headfirst into this crazy wind aren’t my thing. Days of sun, wind, and heat have exhausted me both mentally and physically. My own coup de grâce seems at hand. I’m a mess.

In a moment of frustration I hand the rod to Julian, just so he can know how tough it is at this angle. “Here, let’s see you try this.” He fires a razor tight loop into the wind, landing squarely on target. Shit. I’ve lost my rhythm. Five days on the flats has left me empty. It’s late afternoon. My last day out here. I’m tired. My hands are blistered from previous days of casting and saltwater soakings. I’m ready to hang it up, I got what I came for. I can just walk away from all this now and still call it a success.

One last time, a deep breath, and the cast somehow pierces the wind, falling along the edge of the school. A short strip and the line comes taught on a fish. I’m running down the flat now, rod held high, weaving this fish through coral heads along the way. These fish, even these smaller school fish are incredibly hot, going deep into the backing before you can catch up and hope for the best. Finally, after a long mad dash, the fish comes back on to the flats where I can tire it quickly and bring it to hand. Game over.

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Dial tones

~ SamF ~ Leave a comment

I come here for the wide open space,

Where the river flows across the valley

To the coastal lowlands.

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This is where I wanted to be,

but now the reality of all this space

Bites hard.

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A dying afternoon breeze swirls chilled gusts

Into my face, down my neck,

Into my bones.

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Off west a big wall of fog rolls across the lowlands

Swallowing up everything.

A giant dark wave that might stifle the wind,

Or send it running in every direction.

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Standing hip deep in the chilled water doesn’t help.

My legs have stiffened to stifle a shiver.

And I’m hopelessy hunched over

Like an old man worn by years of toil.

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The water is still off-colored, just clear enough,

Seducing me with clear green edges,

Closer, now, the brown-tinged center hides the river,

Calling for a painfully methodical pace,

So things can see and be seen.

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Here the river sweeps long against the bedrock cliff,

Tracing a classic slot for winter steelhead to sit.

Sitting and doing whatever they do.

Waiting?

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Minutes ago, this water gave up a ten pounder to me.

Now I’m hunting for another.

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Another grab at the fly, a quick swipe as the fly

Hangs down below me

In the deep seam at the edge of the slot.

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The cliff along the far bank is overhung by ferns,

All dripping steadily into the sweetest water,

Like a dial tone maybe,

Waiting for the ring…

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Another cast, another half step,

Repeat.

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Another swipe.

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Now the failing wind lets moments of glassy stillness

Cover everything

Just for a moment, before another push up the valley,

Announcing it’s coming by the ripples pushing up the long run.

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A third tag, this time just a peck.

The cold gets forgotten

Just for a moment.

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The fish rolls down below me, showing silver

Before disappearing back down,

Into the greenish brown mystery world where fish sit and wait,

Waiting for strange-looking concoctions

The quickest glance of feather and fur swimming past.

A Private Steelhead Room

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Again, it’s the kind of water that calls you to it. The river is a deep, mysterious milky green, that seems to glow in the early morning light. This is water where big, silvery fish can move about hidden in the greenish shadows, true ghosts of the river. Everything seems to move here. The river hums along with some urgency. A hurried electricity fills the air. My heart rate won’t slow down. A fish rolls in the deep slot and, again, I spend too much time trying to swing a fly down deep when I should be walking to the broader swing waters below. I finally yield the water to a drift boat coming down. It’s as good of a motivation as any. Later, on my hike out, they float by me and inform me that they had gotten five fish out of that hole. They thank me again for letting them fish though.

The first fish comes as if it were some logical extension of the morning – just a continuation of the electricity that hangs in the air. The channel splits with half the river tracing slots along each bank – take your pick. The fish sits along a bedrock knob that juts out of the channel. The green water just seems to intensify and a sustained heart rate seems to hasten things along, not helping a festering impatience. Every cast is deliberate, each heart beat felt, with the morning becoming one long, wicked moment teetering between craving and satisfaction.

Further down river, I break a fish off on a bad knot – actually an old knot that I should have retied before even rigging up. Lesson learned for the 63rd time. A couple taps doing the long swing through the tail out then down to the long run where the valley walls pinch the river close. Here the river briefly turns to the northeast with the sun barely peeking over the hills. Water sounds echo off the valley walls making for a full and sustained hiss and a dripping seep on the far bank keeps the beat. This is like having a private steelhead room. Sheltered, dimly lit, and 150 yards of textbook swing water set in a rapturous chorus of moving water that never stops. My heart rate settles down. A rhythm is established. Home on a mid-winter river.

Pretty Girls Telling Soft Stories

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Her stories might go unheard over the sparkle in her eyes,

The sweeping gestures of her unfolding arms,

Or even the way she glances down

As if to gather another bit of grace.

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The tale could be any old thing,

Mustered up from random memories,

Told in the plainest of ways.

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But in her words;

Words that seem to catch the first morning sun,

Those rays that fall across the wooden table,

Simple, soft illuminations

Like a summer afternoon yawn,

Slipping into the slumberous, the sublime.

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Her stories are of all things:

Big and small,

Near and far,

Hoped for and gotten.

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Or maybe the words speak nothing,

While they bring life to everything around.

All things new

~ SamF ~ Leave a comment

In summary: New rod, swung flies (mostly sparse, small purple intruders), the hard stop on the swing only to pull up to pulsing mayhem deep into the wood and cartwheeling antics sounding like a pig fallen into the river. Sassy, spunky, salty chromium beauties. One of those days that happens once in a great while…

11.8′ and 800cfs on the gage.

250 meters of hope

~ SamF ~ 1 Comment

Water temp: 2.5C @ 2,480cfs

It dawned on me on the way home that the obsession with steelhead fly fishing is driven, in part, by the threat of missed opportunities. Each season, each storm, each day creates a set of conditions that becomes a must-participate scenario in my mind. Today was no different… I probably should have stuck with popular christmas tradition and visited friends, family and enjoyed the gala day of the season. But the scenario was set: a week of wet weather looming, meaning that I faced a now-or-never proposition. Further, the light rain forecast for today might bump up the water temperatures a bit, thereby reinvigorating the fish; or perhaps the barometer would throw the fish off balance and send them into new lies where they would forcefully hammer any intruders swimming into their new winter home. Plus, there was the larger scenario of record low flows presenting a near once-in-a-lifetime chance to be a part of this – to be able to one day say “yeah, I was there…” Finally, the simple lure of fishing a big, empty river at the extreme end of the temperature scale could not be dismissed.

All viable opportunities not to be missed.

So… I do a pass through the boulder house run where the depth and substrate make for an enthralling aquascape of dark boulders painting shadows in the clear water. Nothing doing, not even a grab. On to the main act. Ferry across to the far side and repeat last week’s perfectly choreographed session with hard-bodied wild steelhead. Here the broken skies begin to close in and the gray mist of light rain can be seen coming up the valley. The water temperature hasn’t budged, the air temps still hover near freezing and the threat of snow seems very real now. But there’s nothing like wading into the top of a long run set up perfectly for swinging long casts through water that moves with purpose around each and every boulder along the way. It’s the view of all those slicks painted across the water’s surface from bank-to-bank, the kind of water where you swim flies through each swing, and every moment is as real as the next. Standing at the top this place is a sight to behold. This is water so good that it is 250 meters of hope flirting with absolute promise.

An hour into it, the cast-swing-step falls into the rhythm of a winter river. The fly glides though a world of dark waters,hinting at light and shadow. Every nook and cranny of this place holds a secret of silvery ghost fish. Everything seems to move in one long fluid motion. It might be tempting to call this the “trance swing,” something akin to a runner’s high were everything just becomes effortless and present. But there’s more, it’s a very real connection to a cold, dark world unseen by most, with the angler teetering on the edge of fantastical, fish filled worlds, habitually refusing the harsh notion there might be nothing at all down there. All this tethered to the end of a long line dangling some god-awful concoction of fur and feathers. This is presence, meditation and thrill all wrapped into one package, tempered by ice cold river, and fed by the movements of water that will not wait.

Time is different now. Three hours passes and 250 meters of water has been covered as best as possible without even a grab. Regardless, the entire experience – fish or none – becomes embedded in the simple, quiet pace that settles in.

One more stop: Slate Creek and the promise of biting half-pounders if nothing else. A quick pass through the top yields nothing – not even a grab. Wow! What a difference a little weather, a degree colder, cloud cover, barometer … what is it? The lower half fishes silently until a soft, kissing grab yields a briefly hooked half pounder near the bottom. Ice rings portions of the river’s edge – a reminder that, indeed, things have gotten colder since my last 3.5C outing here. I go for broke and tie on the largest, darkest intruder I have to swim down deep – if this thing gets touched, it will be for real. Down through the run again and 2/3 of the way through the intruder swims trough the slicked water and there it is: the slow tug from down deep – leaving me with goose bumps and no more.

Scenario over.

The frozen edge of the river.

Post-solstice note

~ SamF ~ Leave a comment

Water temperature: 3.5C @ 2,400 cfs

Night after night the frost accumulates here ... never seeing the sun

Flirting with lowest flow on record for this time in December. Wade across to fish through Slate Creek where the ice has been accumulating on the bar for days. The backwaters are frozen solid. The sun will never see the ground here until late January. But the half pounders are positively ON from the get-go. Wanted to do a pass through and move on to sunnier places, but ended up doing four passes through the lower half and two passes through the upper piece with a steady procession of grabs from top to bottom. The upper part was fun because I could swing through the right side then turn, cast and swing through the left trough before stepping down. 50/50 split on fish from both sides with most coming in the merging seam at the bottom. Mostly swung a purple bunny leech, deep and slow with many, many, many grabs. Some solid grabs, but lots of butterfly taps with an equal number of missed slow tugs prompting a muttering stream of obscenities. Mixed it up for a bit with a big orange/red prawn and then a purple rhea spey, but the purple bunny took top honors, though it also saw the first passes through the water. Who knows if one of those tugs was the bigger winter-run fish? Several fish to hand, and a day to rival any early fall day here. I was reluctant to go this morning on account of the water temps, expecting maybe the hard-earned grab here or there. I think the air did get above freezing for a bit in early afternoon – right about the time a bird across the way broke out into loud song – but short-lived. The right foot of my waders is on the verge of wearing through …. ugghhh.

Will probably pass on this water next time … too many half pounders, though super fun…. have my eye on a certain far-side run and a repeat performance on adults….

Countdown to winter solstice

~ SamF ~ Leave a comment

Certain parts of the river never see the sun all day. Each night, the freeze returns, frosting over everything again. Those dark pieces of river never quite thaw during the day, and after a week of this, the river bar looks like a page out of christmas – frosted thick white, waiting for santa’s sleigh to zip across at any minute. Then there are the more open bits of river, where the river heads in a more southerly direction. Here the sun makes it above the ridge for a good six hours. On a sunny day, this could be October. Bugs come alive, birds dance in the trees, and sometimes the tiniest breeze announces afternoon before quickly passing. Otherwise, this place is like perpetual morning. The sun seems like it struggles to rise all day, just burning off the valley fog, before giving up and falling back behind the ridge. One long morning, dark at 5:00pm. How was it that I fished this place in a sweat bath barely three months ago?But this year is turning out to be an anomaly – the driest December on record marches on, leaving a river low and clear – barely higher than early fall flows, though much clearer and certainly one hell of alot colder.

With all the worry over a critically dry year looming, this does give the opportunity to maybe see winter fish working there way up this river when, otherwise, it would be too high to fish. However, in hand, they seem like fall fish – bronze backs and compact size. Not the sleek and shiny winter fish seen on the coast. They are classic inland river fish and I think if you showed me a photo of just the fish, many of us diehards could name the river and time of year within three months with only a  snapshot. They take a swung purple leech – a nice, long slow swing – the grabs are firm and whole-hearted, but not freight train swipes.

Although we are desperate for rain, this does provide the opportunity to explore a completely new river. Curious if those silvery sleek winter fish that are just a rumor will show?